Кейт Новак - Azure Bonds

She tiptoed up the stairs leading to the altar. The cavern air was filled with the wheeze of the dragon’s breathing, the splash of the waterfall, and the occasional croak of a raven. Not until she’d reached the top did Alias take her eyes from the floor and study the cage. It was sloppily lashed but quite sturdy. A small form lay in its center, balled up tightly in a cloak of expensive, gaudy brocade. Alias spied a plait of fire-red hair fastened with a green bow.

Damned mage. He should have checked more closely. This is a little girl, not a bard. I’ve risked all this for nothing. Ruskettle is no doubt already residing in the dragon’s belly, to make room for this new toy.

The swordswoman was so angry that she spun about, intent on leaving that very instant, but she turned back to face the cage. She would rescue the prisoner anyway, not from any sentiment or human kindness, but just for the pleasure of shaking the child in Akabar’s face and proving to him what a fool he was. Sliding her sword between the bars, she gently poked the cloaked bundle.

The brocade-wrapped form turned over rapidly, causing the cage to groan slightly where the ropes held its timbers in place. The package opened to reveal not a child, but a small creature dressed in garb that made Akabar’s crimson and white robes seem conservative. A creature without footgear, but long, curly red hair on her hands and feet that matched the mop on her head. A halfling! Alias whined silently. And a female halfling at that.

“Rescue at last!” cheered the halfling in a happy whisper.

“Shh!” warned Alias. Why did it have to be a halfling? How come no one mentioned Ruskettle was a halfling? Or even that Ruskettle was a she?

Suddenly, Alias sensed the deadly quiet. The stream spattered on, but the dragon’s regular breathing and the crows’ occasional caws had stopped. The halfling’s eyes widened, transfixed by something behind and above Alias. Something horrible cleared its throat with a cough like a bag of lead coins dropped off a tower.

With a sigh of resignation, Alias turned around slowly.

“Looking for something in particular?” asked the dragon. “Or are we just browsing?”

The dragon, though she had not bothered to rise, was no longer balled up like a cute kitten by a fireside. Her front paws curled beneath her bulk, her body rested comfortably below the level of her rear haunches, and her neck curved in a relaxed S-shape. Even seated in this way, her jaws hung twice as far above the ground as Alias’s perch on the raised altar, and her reptilian golden eyes looked down from another ten feet higher than that.

From what little Alias could see of her belly, it was a twisted mass of scarred, purple and violet scales. Several of the scars were still fresh and oozing—compliments of the adventuring party that had tried to defeat her but failed.

With those long tendrils hanging down from her chin and face, Alias thought, she looks like a cat. I guess that makes me the mouse. Then the swordswoman noticed, tucked behind the monster’s left ear, a raven regarding her with a stare as unblinking as the dragon’s—the only one that had not retreated to the ceiling. The dragon’s spy.

“Poor dear,” rumbled the dragon. “Are you ill-versed in the common tongue? Where do they send these robbers from, anyway? Asken bey Amnite? No. You don’t look like a southerner. Cheyeska col Thay? Not that either. Do you speak any language known to the Sea of Fallen Stars? I detest not knowing where my next meal is coming from.”

The dragon’s ramblings shook Alias from her trance. The beast had transfixed her with a gaze that would have done a basilisk proud, yet here she was, nattering like some fishmonger’s wife. Alias tried to speak several times, until the words found purchase in her throat and she spat out, “I come from Cormyr.” For the moment, she added mentally.

“Oh, so you are native flesh,” said the dragon, coiling her neck back as if to view Alias in this new light. “How precious. I do hate foreign mystery meat. They put such odd things in their bodies.”

Alias blinked hard, fighting the sudden drowsiness that descended on her. First the dragon’s gaze, then its rich, rumbling words, seemed to drain the energy from her body, as if the rest she had received earlier in the week had done her no good. This must be what they call dragon-fear, Alias realized. She shook herself out of the lethargy.

“I am no foreigner, but Alias of the Inner Sea, swordsmaster and adventuress,” she announced.

“Oh, really?” replied the dragon. “You must forgive me for not knowing anything about you, but I’ve been so out of touch. I am Mistinarperadnacles Hai Draco. You may call me Mist. And I’ll call you … supper? Yes, it’s about time for a light, early supper. So nice of you to deliver yourself.”

The dragon shifted its weight, and Alias saw for the first time the front paws of the beast, huge, three-toed triangles, each corner of the triangles sporting a claw. Further up each foot glinted an opposing dew claw. All the claws were as crimson as fresh blood.

Alias held up her sword with both hands—not to attack, but as a warning gesture. She replied, “You must forgive my unwillingness to serve as your meal, O great and powerful Mistinarperadnacles, but instead I think I will challenge you to the Feint of Honor.”

“The Feint of Honor?” Mist echoed the last words with a tone of surprise. Then she chuckled, a sound that echoed like thunder about the cavern. “What can you know about the Feint of Honor, O Supper?”

Alias stepped back until her back was touching the wicker of the cage and replied, “It is the proper name given to the ritual combat of subdual instigated in the most ancient of times by the wisest of dragons.”

Mist sniffed, “And I presume you know why?”

“Because, in the most ancient of times, your people fought amongst themselves so fiercely that many promising wyrms died. Indeed, scholars believe you may have wiped yourselves off the face of the land had not the Feint been decreed.” Alias pressed her calf against the cage bars in hopes that the halfling would notice the dagger in her boot.

“Yes. True enough.” The dragon nodded, settling back on her haunches. “Having heard of this custom, all manner of militia and mercenary have come barrelling into my home and the homes of my brethren, beating on us with the flat of their blades, firing blunt-headed fowling arrows, and generally disturbing our rest until we are forced to destroy them just to regain our composure. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. It implies a lot of ignorance.” Mist twisted her neck so that her jaws were uncomfortably close to Alias’s head. “You see, the Feint is a code for dragons. It has nothing to do with you puny, but delicious, mortals.”

“Not so, O Mistinarperadnacles. True, many humans may attempt subdual without following the formal codes, and their senses are as bootless as a halfling . And he who walks in here without sense, walks in here unarmed . You are then entirely within your rights to exterminate them as you see fit.” Alias felt a pat behind her knee, a signal, she hoped, that the halfling had understood, but she had no sensation of her dagger being slid from her boot. “But you may not with honor deny a challenge properly made—”

“Your speech is oddly accented,” said the dragon. “I think you come from beyond Cormyr.”

“Unless, of course,” Alias continued, “you are a common dragon. Then, of course, you may behave as you will.”

Fire flared in Mist’s eyes. “And do you know the formal codes, O Supper?”

“I know first to ask the dragon’s name if it is not already known,” replied Alias.