Realms of the Dragons vol.1 a-9

by Коллектив Авторов

  The memory of his mother's clipped, military tone brought a smile to the boy's face. What need had he of books? Chindra couldn't read or write, but she had her own mark, and those who mattered knew and feared it.

  Gorlist reached inside his tunic and ran his fingers over the crude pendant hidden there-a small, flat stone, onto which he'd scratched Chindra's mark. To him, it was as fine as any matron's gems.

  He squeezed through the crowd lined up outside Zimyar's Exotic Mushrooms. Beyond the market cavern lay a maze of tunnels, lairs for Underdark beasts and would-be ambushers. Gorlist started running as soon as he broke free of the crowd, his mind fixed upon glories ahead.

  He made his way to the guard's training cavern without incident. Skirting the main entrance, he climbed the rough-hewn rocks to a small, secret cave high above the battleground. There he'd spent many stolen hours, watching the females train.

  Two soldiers were on the field, moving together in a tight circle. His eyes went immediately to the taller female, a well-muscled drow whose shaved head was shiny with sweat and oil. That could be none but Chindra. Other females valued the beauty of flowing white hair, but Chindra refused to give her opponents the benefit of a hand-hold.

  A happy sigh escaped Gorlist as he watched his mother. T'sarlt had often chided him for that dangerous affection.

  "The heart is a subtle weapon," he'd cautioned. "It will be turned against you, if you're fool enough to hand it to another drow."

  Gorlist cared nothing for his tutor's cautions. He loved everything about Chindra-her fierce grace in battle, the tune she whistled whenever she headed for the taverns, the welter of scars on her forearms. He'd asked her about them during one of her rare good moods, and was rewarded with the longest conversation they'd ever shared.

  "Tangled as Lolth's web," she'd said proudly, turning her arms this way and that to display her battle scars. "Get in knife fights, and you're going to get cut. The skill is managing how and where, and how deep. You'll learn the way of it, if you live long enough."

  "Will you teach me?" he'd asked eagerly.

  That had amused her.

  "Are you so anxious to bleed, drowling? Watch to learn, learn to wait. The rest will come in time."

  That very day he'd followed Chindra to the practice field for the first time. After all, where better to watch and learn?

  Gorlist took his treasures from a cranny in the rock wall: a broken whetstone and a once-rusty sickle he'd found in a garbage heap. He settled down and began to smooth the stone over the slim, shining blade as he watched the battle below.

  The fighters were testing new weapons-thick gloves tipped with curving metal talons. Gorlist watched, heart pounding, as the two females circled and slashed. The smaller female took a vicious swipe at Chindra. She leaned out of reach and countered with a quick, snatching movement that, captured her opponent's hand. She clenched, forcing her opponent's claws to bite into her own hand. Chindra's claws followed, disappearing into her opponent's flesh.

  The smaller drow shrieked and slashed out with her free hand. Chindra repeated the capture, then threw their entangled hands out wide, yanking the female toward her. Her forehead slammed into the other drow's face. The female's nose flattened into a sodden mess, and her eyes rolled up until the whites gleamed.

  Chindra held her grip while the fighter slumped senseless to the stone floor. Then she peeled off her gloves, one at a time, leaving the claws embedded in the warrior's fisted hands. She dropped the gloves and the female together, as casually as she might discard a soiled garment. It was a gesture of magnificent contempt, and the watching fighters stomped and roared their approval.

  Their chant swept Gorlist to his feet. He stomped and hooted along with the warriors, shaking his crescent blade overhead in imitation.

  When the applause had died down and the fallen fighter hauled off to the healers, he regarded his small scythe and to his surprise and delight, saw that it was ready. The dull-bladed sickle meant for harvesting mushrooms boasted keen edges on its inner and outer curves. It was not the heart-seeking dagger of his dreams, but it was a start.

  Perhaps, he thought with a grin, he would test its edge on the bindings of T'sarlt's wretched book.

  Sickle in hand, Gorlist slid down the wall. He sauntered down the stone passage, practicing a soldierly swagger. He was nearly home when he heard a faint rustling in a side tunnel-not a foot passage, but a fetid, steep-sloping midden shoot.

  Kobolds swarmed out of the midden hole like the rats they resembled. There were at least seven of the two-legged lizards, each nearly as tall as the drow child. Confident of an easy kill, they came on, yapping excitedly.

  Gorlist planted his feet in unconscious imitation of his mother's battle stance. He ducked under the first kobold's grasping hands and drew his sickle across its soft-scaled belly. He danced back a step or two, then lunged back to slash the nearest kobold's snout. Before the startled creature could react, Gorlist reversed the blade's direction. The curved tip bit into the kobold's neck and hooked its wind pipe.

  The creature fell, gurgling and pawing its ruined throat. Gorlist let out a savage whoop and threw himself at the next foe, slashing in joyous frenzy.

  The kobold pack did what kobolds do when faced with unexpected resistance: they fled, squeaking curses. Gorlist stomped on a ratlike tail and cut the creature across the spine. It arched its back in a spasm of agony. The drow child seized one of the kobold's small horns, pulled the head back, and drew the sickle across its throat. He threw the body aside and sprinted after the others. Launching himself into a flying tackle, he brought down one of them-who, in its frantic scramble to escape, tripped one of its kin.

  When both slaughters were completed, Gorlist staggered to his feet. He leaned against the stone wall, his breath coming in ragged gulps. For the first time in his life, he felt fully alive.

  The wondrous battle frenzy ebbed all too soon. Gorlist took stock of the situation. His tunic and hands were sticky with kobold blood, and he ached in every joint and sinew. Remarkably, he was unmarked by any kobold tooth, claw, or weapon.

  Gorlist all but danced back to Chindra's cave. His tutor glanced up sharply. Before he could comment, Chindra strode in. Her brief, dismissive glance sharpened into a soldier's accessing gaze.

  "How much of that blood is yours?" she asked the child.

  Gorlist's chin came up proudly and he answered, "None."

  "Whose, then? No merchant's whelp, I'm hoping. Too short of coin to pay the blood price."

  "It's kobold blood."

  Her crimson eyes widened. "Dead kobolds in the tunnels. Yours?" In response, he brandished his still-bloody sickle. A grin split Chindra's face.

  "A fine harvest!" she crowed. "Five kobolds! How did you learn to fight?"

  "By watching you."

  Because that seemed to please her, he gave her the salute he had seen so many times, that of one soldier to another.

  Her hand flashed toward him like a striking snake and caught his wrist.

  "Not that," she said firmly. "Never that. No male may give or get honor among the guard." Her eyes grew reflective. "But there are other ways…" Her gaze focused, snapped to his face. "You would be a fighter?"

  He managed a fervent nod.

  "Then you will learn as I did. Come."

  She strode through the market, Gorlist following like a small shadow. Excitement filled him, moving him beyond a child's enthusiasm for adventure-he had long desired to see the gaming arena-and into the wonder of unforeseen possibilities. Chindra was a soldier, so of course that was Gorlist's goal. But she had first been a renowned gladiator. He would match her fame, and follow her path from its beginning.

  Gorlist padded silently after her down a series of side tunnels, narrower than those leading to the practice arena. He did not have to be told why: The better to defend the city should any of the arena's beasts escape- or for that matter, if by some marvel the arena fighters decided to band together in common purpose.

&nbs
p; The stone corridor opened, and the arena lay before them. It was a huge chamber, ringed with tiers of seats. Slim walkways crossed overhead. Gorlist gave the structures scant attention. His eyes were fixed on the arena floor. Wondrous beasts, creatures never seen in the tunnels around Ched Nasad, fought and died there.

  So, apparently, did drow gladiators. Several fighters sprawled on bloodied stone. Two others hacked at a hideous, gray-skinned creature with long limbs and astonishing powers of regeneration. A severed arm writhed on the arena floor, forgotten. The torn shoulder knitted. A bud of flesh appeared and blossomed into five gray petals. Those grew claws, which flexed and wriggled as a hand took shape at the end of the swift-growing new arm.

  "I learned here," Gorlist's mother said, "and so will you."

  Joy flared bright in the young drow's heart.

  "I will win every fight," he promised.

  She laughed and clapped him on the shoulder-a soldierly gesture Gorlist had never seen her offer a male. It was the proudest moment of his young life.

  Chindra scanned the warriors who stood to one side, then raised her hand in a hail.

  "Slithifar, Mistress of the Ring!"

  A tall female looked up, frowning. Something about her gave Gorlist the impression of many snakes, melded by some mad wizard into a single dark elf. Her white hair was plaited into several braids, and she carried a bone-handled whip of leather thongs. Her face was as angular as a pit viper's, her gaze as flat and soulless.

  But she lifted one hand in recognition and strode over to meet the newcomers. She and Gorlist's mother clasped forearms in a fighter's salute.

  "What brings Chindra back to the games?" the ring mistress asked. "Come to show these younglings how fighting's done?"

  "In a manner of speaking, yes," she responded, dropping her gaze to the child at her side.

  Slithifar's white brows lifted. "And who is this bloody urchin?"

  "Gorlist, Son of Chindra," the soldier said. "He is blooded indeed, and none of it his own."

  The ring mistress ran a finger along Gorlist's stained tunic then touched it to her lips.

  "Kobold?"

  "Seven of them," Chindra lied proudly. "Hacked into fish bait with a mushroom sickle."

  Slithifar slid a calculating gaze over the drow child, then turned back to his mother and said, "A worthy feat."

  "Worth much," Chindra countered.

  They went on in that vein for quite some time. Gorlist wandered over to the railing to watch the fighting. One drow still battled the gray monster, too intent to notice the severed limb slithering up behind him. Long knobby fingers seized the unwitting drow's ankle. The fighter let out a yelp of surprise and pain. Gorlist laughed with derisive delight.

  A strong hand landed on his shoulder, lacquered nails biting into his flesh. He jumped, then grimaced. His response, and more importantly, his inattention, was too like the drow below to suit his pride.

  "A troll," Slithifar said. "Good for training. It heals as fast as our younglings can slice it, and it eats those who lose."

  Gorlist shifted his free shoulder in an impatient shrug. What was that to him?

  His mother chuckled and said, "You see? He is not afraid."

  Slithifar spun him to face her, and her red eyes licked over him like twin flames. "He will be," she promised.

  Without looking up, she tossed a small bag to Chindra, who caught it deftly. She saluted the ring mistress and sauntered off. Gorlist started after her, but the butt of Slithifar's whip slammed into his gut, driving the air from his body.

  "You are mine now," she said. "You go and do on my bidding. Do you understand?"

  In truth, he did not. Then Chindra began to whistle her tavern tune. A trio of goblin slaves, scenting her good humor, held out importunate hands. She reached into the little bag, tossed the beggars a coin, and disappeared around the corner without a backward glance.

  "She sold me," he said, his voice a raw whisper. "To you."

  Tor more than you're worth… yet."

  Gorlist noted her leer, and young though he was, he understood that, too. He returned her assessing gaze, letting her see his hatred and fury. Slithifar threw back her head and laughed with dark delight.

  "Oh, you will earn your price and more! Come along, my little troll bait."

  He followed, for he had no other choice. As he went, he tore the leather thong from around his neck and dropped the stone bearing Chindra's mark onto the rough path. Blinking strangely moist eyes, Gorlist forbade himself to mark where the stone fell.

  His mother hadn't looked back, and neither would he.

  The Year of Dreamwebs (1323 DR)

  Years sped past. Gorlist grew as tall and well-muscled as Chindra.had been. And he'd kept the promise made the day she'd sold him into slavery: he had won every fight.

  His grim dedication was upon him as he sparred with Murdinark, his training partner and the closest thing to a friend he'd ever had.

  As was their custom, they loosened their muscles in a bout with quarter staves. Gorlist met Murdinark's flamboyant, sweeping attacks with precise movements, and answered with deft counters that got through his friend's guard more often than not. Gorlist was the better fighter, but the crowds loved Murdinark. He suspected they came not to see Murdinark fight, but to watch him bleed. Gorlist took great pride in the fact that he himself was unmarked, flawless. Undefeated.

  Even as the thought formed, Murdinark twisted his staff apart into two shorter sticks, each tipped with a metal hook. He raised both, caught Gorlist's descending staff in a cross parry, then whipped his arms out wide. The hooks sliced through Gorlist's staff like a knife through new cheese. The upper end clattered to the stone floor, and Murdinark kicked it aside.

  "Hidden weapon. Well done," Gorlist admitted as he brought his shortened staff back into guard position.

  "Your staff would have done that, too. You just had to know where to twist it."

  "When did you intend to pass that information along?"

  Murdinark flashed a cocky grin and said, "After I'd won, of course."

  He tossed aside the divided staff and pulled a short sword from his belt. Gorlist followed suit. To his surprise, the taller drow hauled back his arm and launched the weapon into tumbling flight.

  "Xipan-letharza!" he shouted.

  An unseen hand tore the sword from Gorlist's grasp. It spun away, chasing after Murdinark's weapon. The two blades clashed together an instant before they hit the stone floor.

  Intrigued, Gorlist strode over. The weapons lay together, as closely stacked as bodies in a commoners' crypt. He stooped to reclaim his sword. Murdinark's clung to it as if the two swords had been welded together.

  He turned over the enjoined weapons, noting the engraved pattern-a macabre design depicting skeletons entangled in posthumous orgy. The metal revealed by the etching held a faint bluish tinge.

  "The magnetic orc found in the lower levels of Drumlochi Cavern?" he asked.

  Murdinark grinned and replied, "Good guess, especially for someone who's never set foot out of Ched Nasad."

  His words held a slight taunt. Arena fighters who won their bouts earned certain privileges: trips to the bazaar, visits to taverns and festhalls, even an occasional surface raid. Gorlist preferred to exercise the winner's right to decline any female's advances, so he let the jibe pass and resumed his inspection of the sword.

  "Where did you get this?" asked Gorlist.

  "From Slithifar. A morning gift," he said with a wink.

  A wave of revulsion swept through Gorlist. "How can you endure that two-legged snake?"

  The other drow shrugged and said, "It means rewards and pleasures."

  Gorlist's gaze raked across his friend's forearm, which bore a stylized mark.

  "Such as being branded like a he-rothe?" Gorlist said.

  "You'll wear her mark, you know," Murdinark replied, all the humor fled from his face. "The first time you lose."

  "I haven't lost yet," Gorlist reminded him, "and I don
't plan to."

  His friend glanced around to see if any might be listening, then he leaned in close and said, "Then you'd better get yourself down to the beast pens."

  That advice seized Gorlist's attention. Slithifar had been practicing a rather tedious economy when it came to the purchase of new and exotic creatures for the arena.

  "What is it this time?" he said, affecting a boredom he did not feel. "A displacer beast? Another drider?"

  "A dragon. From the surface."

  For a long moment Gorlist stared at his friend. Murdinark confirmed that extraordinary news with a nod. Without a word, Gorlist strode toward the holding pens.

  Finding the dragon was not too difficult. A creature from the World Above would require more light than Underdark dwellers. He followed the sputtering, smoking torches thrust into wall brackets to a deep, brightly-lit pit. When his eyes adjusted, an incredulous snort of laughter burst from him.

  The dragon was a juvenile, no more than twenty feet long. Its scales were bright green and probably still soft enough to cut with a table knife. As Gorlist watched, a rat darted past. The dragon sucked air as if to fuel its breath weapon. Instead of poisonous gas, it loosed a hiss and some foul-smelling spittle.

  Gorlist sneered. What did Slithifar expect the creature to do? Drown him in saliva?

  He returned to his quarters to change his clothes in preparation for the midday meal-and to steal a few private moments to ponder Slithifar's latest test. To his surprise, Nisstyre awaited him there.

  His wizard sire was slender and graceful, with long hair of an unusual coppery hue and features handsome enough to catch many a female's eye. His size and strength, however, would not carry him through a single bout in the arena. Despite all, Gorlist was not sorry that he resembled his mother.

  "I have spoken to Slithifar," the wizard said without preamble. "She is not pleased with you."

  "Slithifar's pleasure is the least of my concerns," Gorlist told him.

  "Curb your arrogant tongue, boy! Without the mistress's favor, without magic, how can you expect to survive in this place?"

  "Magic hasn't kept me alive these many years. This has."