“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.
“Common courtesy, at the very least, common sense as well.”
“At this point, I must say you have offended me. You have monopolized the services of this halfling, an offense to art; you have kept her imprisoned in this cage, an offense to humanity; and you have referred to me as Supper, an offense to my honor. For these barbarities, Mistinarperadnacles, red mistress of flame and sunsets, I challenge you!”
“Quite nice,” said the dragon. “Your composure does you credit. You astonish me, young one. This is a custom veiled in antiquity. I don’t believe one sage in a hundred could recall the formalities so precisely. Just where did you acquire this knowledge?”
Alias did know the answer to that question. She remembered it, but she did not know how. Instead of trying to answer Mist’s questions, she continued with the terms of challenge.
“My weapon will be this single blade.” Alias indicated her sword with a nod of her head. “You may use your claws. No biting, no breathing fire, and no magic.”
Steam was beginning to rise up from Mist’s nostrils, indicating the beast was no longer amused or intrigued, but losing her patience. Alias continued hurriedly, “We fight until the first three hits or until the other surrenders. If I am victor, I demand you free the halfling Ruskettle and allow both of us to leave your lair safe and free.”
“What? No demands for a chest of gold or for me to leave this happy land and never to return?” Mist mocked her.
“None,” Alias replied flatly. According to the code, the more demands she made, the more compromises she would have to make toward the dragon’s terms. If they even came to terms. Steam now poured from Mist in great billows.
She could breathe fire anytime, Alias thought. If her ego and pride don’t bind her to the ancient code, I’m dead meat.
“It is a sad state of affairs,” Mist growled, “when a dragon cannot use those gifts invested in her by Tiamat. At the very least, I must use my claws and my teeth. We will fight until you are dead or you convince me to surrender. In compensation, if you win, I will grant you a chest of gold. I am a generous spirit, you see.”
“Accepted,” Alias replied without hesitation.
The dragon reared back, her head raised into the stone dome high above. The raven flapped noisily from her head. Surprised, Mist could only foolishly repeat, “Accepted,” thus locking herself into the agreement.
“The code is honored, the pact is made,” Alias declared and lunged forward beneath the dragon’s chest. She slashed out with her sword, catching the beast just below the forward knee. The blow was not forceful enough to cut into the scales, but it hurt. The dragon roared, and her knee buckled so that she toppled forward. Alias dashed between her hind legs. Careful to avoid the creature’s tail, the swordswoman dragged her blade across Mist’s purple-plated rump, knocking loose a few half-healed plates.
Mist howled and spun about. Her gleaming eyes seemed to burrow into Alias. “Foul!” she hissed. “You used the sharp side of your blade.”
“Our contract did not limit me to the flat of my weapon, wyrm!” Alias shouted, dodging backward to avoid the slash of the triple scythes at the end of the dragon’s paw.
“O ho!” Mist cackled, following up her first assault with a thrust from the other front paw. Alias twisted and rolled away as claw tips scored deep into the wall she’d had at her back a moment before. “So you are now a lawyer as well as a fighter!” Mist taunted as she yanked her claw from the rock, causing a small avalanche of stone to topple down.
Alias retreated back among the treasure and bone piles, sparing only a glance for the now-empty cage on the altar. She averted her eyes quickly so as not to alert Mist to the halfling’s escape. Have to keep the wyrm’s attention on me, Alias thought. Unfortunately, that should be no problem.
Instead of lunging her neck toward the warrior, Mist retreated and rose to her hind legs, unfurling her wings. The leathery folds of flesh caught the subterranean breeze like sails, then fanned the air back in powerful waves toward Alias’s corner of the cave.
The last raven retreated to the roof to avoid the assault, but Alias had no way to evade the force of the wind. She was lifted from the ground and buffeted over several large treasure chests. Her rough passage knocked the arm and leg guards off one side of her armor and left her pinned beneath a granite statue of some forgotten Hillsfar noble.
She began squirming out from beneath the stone, but Mist loped forward and laid her chin down on top of the statue. Her fetid breath made Alias gag. Mist’s mouth tendrils curled in glee. Alias closed her eyes, certain she was about to have her head bitten off.
“So, little lawyer,” Mist hissed, “I can slay you now by fire, for who would know I violated the codes?”
“Well, me for one,” came a high-pitched but resonant voice from above. “And you know the old saying—tell a bard, and you tell the world.”
Mist whirled around in surprise. The halfling bard stood on the ledge by the opening to Alias’s back door. She leaned weakly against the rock wall, but her eyes sparkled with mischief and vengeance. Alias took advantage of Mist’s inattention to escape from the embrace of the Hillsfar noble and began to climb up a wagon loaded with treasure.
Ruskettle strummed a chord on her tiny yarting, a miniature guitar with seven catgut strings. “Now let’s see, this is spur of the moment, mind, but how about—” The bard began to sing:
“Then of course we’ll need a chorus for everyone to join in on,” Ruskettle continued hurriedly:
Alias cringed at the lyrics’ strained meters, but had to admire the singer’s nerve. Great clouds of steam filled the dome above Mist’s head. The bard hadn’t a chance of outrunning the fires that had to be burning inside the wyrm. Instead of escaping, though, Alias noted, she risked her hide to gain time for me to wriggle out of danger.
Goaded forward by the image of a roasted halfling and a failed mission, Alias launched herself from the lid of a large cask toward the dragon’s head. She fell short of her mark, but managed to catch a fistful of the tendrils hanging from Mist’s chin. Arching her back and kicking her legs like an acrobat, the swordswoman swung herself backward, over the side of the dragon’s mouth, past her dripping, exposed teeth, beyond her steaming nostrils, and landed squarely on the bridge of the dragon’s nose.
Alias wedged her blade between Mist’s eyes, so that the creature’s pupils crossed, trying to focus on her foe.
“Match was until surrender,” Alias panted, sweat rolling down her face in rivulets. Her exhaustion deepened with her proximity to the dragon’s steaming and foul exhalations, yet she tightened her grip on her hilt. “Do you surrender, wyrm, or shall we see how much of your brain I can reach when I plunge my blade into one of your eyes?”