“Our healing spells are sufficient,” Iliphar said steadily. “I trust that draconian curative spells have similarly undone the damage inflicted on you?”
The dragon’s fang-studded smile grew broader. “Damage? Oh, a few scales lost, and a bit of blood, but little in the way of major harm. Thank you for asking, but I doubt such concern was the reason for your summons.”
“I wish to talk about the difficulties between our peoples. The strife that ends not, between dragons and elves,” said the Lord of Scepters. “Our battles must come to an end.”
“Battles?” said Thauglor, mock indignation coloring his tone. “Do you mean our little games of hunter and prey? Or the valiant attempts of pointed-ear sneak thieves to steal into our homes? Or the red fires and black bile of our brethren burning out nests of the invading elven vermin? Are these the battles you speak of?”
“I mean the battles in which elf and dragon perish needlessly,” said the elf lord.
“You are ready to surrender to my authority, then?” asked the dragon in tones of quiet triumph.
“I am prepared to show you that you have no such authority,” Iliphar replied as quietly.
“Then this discussion has ended before it has begun,” said Thauglor silkily, spreading his wings and flexing his lower haunches, preparing to leap into the air. “This was not,” he added warningly, “worth rousing me from my slumber.” The other, lesser dragons spread their wings and lowered their necks, ready to leap into the sky.
Iliphar raised a hand. “Hold a moment. This is our last chance to speak.”
The dragon drew in his wings again, brow quizzical. “Speak then, little intruder,” he said, cocking his massive head to fix Iliphar with one cold eye.
“There are more of my people coming. Already elf and dragon have been fighting in this beautiful woods, my kin to defend themselves, yours to destroy what we have built. Neither race is as numerous as humans or goblins, any loss is felt.”
“Your people are the invaders,” Thauglor corrected coldly. “My families, and those of other dragons, seek to defend our hunting grounds. We must live and hunt as we have always lived, free and unfettered.”
“There is still a chance for us to live in this place together,” the Lord of the Scepters told the ancient wyrm. “You have merely to respect those areas that elves have claimed.”
“And what,” snarled the dragon, “avoid them? Restrict ourselves in where we hunt? Little humanoid, know you that this land has belonged to dragons before the hatching of my eldest known ancestor, and I have hunted here for a time that is long even to the proudest elf. For almost all of those passing years, I have defended these great forests against the depredations of other wyrmkin, and through hard battle have come to dominate them-the redscales, the mighty blues, and the greenwings such that now, and for a thousand years before now, my word is and has been law from the eastern peaks to the western and from the northern range to the narrow sea. And if, as you oh so subtly threaten, there are more of your kind coming, will the lot of you not soon force us from our hunting grounds entirely?”
As the thunder of his roar echoed back from the horn tower, the dragon rose to his full height and added almost casually, “We should stop you elves now, before you take any more of our domains as your own.”
“Very well, then,” Iliphar replied. “Stop us now.”
Thauglor the Black regarded the slender elf at his feet in surprise, wondering just what the small one with the raised and ready scepter was planning this time. He had not long to wait.
“You speak for all the dragons in this forested basin?” said Iliphar. It was more confirmation than question.
“By blood and by Feint of Honor, I am master,” snarled the dragon. “My words are those of every bog-dwelling black, mountain-hunting red, and forest-lairing green. That is my authority, and I demand you recognize it.”
“1 recognize it as authority over dragons, not elves,” replied Iliphar. “And I represent my people as well.” He pulled a small golden scroll from inside his cope. “This is a document of my people, from mighty Myth Drannor to the north. It gives me hegemony over the elves of this land.”
“The elves, but not the land itself,” sniffed Thauglor. “You are invaders, and like the human wanderers and orc barbarians, you will recognize my sovereignty or be destroyed.”
“We recognize no sovereignty of yours,” said the elf, “but at my command, I can empty this region of elves. We can abandon this place and set our borders at the northern range.”
“For your people’s sakes, I hope you do,” said Thauglor, a small reptilian smile tugging the corner of his jaw. “Though they do make tasty treats.”
“I said ‘can,’ old wyrm.” Iliphar kept his face solemn, not rising to the dragon’s baiting tone. “Not will. Not unless you can convince me.”
“Convince?” replied the dragon, suddenly sterner. “How may I convince you of anything, if you are not wise enough to see that your people court their own deaths by opposing us? Your kind are not welcome here. Not welcome to hunt, not welcome to farm, not welcome to stay. Use your authority over your fellow creatures and leave us to our land.”
“You say you represent all of your people,” said Iliphar, drawing himself up to his full height. “If you tell them to leave us in peace, will they do so?”
The dragon’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “What are you proposing?”
“I propose a Feint of Honor,” said Iliphar.
The dragon made a harsh, barking noise that might have been a laugh. “A Feint of Honor with a mammal? How droll. Feints are between dragons, to settle their differences without killing one or both parties.”
“A battle until one is subdued and surrenders to the other,” the elf went on, nodding. “You represent your people, and I represent mine. The winner takes the forest country.” Iliphar stopped there, holding his tongue and waiting to see if the dragon would take the bait.
A silence descended on the forest, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the autumn breeze. The red wyrmling was still skittish and kept craning her neck around, looking for attackers. Her blue cousin seemed deep in thought.
Thauglor rumbled, “When I win, you will pull your people back beyond the northern passes.”
“Should you win,” said the elf lord. “And should I triumph, you agree to leave the forests of this land to my people?”
The dragon’s eyes narrowed, then opened wide again, showing milky violet orbs beneath a curtain of black scales. “Why should I agree?”
Iliphar motioned with his golden staff, and his retainers poured out of the horn tower. There were twenty elves in all, carrying five great reptilian skulls. The skulls were set with amethysts along their brows. One had as few as three stones, one as many as twenty. The skulls had massive fangs in their upper jaws, but no horns. They were the remains of green dragons.
Stone-faced and impassive, the bearers laid their prizes on the steps behind Iliphar and retreated silently back into the tower. One remained in the doorway, the elven witness to the proposed duel.
Iliphar kept his eyes on the dragons throughout the proceedings. Thauglor remained motionless, but the muscles bunched beneath his jaws. Two sacs inflated along his neck, just behind the head, where, the elf lord knew, the black acidic bile of the dragon was stored. The blue tried to mime his master’s determination, but his eyes were wide. The red looked as if she were ready to bolt, and only fear and respect was keeping her in her place. To both the younger dragons, the message was clear: Their skulls could be added to this collection.
Iliphar spoke flatly, seeking to draw out the dragon but not to goad him immediately into battle. “These greens were slain within the past month. The gems on their foreheads represent the elves who lost their lives fighting the creatures, one for each elf.”
Thauglor’s lips tightened in a snarl, but only for a moment, and the dragon’s response was as flat and mannered as the elf’s. “It would seem your people got the short end of the bargain.”