“Aye,” the elf replied, “but there are more of us. And if it costs a hundred elves to take down a creature of your power, there would be a hundred elves afterward who would remember their deed and honor their memory. Can you say the same for your people? How many dragons are there in the forested land?
Thauglor was silent a long time, considering. “Feint of Honor?” he said at last.
Iliphar managed a small smile. “With the winner getting the forests, and the loser promising not to hunt the winner’s race. I challenge you, Thauglorimorgorus, by the ancient rites of your people.”
The black dragon looked at the gem-encrusted skulls of his subjects. “Agreed. Neither side uses his spells or wands, and neither uses his, eh, breath weapons. Are you prepared?”
The elf lord took a deep breath, as if the difficult part of his task had been completed. “I am as prepared as I ever shall be.” He began to take off his flowing cope and cumbersome cassock, to reveal a fine mesh of silvery mail beneath them.
The dragon leapt upon him immediately, like a fox leaping on a field mouse. Yet Iliphar was ready for the sudden attack, and in midleap, Thauglor realized his error. The elf whipped the capelike covering upward across the outstretched claws of the black beast.
Thauglor roared and pulled his claws back. The hem of the elf’s cope was studded with some impossibly sharp crystals that cut into the thick, fleshy pads of the dragon’s claws. The crystals were coated with something else as well, for the shallow wounds stung. It was akin to grabbing a giant porcupine.
Iliphar made use of the dragon’s momentary distraction to divest himself of his robes and toss aside his belt of wands. Now he stood on the steps, facing the dragon. His entire body, from neck to ankles, was encased in the thinly spun chain of the elves. Iliphar drew his sword as well, a slender, whiplike blade, perfect for digging beneath the dragon scales into the tender flesh beneath them. In his other hand, he still bore his golden staff.
“You did not tell me your coat was a weapon,” said the dragon, now crouching low. The other two dragons backed to the edge of the clearing to give their liege room to engage in battle.
“You did not tell me you would not allow me time to remove it,” replied the elf, gracing Thauglor with a wide, calculated smile. The smile was taunting, but the dragon saw that the eyes above the smile were cold and hard.
The elf took two steps forward and lunged with his staff. Thauglor easily beat aside the blow with a swipe of his taloned claw, but again Iliphar had thought beyond the dragon’s reaction. As the staff’s blow was caught and struck aside, he stabbed hard with his slender blade, driving it deep into the shallow wounds carved earlier.
It felt as if a hot sliver had been driven into the dragon’s flesh. Thauglor bellowed and convulsed. Iliphar cursed as the blade was ripped from his grip, clanged once on the stone, and went skittering down the steps to stop at the feet of the dragon.
Almost immediately Thauglor reacted with a sharp blow from his other paw. The blow was weak and clumsy, but it still knocked the elven lord sprawling from his feet. His mail made a serpentlike whisper as he slid across the flagstones, dropping the staff as well.
The dragon snaked his head forward and grasped Iliphar by one leg in his heavy jaws. Iliphar felt the ragged daggers of fangs cut through the mail and into his soft flesh. He held back a scream beneath tight lips.
The dragon then whipsawed his neck upward and let go, flinging the elf in a short arc that ended back on the steps. Iliphar bounced against the flagstones and felt something sharp give along the muscles of his ribs. His head was ringing from the force of the landing. It would clear if he had a moment’s rest…
But Thauglor gave him no rest, instead repeating the maneuver, grasping the elf tightly in his jaws and flinging him up in the air once more. This time something snapped in Iliphar’s leg, and he screamed from the sudden stabbing pain.
A third time the dragon’s jaws flung him aside, and Iliphar landed on his shoulder, enough to dislocate it but not enough to strike him senseless. His sword was beneath the dragon’s claws, but his ornate staff lay just a few feet away.
The dragon was now playing for the crowd, Iliphar realized, both for his own two young minions and for the elves in the tower. See how easy it is! See how inconsequential and weak these elves are! See what happens to those foolish enough to challenge the might of Thauglor! The dragon’s head came close again, his jaws gaping wide. Thauglor could swallow him easily, the elf lord realized, but then who would enforce the agreement? Iliphar shoved that thought to the back of his mind and rolled sharply toward the staff. The dragon’s jaws closed on air.
Iliphar’s entire body was wracked with pain. He clutched the staff, but could not rise. His legs, lying at odd angles to his torso, would no longer obey his mind’s commands.
The dragon’s head snaked down once more, jaws agape.
Drawing on the last of his strength, Iliphar surged upward, using the staff as a crutch, and leapt forward into the jaws of the great creature. He shoved the staff upright, into the dragon’s mouth, the wide nob of its base jammed into the lower inside gum. The delicately carved bird at the top shattered as it scraped the roof of the purplish beast’s mouth and dug into tender flesh.
Thauglor reared back in pain, giving the elf lord the moment’s respite he needed to roll free of his attacker’s maw. The pain was returning to his legs, but Iliphar managed to rise unsteadily to one knee.
The dragon thrashed, trying to dislodge the staff crammed into his mouth. Thauglor tried to pull it out with a taloned finger, but only succeeded in driving the shattered tip farther into the roof of his mouth. His tongue lolled to one side, and great tears dribbled down the black dragon’s cheeks.
The great acid pouches in his throat swelled, and Iliphar realized that the creature was going to melt the obstruction loose. Knowing the nature of his staff, he dropped to the ground and flattened himself there.
The dragon spat a great gout of watery blackness from his throat, bathing the golden staff in its hot sludge. The staff began to glow, then, weakened, slowly bent under the pressure of the dragon’s jaws. Finally the elf lord’s staff snapped.
And the dragon’s throat exploded. The enchantments within the staff were discharged in a single great fireball. For the first and only time in his long life, Thauglor the Black breathed flames.
The force of the blast drove the dragon backward, and the Black Doom thrashed on the ground, smoke spilling from his mouth and nostrils. The sight was too much for the red, and she bolted, rising from the forest like a frightened pheasant, then wheeling and barreling northward toward the distant peaks. The blue held his ground but seemed to pull in on himself, as if he, too, expected a sudden and merciless attack.
Iliphar pulled himself slowly to his feet. He heard movement behind him and tried to wave off the elves from the tower. Somebody pressed another staff, this one gnarled and wooden, into his hands. He did not refuse it, but used the gnarled staff as a crutch. He looked down involuntarily. One leg was hopelessly mangled beyond all but magical remedy, and the other felt as if it had been shattered in a dozen places. He staggered down the steps to where Thauglor lay, belly up, smoke streaming from his burned jaws. The dragon’s eyes were wide and wreathed by the smoke.
The elf lord did not even make for his sword, for fear that the effort would be too much. Instead, he put the tip of the wooden staff against the dragon’s head and asked, “Give up?”
The dragon hacked a great cloud of black smoke up from his gut. “You weren’t supposed to use magic, technically.”
“You weren’t supposed to use your breath weapon. Technically.” He did not move the staff. Let the dragon think this was another magical staff, as deadly as the first.