Gorlist began to understand.
"So Slithifar might have had the beast enchanted to appear younger than it is?"
"Entirely possible. You should expect to face the dragon's breath weapon. A red dragon's weapon is fire."
Gorlist's brow furrowed in puzzlement and he said, "But the dragon is green. I saw it."
"I do not doubt that you saw a green dragon," Nisstyre said, "but you will not fight one."
"Explain," Gorlist demanded.
"There are ways to steal secrets with magic. I took from Slithifar the knowledge of two dragons: one green, one red. The green dragon was a secret you were meant to learn. There is always a second deception, which would be the illusion of the dragon's youth, the absence of danger from its breath. Surely Slithifar expects you to see through these ploys. She would have you prepare to battle a dragon that breathes gas, while planning to send you against one that breathes fire."
Gorlist considered that. It made good sense, considering the source of the "secret." After all, Murdinark must have done something to earn those new weapons.
"You are certain?" he demanded.
"Where drow and dragons are concerned, little is certain. Slithifar went to great trouble and expense to bring dragons from the surface lands. She is confident you will lose."
"How do you know?"
Nisstyre smiled coldly and said, "She made a wager with me. My prize, should you win, is your freedom from the arena."
"I will win."
"Of course you will, because you will cheat."
Before Gorlist could object, Nisstyre held up a small crystal object: a miniature dragon skull, marvelously rendered and filled with dust that sparkled and spun.
"This holds a powder that quenches dragonfire. Throw it into the dragon's mouth if it draws breath to fuel its fires."
The fighter regarded the object with distaste and said, "I dislike using magic."
"I can assure you that Slithifar has no such scruples. In fact, she has no scruples at all."
Nisstyre pushed up a voluminous sleeve, revealing a slender arm bearing Slithifar's personal mark. Revulsion shuddered through Gorlist, deepening when he noted the furrows in the wizard's flesh. A faint glow emanated from the old wound, speaking of powerful and no doubt painful magic.
"An ever-burning acid quill," Nisstyre said succinctly. "Punishment for my attempt to purchase your freedom shortly after your mother sold you. You can expect this and worse, if you lose this fight."
"I don't plan to lose."
"No one plans to lose," the wizard snapped. "But he who doesn't plan to win will lose all the same. If you lose this fight, she can make you her parzdiamo.
Believe me when I tell you this is not a fate to be envied."
"You are free with your favors, father," Gorlist sneered. "Perhaps she had a son from you, as well?"
An icy film slid over Nisstyre's eyes, an expression Gorlist had seen on many an opponent's face when a well-aimed blow sundered a beating heart.
"A daughter," he said shortly. "You fought and killed her, fairly early in your arena career."
Something almost like remorse gripped the young fighter.
"I didn't know."
"And now that you do, you see how little such knowledge is worth," Nisstyre said, his tone ringing with the finality of a subject closed. He handed Gorlist the crystal skull, then drew out a second vial.
"You wear Chindra's sword," he said, "and so you know that every champion eventually falls. If you do not defeat the dragon, drink this poison. It will not hurt you, but some hours after Slithifar claims her prize, she will die screaming, and none will know why."
Gorlist accepted both items and said, "With that image in mind, I almost regret my coming victory."
"Your pride will strengthen your arm," Nisstyre said, "but remember that every drow uses hidden weapons. The wise fighter employs his enemies' as well as his own."
The fighter regarded Nisstyre for a long moment, waiting for him to add detail to that cryptic advice. After several moments, the answer came to him. His lips curved in a small, secret smile. Perhaps there was something to be said for magic, after all.
"Chindra would never have fathomed so subtle a revenge," the wizard said.
The young fighter responded with a grim smile and said, "So? Who is this Chindra, and what is she to me?"
On the day of Gorlist's bout, he would have no one but Murdinark help him prepare. His friend carefully clipped Gorlist's hair close to his head, then helped him into his leather armor. Murdinark tested the edge of Gorlist's weapons and slid them into sheaths attached to the fighter's forearms, boots, and weapons belt. Throughout it all, he freely betrayed Slithifar's secrets.
"… trainers say the dragon fights primarily with its teeth. Its forepaws have but little reach. Avoid its bite, and you will fare well."
"… the wings have been trimmed to keep it from flying, so you have nothing to fear from the wing claws…"
"… should take this spell scroll for a bubble of pure air, in case the dragon can breathe a poison cloud…"
"Enough, Murdinark," Gorlist said at last.
He managed a smile and held out his hand for a comrade's grasp. Murdinark took the offered hand in both of his own. His smile froze, and his eyes widened.
"Damn me for a drider, I almost forgot!" He reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of gloves. He held one open for Gorlist and said, "Very fine leather, excellent grip. They belong to Slithifar." He grinned. "I thought it might please you to wear them until you can replace them with gloves of dragonhide."
Gorlist joined the drow in a dark chuckle and donned the gloves. With one hand on the hilt of Chindra's sword, he swaggered into the arena. A chorus of ululating cheers greeted him. A full house.
Smudge pots ringed the arena, and goblin slaves tended the coals. Gorlist noted Nisstyre in the stands before colored smoke began to rise from the pots, obscuring the audience from his view. Since Gorlist could see no purpose to the smudge pots, their presence made him uneasy.
Then the gate opened, and the dragon trotted into the arena. It was, as Nisstyre had predicted, a red dragon, considerably larger than the young green.
Gorlist threw a fulminating glare back at the arena gate.
Murdinark shaped the hand signals for, J did not know. This I swear.
The fighter sneered and turned to meet his foe. He drew Chindra's sword-
Which promptly flew from his hand.
The sword struck a ringing blow against a blue metal shield hanging on the wall.
"Oh, well done, Murdinark," Gorlist said softly.
He did not anticipate that his "friend" might have a third sword of magnetic metal, one with a hilt resembling Chindra's sword.
He drew another sword from the scabbard on his back. He'd fastened his own baldric, and that weapon he trusted.
Then the light hit him, and his confident smirk turned into a rictus of pain.
Terrible light filled the arena, bright as the sun that interrupted the joyous carnage of surface raids and sent the dark elves fleeing back to their deep places. Suddenly Gorlist understood the purpose of the smudge pots. The crowd sat in comfortable shadows, watching the fight though a filtering haze of smoke rising from magical braziers while he was forced to fight in near-daylight conditions.
So be it.
It took all his strength and will to endure the punishing illumination. He would not fall to light, pain, or treachery. Tears poured in rivulets from his burning eyes, but he did not so much as squint. He let out a roar, one that reverberated through the cavern.
After a moment, Gorlist realized that another voice had joined his. The clamor of the crowd gave way to hushed anticipation. The roar of a dragon, even a soft-scaled youngling such as the one he faced, was sufficient to awe even that jaded crowd.