Dhamon feinted to the right and swept his long sword in a broad arc to the left. The Solamnic barely dropped his shield in time to parry the blow. The young knight could have swung faster, darted in and employed wide strokes to lure the Solamnic into using his shield to cover his chest so that his belly was exposed. It would have been more honorable to finish him quickly, the young knight thought, and he did believe in honor. One deep thrust into his heart or lungs would do it, only one sharp, brief moment of pain. He usually made quick work of his enemies.
But the Solamnic Knight was alone, and Dhamon was bored; those two factors changed matters. Drawing out the fight was a way to get some exercise, he rationalized, and he wasn’t being entirely unchivalrous. There was a fairness to this duel.
Dhamon’s opponent was armed and armored. He hadn’t ambushed the Solamnic—though he saw him coming down the trail and easily could have lain in wait. He didn’t kick or throw dirt into the air to temporarily blind the older knight, as some other fighters did to gain the upper hand. And he used only one weapon against his foe in order to match the Solamnic’s solitary blade. There was an equality to this duel.
The Solamnic’s moves were polished but slow and becoming increasingly more labored and predictable. Dhamon effortlessly parried each stroke. He watched the beads of sweat run down the older man’s face, smiled as his opponent’s chest heaved with the exertion.
The young knight almost backed away at one point, for as the duel wore on he felt an uncommon pang of guilt. The aging knight was terribly outmatched—an old, tired mouse fighting a very hungry young cat. But Solamnic Knights were enemies of Knights of Takhisis, and therefore the Solamnic was Dhamon’s enemy.
“Fight me!” the older man bellowed. Sweat clung to his upper lip, dripped from his chin. “Stop playing with me and fight! Or did your commander not teach you well enough? Hmm? Perhaps you’re not playing at all? Perhaps this is the best you can do!”
The taunt powered Dhamon’s next thrust. The young knight’s long sword, issued to him by his commander for bravery in battle, was a fine blade, keenly balanced, with an ornate black pommel set with a perfect ruby. Now the blade bit into the older man’s side as a punishment for the verbal jab. The Solamnic retaliated, not even bothering to glance at the wound, and drove his own blade toward Dhamon’s abdomen. The young knight effortlessly stepped aside and laughed.
“They taught me to fight, old man! And they taught me very well. But did your commander teach you how to die?” Dhamon rushed the Solamnic then, swinging high to his left and then down at the older knight’s chest. The Solamnic raised his shield, as Dhamon had expected, but he brought the shield down quickly, knocking away not only the first blow, but the second, killing stroke aimed at his stomach.
The older man was moving swiftly now, stepping toward Dhamon and using his shield to parry a succession of the younger knight’s frenzied blows. The Solamnic’s sword thrusts were no longer sluggish. He moved like lightning, flashing in and cutting, then flashing higher.
Too late Dhamon realized it was the older man who had been toying with him, studying his weaknesses. The young Knight of Takhisis now put all of his effort into avoiding the Solamnic’s dancing blade. Sweat ran down Dhamon’s face, and for the first time in his life he felt his confidence melt away. He began to truly worry.
He’ll tire. He has to tire, Dhamon told himself as the contest wore on. He’s three times my age, and he can’t keep this up. Watch for an opening. Watch. “No!” Dhamon cried as he felt the Solamnic’s blade slide between his ribs, felt the warm stickiness of his blood flow out. The young Knight of Takhisis dropped to his knees as the older man pulled free his sword. Then Dhamon felt the ground rush up to meet him as his knees and thighs refused to support his weight. His face slammed against the ground, and the wind rushed from his lungs. He tasted blood in his mouth. He was dying. The Solamnic rolled him over, stood above him. There was compassion, not hate, in the older man’s rheumy eyes.
“Finish me!” Dhamon spat at him. Finish this, he prayed to Takhisis, the Dark Queen, his absent beloved goddess. Grant me a quick death. Don’t let me linger in front of my enemy.
But a quick death didn’t come, and the Solamnic bent closer, hoisted Dhamon over his shoulder and snatched up the young man’s blade. The Knight of Takhisis felt cold, so terribly cold. It was a summer day, and he’d been sweating from the fight But now his limbs felt like lead weights, and he was freezing, the warmth rushing from his body as the blood continued to pour from his wound. Darkness enveloped him, and he continued to pray for the release of death.
Dhamon felt so very cold—and to his amazement, alive. His eyes shot open, and he gasped for air. A pair of enormous emerald eyes stared back, practically filling his vision.
“You wake, at last. I was worried that you might sleep forever, that I might have to bury you or feed your corpse to the fishes.” The words came from the owner of the eyes—a massive creature, with an almost equine face covered with coin-sized bronze scales and jagged ridges along the jowls. It hovered mere inches from him. The emerald eyes, wide set and rimmed by tiny, seemingly identical scales, blinked several times and seemed to soften and become a shade paler.
Dhamon noted at once that the head was attached to a long, serpentine neck. The belly of the creature, which Dhamon could easily see from his prone position, was covered with horizontal bronze plates that shimmered in the meager light. Its long tail twitched lazily back and forth, and was crowned by a spiky ridge that ran to its very tip. A similar ridge ran down the center of the dragon’s back.
The bronze dragon pulled its wings to its sides and eased a few yards away to give Dhamon room to sit up. He tried to take in his surroundings—an immense cave with smooth gray walls and a flat, almost slippery floor. Faint light filtered down from a patch of luminous lichen overhead. At his side was a dragon’s scale, inverted so it resembled a large, scalloped bowl. It was filled with water. Dhamon ran his tongue around the edges of his lips. They weren’t cracked, and he didn’t feel overly thirsty. The dragon must have been forcing him to drink somehow. But his head pounded and his stomach ached. He felt dreadfully hungry.
The coldness was leaving him, though not entirely. He was naked, and the air that only faintly stirred around him—the dragon’s breathing—was undeniably chilly and stale. For an instant he felt self-conscious and looked around to find something to cover himself with. He guessed he must have been resting here for quite some time. His muscles were stiff, and it felt as if he’d lost quite a bit of weight. The hunger continued to gnaw at him.
“Who are you?” Dhamon asked. His voice cracked, and his tongue felt a little swollen. He cupped his palm and dipped it in the water. It was cool and felt good in his throat.
“You may call me Shimmer,” the bronze dragon replied. “My true name is too complex for your tongue.”
“You saved me.” It was a statement. Dhamon was certain the dragon must have rescued him from the lake.
“l watched you battle the blue.” The dragon studied Dhamon’s expression. “I was a fish in the water, for such is my ability to manipulate my shape. I did not intervene then. It was not my fight, and you were both strangers to me. But when it was finished, and when you fell into my domain, I watched as you struggled to the surface for air. I felt your blood seep into my water, and I pulled you under and brought you here. I cared not if the dragon died, desired it in fact, for blues are creatures of corruption. But you seemed brave and worthy of life.”