The Color of Dragons

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Do us proud,” the smith called, leaving as the play began.

  Griffin had seen it more times than was necessary, but after the melee brigade left the tunnel to find seats, he grew restless and ambled over to watch the folly. Grim-faced actors marched side by side around the arena. They played the part of a fictitious army heading into a grand reenactment. A bard told the legend of how King Umbert gained his throne and the players moved around the field in their predictable patterns. Only after the final moments of King Umbert’s victory were cheered would Griffin finally find out who this year’s competition would be.

  Five pillaging draignochs were played by counts of six. Three were stacked on shoulders to reach the height of the head. The others were in a line filling out the body and tail. Fabric and wooden posts finished the costume. There was “the king” without his crown, “Egrid” before his legs were broken, and fifty more to represent the noble houses and their armies, who traveled with them.

  Wooden spears sailed, hitting the puppet draignochs—and the beasts fell, wriggling for attention, then stilled. The throngs’ cheers held until the actor-king was crowned and he had taken his oath of loyalty and protection to his people and his lands. This was the reason the people loved King Umbert, and always would. He had truly saved everyone, both in the Walled City and the Hinterlands, from the beasts that plagued the land.

  “Some show,” Cornwall chuckled, sounding unimpressed.

  Griffin was surprised to find Lady Esmera’s youngest brother in the tunnel. “Why didn’t you join the melee with the other boys?”

  “Because I have been chosen.” Cornwall set a hand on the pommel of his sword, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

  “Chosen for what?” Griffin asked.

  “I wasn’t finished!” Malcolm stormed into the tunnel and pushed his young brother up against the stone wall, holding him there. “You’re going to refuse. You’re not ready.”

  Griffin’s jaw dropped. “Malcolm, you’re not saying—”

  “My name is on the list. That’s right, Sir Griffin.” Cornwall shoved Malcolm off him. “And I am ready, brother. I’ve heard all the reasons you can come up with. My age. My size—”

  “None of that matters,” Griffin said, because it was the truth.

  “Out of the mouth of a champion.” Cornwall nodded in appreciation to Griffin, then walked to the arena’s entrance, turning his back on his brother. “You’re afraid I’ll overshadow you, Malcolm.”

  Malcolm’s glare aimed at Griffin was filled with bitter disappointment.

  “What do you want me to say?” Griffin asked Malcolm.

  “That he is not battle-proven. That he is unready!” Malcolm growled.

  Griffin shrugged. “That wouldn’t have helped. Your brother is impulsive and stupid.”

  “Hey!” Cornwall’s retort died there because he could think of nothing more to say.

  Griffin nailed him with a stern glare, then looked back at his looming brother. “Would you drop out, once chosen? I know I wouldn’t.”

  “No,” Malcolm confessed.

  The lift returned full of actors, ending the conversation.

  Two more joined them as the actors rushed out. Silas and Oak. Somewhere in his twenties, Silas was a member of the elite guard who secured the castle. Silas, with sun-bleached hair and weathered skin from hours on the practice field, nodded in greeting to Griffin. His family was one of the most highly regarded in the Top. His father was Ragnas, the chieftain of the East before the realms folded under King Umbert. It took a title last year to earn that nod. Griffin graciously returned it.

  Griffin chortled. “Zac did all right, then, Silas. Made it to the final match.”

  “My brother will never live that down.” Silas wickedly laughed.

  Griffin wasn’t surprised that King Umbert had chosen him. Besides Malcolm, Silas was the only other who posed a risk to Griffin’s title.

  Oak, on the other hand, would die in his first draignoch match. Closer to Griffin’s age, Oak was too fat to get out of his own way. He too was of a noble family, from the West, which was the only reason Griffin could think the king would’ve chosen him. Griffin thought of warning him off, telling him to wait another year, or ten, but like Cornwall, he would never heed his advice. Griffin was the enemy.

  All of them wore rich linens and fur-lined tunics. Only Griffin was in armor. He would have to truly fight today.

  The king must have raised his arms, for the crowd silenced. “People of the Walled City, Sir Griffin, our champion, will have four seeking to unseat him. Brave knights who will face the vicious draignochs, trying to best his performances against the beasts. And let us not forget the skills matches, favor added for each spear thrown farther than Sir Griffin’s, each arrow flying truer in targeted strikes, daggers and axes, and anything else I think to add to the start of the days. Now, stand with me as I call out the chosen’s names.”

  The stands shook. The chatter with guesses over who would be coming out of the tunnel escalated. The lift waited to be used as a balcony, holding the chosen high enough for all to see.

  King Umbert silenced them again. “It gives me great joy to count both sons of Laird Egrid of the North among the four: Sir Malcolm and Sir Cornwall.”

  A blare of trumpets. Cornwall dashed onto the lift, not waiting for Malcolm. Sporadic applause met them. This was all the Walled City was willing to give the brothers from the North today.

  Silas followed Malcolm. And finally Oak, who stumbled along the way, earning the first boos of the tournament.

  Then it was Griffin’s turn.

  “And lastly, your champion, Sir Griffin.”

  Unified stamping sounded like thunder. Griffin waited a few long seconds before coming out, earning the loudest of cheers. He gave a gracious bow to the king and waved to the people. He rolled his shoulders in anticipation of his fight. But King Umbert made no move to announce it. He sat, the tankard in his hand being refilled as the throngs continued chanting Griffin’s name.

  King Umbert waited patiently, letting the crowd determine the pace. If they wanted to raise their champion’s name to whatever gods roamed above, then His Majesty was pleased to let them.

  On the dais, beside his father, Prince Jori raised a fist in his direction, which Griffin returned. The people saw and whistled their approval at Jori, heralding fists to him as well. This was what the king wanted, for the people to see that Griffin and Jori were a united front. The future of the realm safe with a strong king, a capable prince, and a champion at their side. Déjà vu struck Griffin all at once. This day last year when it was Raleigh standing in the arena, the king’s champion. Since his loss to Griffin, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his mentor at the king’s table for a meal. And here he was, so overlooked he had yet to return from his journey into the Hinterlands.

  The other challengers were escorted back inside the tunnel, leaving Griffin alone with the marshal, Duncan, on the lift as it slowly descended.

  Duncan ran the armory, but today, and for the rest of the tournament, he also served as referee. Dressed in a red tunic and a matching leather cap with a long white feather plume, halfway down he lifted his arms, silencing the crowd. “People of the Walled City, your champion is granted the honor of the first match.”

  Adrenaline coursed. Griffin stretched his neck, then put his helmet on. When the lift hit the arena’s floor, Griffin pulled his sword. He picked up his axe in his other hand and jogged into the ring until he stood beside the beast’s exit point. There, he dropped his axe and raised his sword, giving the signal to raise the iron door.

  Griffin centered his attentions on the beast’s exit point. The throngs’ cries faded to fuzzy and distant hums, drowned out by the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. His nerves buzzed like a dragonfly he could never kill, so instead he ignored the bastard.

  Rusty chains slid against pulley wheels, screeching with each turn, yanking the iron gate upward. The beast roared at the crowd before runni
ng into the ring.

  “A cowcodile!” one young boy yelled. That was what many called draignochs, and the name was somewhat appropriate. The beast looked like a fatted cow crossed with the giant crocodile, a monster brought back from a distant land that had been stuffed and exhibited in the palace hall.

  Almost thirty feet long from the tip of its toothy snout to the top of its heavy tail, this particular draignoch was on the larger side, likely close to two hundred stones in weight. A scaled monster with teeth the length of swords and curved claws that could cut through flesh and bone as easily as a freshly sharpened blade slicing through cake.

  The humorous name the children tagged on draignochs didn’t account for a third feature that was neither cow nor crocodile: a small pair of leathery wings. A draignoch was too heavy to fly, of course, but furiously flapping those wings could lift the front half of its torso from the ground. Griffin had seen many knights crushed under the incredible weight.

  Griffin summoned his anger. His mother’s last cries echoed in his ears. His father’s final breath, taken in his arms, flashed before his eyes. Vengeance always tasted bitter when Griffin stood against a draignoch in the arena. He spat loudly, catching the draignoch’s attention as he stepped out of the shadows and into the creature’s full view.

  The wings went to work immediately, lifting the monster up on its hind legs, raising its head nearly thrice Griffin’s height. The beast opened its jaws wide—displaying a maw that could bite the head off a man with ease. The draignoch landed on all fours beside him. Griffin spun out to the side. Its head craned to strike Griffin but wasn’t fast enough to catch him. He leaped, swiping his blade, cutting deep across the draignoch’s sensitive wing.

  The creature’s screeching elicited startled cries from the crowd in response that were quickly drowned by rousing cheers.

  “Yes!” King Umbert’s thunderous roar was the loudest of them all.

  Griffin raised his sword to deliver a harder blow, but the draignoch struck first, sweeping the injured wing, using its claw like a morning star.

  The first hit knocked Griffin’s helmet off. The second sliced his cheek. The opened gash bled, forming rivers in the deep grooves of the U branded on his chest plate. Before Griffin could recover, the draignoch’s spiked arm belted his sword out of his grip, sending the weapon flying into the middle of the ring and driving a spike through his hand. Miraculously missing bone in his palm, it tore the gauntlet right off when the draignoch ripped it out.

  The throngs fell silent in shock and horror.

  Burning agony spread like wildfire through Griffin’s hand. He shoved it beneath his underarm and bit his lip hard to keep from screaming bloody murder.

  He was losing—and losing wasn’t an option. The king and Jori were counting on him. Griffin stumbled backward, leaving a trail of blood from his cheek. The tip of his boot collided with the sharp edge of his sword’s pommel. Griffin touched the grip at the same time the draignoch’s tail struck him across the backs of his knees, knocking him forward, gathering him in close for a killing bite. Then the bastard stepped on the blade before Griffin could pull it from the ground.

  “Keep the damn sword.” Griffin rolled toward his axe.

  The draignoch chased after him, its mouth inches from the back of Griffin’s head. Two nerve-racking passes, and Griffin’s hand at last found the wooden axe handle. “There you are . . .”

  He reversed, half rolling, half scrambling back the other way, beneath the snapping mouth, past the uplifted front legs and through the draignoch’s back legs as the beast flopped down. Before the draignoch could crush him, Griffin snapped off a heavy backhand and felt a satisfying jerk when the blade struck hard bone.

  “Lucky swing!” Cornwall called from the dais.

  Griffin couldn’t agree more. Taking the axe with him, he rolled out and jumped to his feet.

  The draignoch stumbled sideways, leaving a trail of steaming gray blood that mixed with Griffin’s own. He flung the axe end over end at the draignoch to keep it back long enough so that he could retrieve his sword.

  The draignoch fell on all fours, turning to snap at the axe. In a single move, Griffin rushed forward, jumping into the air as high as he could while at the same time flipping the sword, blade down. With all the strength he had left, he buried the blade deep into the draignoch’s back.

  The beast reared, tossing Griffin. But the deed was done.

  It tried to growl, but more groaned. Then, staring hatefully at Griffin the entire way, it fell over on its side.

  With the help of his boot, Griffin yanked his sword out and stabbed it in the back again.

  The crowd jumped to their feet, chanting his name.

  The draignoch’s chest heaved, gasping for breath. Its tongue darted in and out. A slow moan escaped its throat. Death was imminent, but not fast enough for the crowd—or for Griffin.

  “Kill it!” a man yelled.

  Griffin looked at King Umbert, waiting for a thumbs-up or -down, a tradition left over from the gladiator pits. A thumbs-up, and Griffin could kill the draignoch because his performance was deemed a win by the king. A thumbs-down meant Griffin would have to stop no matter how much he wanted to kill it. It would mean the king thought his performance was lacking, and he should have done better. It would also give the others confidence that he was vulnerable. Griffin had never received a thumbs-down.

  And the king . . .

  . . . didn’t give him one now.

  Griffin drove the blade in the draignoch’s jaw, stabbing his sword so hard the tip of the blade cracked through the skull.

  The light went out of its eyes as it expelled its last breath.

  “Grif-fin! Grif-fin!” His name echoed through the arena.

  Griffin stood taller and turned with his fist raised to all four sides of the field, then he bowed to the king.

  The crew hurried into the arena, lugging thick ropes tied to a team of sixteen horses. Griffin retrieved his sword before they dragged it away with the carcass. He rode the lift sitting, his feet dangling off the end, waving to the crowd.

  Prince Jori jogged out of the doorway to the balcony, into the tunnel to meet him. He wrinkled his nose at Griffin’s bloody cheek. “It’s a good thing your face is already scarred, otherwise that gash would be noticeable.”

  Griffin laughed, then cringed. His face stung.

  His hand prickled, painfully regaining feeling, his palm slippery with blood from the spike’s stab. A week was all he had for it to heal, before his next turn in the ring. His stomach tightened with stress, knowing it wouldn’t be enough.

  “Quite a performance.” Jori gave him a brotherly pat on the shoulder. “Next time, though, I think you should use my father’s dagger to finish him off. That would be a show.”

  Jori worshipped Griffin’s Phantombronze dagger because it was meant for him. King Umbert rewarded Griffin with it when he saved Jori’s life. It was the day everything changed for him.

  Hugo had sent him to deliver a new weapon made for the king to the fortress. He passed it off to a servant, and afterward, cut through the Great Hall on his way out because he had never seen it before. Griffin didn’t believe in fate, but he did, fully, in luck. Luck had brought Jori wandering into that same hall at that same time, swinging a hatchet around as if it were a toy, and greater luck still had placed another man in hiding behind a tapestry, armed with a sword.

  The assassin jumped Jori, getting his arm over the young prince’s chest and his blade against his neck.

  Jori dropped the hatchet and pissed himself.

  Griffin used his dagger to pierce the assassin’s kidney before the would-be murderer could slice Jori’s throat.

  The king gifted him the Phantombronze dagger as a reward. Jori said he understood, Griffin deserved it for his bravery; nevertheless, he brought it up whenever he had the opportunity, which Griffin found amusing. The prince had everything, and Griffin nothing, except the one object the king had gifted him.

  “My da
gger, you mean,” Griffin countered. “And I would never taint a thing of such beauty with draignoch blood.”

  Dres and Thoma jaunted over the Toppers’ bridge.

  “Sir Griffin, the mighty Draignoch Slayer!” Thoma cried.

  Dres tried to enter the tunnel, but the guards pushed them back. “Return to your seats . . . in the Bottom.”

  “It’s all right. They’re with me,” Griffin called.

  “You heard the champion. We’re with him,” Dres said, but the guards continued to shove.

  Jori shook his head. “Griffin, we can’t keep affording them special attentions.”

  Griffin squinted. “Why not? They were allowed here last year.”

  “Things have changed. After what happened recently . . .” Was Jori saying this had to do with the assassination attempt? If so, there was little room to argue.

  “Sorry, mates. I’ll see you later, yeah?” Griffin bellowed.

  “What? You can’t be serious,” Dres spat.

  “It’s fine. Fine! We understand.” Thoma pushed Dres away from the entrance.

  “What? Suddenly he’s too good to be seen with the likes of Bottom feeders? He is a bloody Bottom feeder! See that, Thoma, moves in the castle, and now he thinks he’s too good for us!” Dres yelled for Griffin’s benefit.

  That was all Griffin heard. The guards pushed them away and would make sure they didn’t return.

  “Stop looking so ill. You are too good for them,” Jori added.

  “It’s all good. Dres will act like a bitter ass for a while, but a few tankards of ale on me and he’ll change his tune. So, fruitful journey, I hope? After forcing me to eat with your betrothed.” Jori had refused to tell him where he was going or what he was doing.

  “Better you than me.” The prince rolled his eyes. “Yes. We returned with two prizes. One we expected and one rather unexpected. The unexpected, you will see tonight.” Jori’s beaming smile was enough to give away what this treasure was.

  Griffin groaned. “Have you brought another lousy magician to perform?” Jori smirked in reply. Griffin rolled his eyes this time. “You’re obsessed, man. Magic isn’t real.”