by Kate Novak
The brocade-wrapped form turned over rapidly, causing the cage to groan slightly where the ropes held its timbers in place. The package opened to reveal not a child, but a small creature dressed in garb that made Akabar’s crimson and white robes seem conservative. A creature without footgear, but long, curly red hair on her hands and feet that matched the mop on her head. A halfling! Alias whined silently. And a female halfling at that.
“Rescue at last!” cheered the halfling in a happy whisper.
“Shh!” warned Alias. Why did it have to be a halfling? How come no one mentioned Ruskettle was a halfling? Or even that Ruskettle was a she?
Suddenly, Alias sensed the deadly quiet. The stream spattered on, but the dragon’s regular breathing and the crows’ occasional caws had stopped. The halfling’s eyes widened, transfixed by something behind and above Alias. Something horrible cleared its throat with a cough like a bag of lead coins dropped off a tower.
With a sigh of resignation, Alias turned around slowly.
“Looking for something in particular?” asked the dragon. “Or are we just browsing?”
Mist
The dragon, though she had not bothered to rise, was no longer balled up like a cute kitten by a fireside. Her front paws curled beneath her bulk, her body rested comfortably below the level of her rear haunches, and her neck curved in a relaxed S-shape. Even seated in this way, her jaws hung twice as far above the ground as Alias’s perch on the raised altar, and her reptilian golden eyes looked down from another ten feet higher than that.
From what little Alias could see of her belly, it was a twisted mass of scarred, purple and violet scales. Several of the scars were still fresh and oozing—compliments of the adventuring party that had tried to defeat her but failed.
With those long tendrils hanging down from her chin and face, Alias thought, she looks like a cat. I guess that makes me the mouse. Then the swordswoman noticed, tucked behind the monster’s left ear, a raven regarding her with a stare as unblinking as the dragon’s—the only one that had not retreated to the ceiling. The dragon’s spy.
“Poor dear,” rumbled the dragon. “Are you ill-versed in the common tongue? Where do they send these robbers from, anyway? Asken bey Amnite? No. You don’t look like a southerner. Cheyeska col Thay? Not that either. Do you speak any language known to the Sea of Fallen Stars? I detest not knowing where my next meal is coming from.”
The dragon’s ramblings shook Alias from her trance. The beast had transfixed her with a gaze that would have done a basilisk proud, yet here she was, nattering like some fishmonger’s wife. Alias tried to speak several times, until the words found purchase in her throat and she spat out, “I come from Cormyr.” For the moment, she added mentally.
“Oh, so you are native flesh,” said the dragon, coiling her neck back as if to view Alias in this new light. “How precious. I do hate foreign mystery meat. They put such odd things in their bodies.”
Alias blinked hard, fighting the sudden drowsiness that descended on her. First the dragon’s gaze, then its rich, rumbling words, seemed to drain the energy from her body, as if the rest she had received earlier in the week had done her no good. This must be what they call dragon-fear, Alias realized. She shook herself out of the lethargy.
“I am no foreigner, but Alias of the Inner Sea, swordsmaster and adventuress,” she announced.
“Oh, really?” replied the dragon. “You must forgive me for not knowing anything about you, but I’ve been so out of touch. I am Mistinarperadnacles Hai Draco. You may call me Mist. And I’ll call you … supper? Yes, it’s about time for a light, early supper. So nice of you to deliver yourself.”
The dragon shifted its weight, and Alias saw for the first time the front paws of the beast, huge, three-toed triangles, each corner of the triangles sporting a claw. Further up each foot glinted an opposing dew claw. All the claws were as crimson as fresh blood.
Alias held up her sword with both hands—not to attack, but as a warning gesture. She replied, “You must forgive my unwillingness to serve as your meal, O great and powerful Mistinarperadnacles, but instead I think I will challenge you to the Feint of Honor.”
“The Feint of Honor?” Mist echoed the last words with a tone of surprise. Then she chuckled, a sound that echoed like thunder about the cavern. “What can you know about the Feint of Honor, O Supper?”
Alias stepped back until her back was touching the wicker of the cage and replied, “It is the proper name given to the ritual combat of subdual instigated in the most ancient of times by the wisest of dragons.”
Mist sniffed, “And I presume you know why?”
“Because, in the most ancient of times, your people fought amongst themselves so fiercely that many promising wyrms died. Indeed, scholars believe you may have wiped yourselves off the face of the land had not the Feint been decreed.” Alias pressed her calf against the cage bars in hopes that the halfling would notice the dagger in her boot.
“Yes. True enough.” The dragon nodded, settling back on her haunches. “Having heard of this custom, all manner of militia and mercenary have come barrelling into my home and the homes of my brethren, beating on us with the flat of their blades, firing blunt-headed fowling arrows, and generally disturbing our rest until we are forced to destroy them just to regain our composure. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. It implies a lot of ignorance.” Mist twisted her neck so that her jaws were uncomfortably close to Alias’s head. “You see, the Feint is a code for dragons. It has nothing to do with you puny, but delicious, mortals.”
“Not so, O Mistinarperadnacles. True, many humans may attempt subdual without following the formal codes, and their senses are as bootless as a halfling. And he who walks in here without sense, walks in here unarmed. You are then entirely within your rights to exterminate them as you see fit.” Alias felt a pat behind her knee, a signal, she hoped, that the halfling had understood, but she had no sensation of her dagger being slid from her boot. “But you may not with honor deny a challenge properly made—”
“Your speech is oddly accented,” said the dragon. “I think you come from beyond Cormyr.”
“Unless, of course,” Alias continued, “you are a common dragon. Then, of course, you may behave as you will.”
Fire flared in Mist’s eyes. “And do you know the formal codes, O Supper?”
“I know first to ask the dragon’s name if it is not already known,” replied Alias.
“Common courtesy, at the very least, common sense as well.”
“At this point, I must say you have offended me. You have monopolized the services of this halfling, an offense to art; you have kept her imprisoned in this cage, an offense to humanity; and you have referred to me as Supper, an offense to my honor. For these barbarities, Mistinarperadnacles, red mistress of flame and sunsets, I challenge you!”
“Quite nice,” said the dragon. “Your composure does you credit. You astonish me, young one. This is a custom veiled in antiquity. I don’t believe one sage in a hundred could recall the formalities so precisely. Just where did you acquire this knowledge?”
Alias did know the answer to that question. She remembered it, but she did not know how. Instead of trying to answer Mist’s questions, she continued with the terms of challenge.
“My weapon will be this single blade.” Alias indicated her sword with a nod of her head. “You may use your claws. No biting, no breathing fire, and no magic.”
Steam was beginning to rise up from Mist’s nostrils, indicating the beast was no longer amused or intrigued, but losing her patience. Alias continued hurriedly, “We fight until the first three hits or until the other surrenders. If I am victor, I demand you free the halfling Ruskettle and allow both of us to leave your lair safe and free.”
“What? No demands for a chest of gold or for me to leave this happy land and never to return?” Mist mocked her.
“None,” Alias replied flatly. According to the code, the more demands she made, the more compromises she wou
ld have to make toward the dragon’s terms. If they even came to terms. Steam now poured from Mist in great billows.
She could breathe fire anytime, Alias thought. If her ego and pride don’t bind her to the ancient code, I’m dead meat.
“It is a sad state of affairs,” Mist growled, “when a dragon cannot use those gifts invested in her by Tiamat. At the very least, I must use my claws and my teeth. We will fight until you are dead or you convince me to surrender. In compensation, if you win, I will grant you a chest of gold. I am a generous spirit, you see.”
“Accepted,” Alias replied without hesitation.
The dragon reared back, her head raised into the stone dome high above. The raven flapped noisily from her head. Surprised, Mist could only foolishly repeat, “Accepted,” thus locking herself into the agreement.
“The code is honored, the pact is made,” Alias declared and lunged forward beneath the dragon’s chest. She slashed out with her sword, catching the beast just below the forward knee. The blow was not forceful enough to cut into the scales, but it hurt. The dragon roared, and her knee buckled so that she toppled forward. Alias dashed between her hind legs. Careful to avoid the creature’s tail, the swordswoman dragged her blade across Mist’s purple-plated rump, knocking loose a few half-healed plates.
Mist howled and spun about. Her gleaming eyes seemed to burrow into Alias. “Foul!” she hissed. “You used the sharp side of your blade.”
“Our contract did not limit me to the flat of my weapon, wyrm!” Alias shouted, dodging backward to avoid the slash of the triple scythes at the end of the dragon’s paw.
“O ho!” Mist cackled, following up her first assault with a thrust from the other front paw. Alias twisted and rolled away as claw tips scored deep into the wall she’d had at her back a moment before. “So you are now a lawyer as well as a fighter!” Mist taunted as she yanked her claw from the rock, causing a small avalanche of stone to topple down.
Alias retreated back among the treasure and bone piles, sparing only a glance for the now-empty cage on the altar. She averted her eyes quickly so as not to alert Mist to the halfling’s escape. Have to keep the wyrm’s attention on me, Alias thought. Unfortunately, that should be no problem.
Instead of lunging her neck toward the warrior, Mist retreated and rose to her hind legs, unfurling her wings. The leathery folds of flesh caught the subterranean breeze like sails, then fanned the air back in powerful waves toward Alias’s corner of the cave.
The last raven retreated to the roof to avoid the assault, but Alias had no way to evade the force of the wind. She was lifted from the ground and buffeted over several large treasure chests. Her rough passage knocked the arm and leg guards off one side of her armor and left her pinned beneath a granite statue of some forgotten Hillsfar noble.
She began squirming out from beneath the stone, but Mist loped forward and laid her chin down on top of the statue. Her fetid breath made Alias gag. Mist’s mouth tendrils curled in glee. Alias closed her eyes, certain she was about to have her head bitten off.
“So, little lawyer,” Mist hissed, “I can slay you now by fire, for who would know I violated the codes?”
“Well, me for one,” came a high-pitched but resonant voice from above. “And you know the old saying—tell a bard, and you tell the world.”
Mist whirled around in surprise. The halfling bard stood on the ledge by the opening to Alias’s back door. She leaned weakly against the rock wall, but her eyes sparkled with mischief and vengeance. Alias took advantage of Mist’s inattention to escape from the embrace of the Hillsfar noble and began to climb up a wagon loaded with treasure.
Ruskettle strummed a chord on her tiny yarting, a miniature guitar with seven catgut strings. “Now let’s see, this is spur of the moment, mind, but how about—” The bard began to sing:
I heard the mighty rush of fire
From the ledge above the cave.
The attack of a common coward
No dragon, just a knave.
She broke her oath in combat,
Now shunned by one and all.
Not even other dragons
Will have her in their hall.
“Then of course we’ll need a chorus for everyone to join in on,” Ruskettle continued hurriedly:
Oh, listen to the story
Of the scandal of the wyrms.
Red Mistinarperadnacles,
Rumored mad and quite infirm.
With a single belch of fire,
This fool dragon with no shame,
Her honor she has vaporized
Like the Mist that is her name.
Alias cringed at the lyrics’ strained meters, but had to admire the singer’s nerve. Great clouds of steam filled the dome above Mist’s head. The bard hadn’t a chance of outrunning the fires that had to be burning inside the wyrm. Instead of escaping, though, Alias noted, she risked her hide to gain time for me to wriggle out of danger.
Goaded forward by the image of a roasted halfling and a failed mission, Alias launched herself from the lid of a large cask toward the dragon’s head. She fell short of her mark, but managed to catch a fistful of the tendrils hanging from Mist’s chin. Arching her back and kicking her legs like an acrobat, the swordswoman swung herself backward, over the side of the dragon’s mouth, past her dripping, exposed teeth, beyond her steaming nostrils, and landed squarely on the bridge of the dragon’s nose.
Alias wedged her blade between Mist’s eyes, so that the creature’s pupils crossed, trying to focus on her foe.
“Match was until surrender,” Alias panted, sweat rolling down her face in rivulets. Her exhaustion deepened with her proximity to the dragon’s steaming and foul exhalations, yet she tightened her grip on her hilt. “Do you surrender, wyrm, or shall we see how much of your brain I can reach when I plunge my blade into one of your eyes?”
For Alias, the next few moments were frozen in time. Steam rose about her and water splattered to the floor, but the principals of the tableau stood motionless: the dragon considering the value of her eyesight and the length of the warrior’s blade, Alias trying to remain perched on the creature’s scaly nose, Ruskettle awaiting the outcome, so eager to witness it she would not flee like a sensible person.
Finally Mist hissed, “This time, little lawyer, you win.”
“I accept your surrender,” Alias replied. She kept her gaze on the creature and her sword over Mist’s nose. No blanket of condensing steam poured from the beast’s mouth to indicate she had cooled her inner fires.
Mist has no intention of honoring the pact, Alias realized. She wants me dead even more than ever, but she doesn’t dare try to kill me unless she can get the tell-tale bard with the same blow. All she has to do is breathe fire once I’m standing beside Ruskettle.
Alias’s mind scrambled for a scheme to delay the dragon’s attack, hoping that the halfling had enough wits to play along. “I’d like to be let down over there by my friend,” the swordswoman said.
“But, of course,” Mist replied, her tone full of sugary venom. The dragon kept her head perfectly steady as she swung her neck over to the ledge, anxious that Alias should not slip or lean on the blade and drive it into an eye.
Alias hesitated before she stepped off Mist’s snout. Winking at the halfling, she said, “That ring of fire resistance makes you a lot braver than usual, bard.”
“What? Oh, yeah. The ring of fire resistance. Well, you know my motto: If you got it, might as well flaunt it. You think I’d have risked singing to a dragon without one?”
Alias leaped from Mist’s head to the ledge and sidled behind the halfling, as if to use her tiny body for a shield. The swordswoman’s heart pounded as she ordered the dragon, “Now go fetch the chest of gold you promised me.”
Mist’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. Steam rose from her nostrils. Tymora, make her believe the ruse! Alias prayed silently. The dragon turned her head away from the ledge and lumbered toward a pile of gold. Alias swallowed hard.
�
��Why didn’t you kill her when you had the chance?” Ruskettle whispered through clenched teeth.
“And fall to my death or get crushed by a dragon in her death throes? No, thank you. That wasn’t what I was paid for. Now, let’s get out of here.”
“What?” the bard asked.
“We’re leaving,” Alias replied, grabbing a handful of the halfling’s cloak. Alias slipped into the passageway leading out of the lair, trying to tug the halfling with her, but Ruskettle jerked herself loose.
“We have to wait for the gold,” the bard insisted.
With an exasperated growl, Alias grasped the small woman by her shoulders, pulled her into the passage, and shoved her in the lead.
Their way dimly lit by the runes embedded in Alias’s flesh, Alias prodded and pushed at the halfling until they reached the upper cavern where the swordswoman had waited for Akabar’s scouting report. Once they reached this point, however, Ruskettle twisted from her grip and dropped angrily to the floor. Alias slipped her sword arm into her cloak before the halfling caught sight of the glow of the sigils.
“Why’d you do that?” the bard demanded. “She was going to get us some gold!”
“Stupidhalfling!” Alias panted, her words running together. “Mist is a red dragon! That makes her as greedy and as untrustworthy as an Amnite merchant! The only thing that stopped her from burning us to cinders was the fear you would escape and tell someone.”
“But she believed your story about me having a ring of fire resistance.”
“For the moment. But if she had sniffed any jewelry on you when she first kidnapped you, she would have made you take it off. You aren’t wearing any rings. Any minute now she’s going to remember that, and then—”
Cool air from the outside rushed down the passage. Alias could picture Mist sitting by the ledge, inhaling deeply, smoke from her hidden forges pouring out of her snout.