Azure Bonds

by Kate Novak

  “Well, if you’re offended by my sparing your life, I can correct that.” The dragon’s smile revealed nothing but sharp teeth, all the way back down her mouth.

  “Offended,” Olive mused. “Yes, that’s the word. Offended. My honor, small though it be, has been besmirched. I see no remedy but a Feint of Honor.”

  “Feint of—” The dragon reared up, accidentally knocking the wagon with her shoulder. The upended wagon overturned, sending Dragonbait sprawling backward. The lizard landed on all fours and pressed himself tightly against the ground.

  Meanwhile, Mist rocked back and forth, issuing a loud braying that Olive could only assume was laughter. The halfling shifted to the left somewhat to keep the dragon’s attention away from Dragonbait’s position.

  How did he ever get a stupid name like Dragonbait? the bard wondered as she caught a glimpse of the lizard stalking forward. I just hope its not prophetic. When Mist had quieted some and fixed her gaze back on the halfling, Olive asked testily, “Are you quite through?”

  “Dear child,” the dragon chuckled, “do you take me for a fool? Being foiled once this year by a warrior schooled in the old ways is enough. To be taken in yet again, by a halfling, would be unforgivable.”

  “There you go insulting me again.” Olive thrust out her chest and brought the bottle close to her, determined to spill it on herself. “I challenge you, O Mistinarperadnacles, to a Feint of Honor!”

  Again the dragon brayed. “You have missed your calling, small one. Comedy, not music, is your vocation.”

  “We settle terms next,” Olive persevered despite Mist’s attitude. “I suggest three hits, no flames, no claws, little bitesies. Any friends that happen along are welcome to join in the fray.”

  Mist rose up on her hind haunches. Steam began to curl out from between her great fangs. “Little fool. There is one small portion of the Feint of Honor of which you are no doubt ignorant. It must be issued by a good fighter and true. You are no fighter, you are not good, and I doubt, little bard, that you are true. You are beginning to bore me, and so you must die.”

  Just then, the sun broke through the mists and the dragon became a great, dark shadow outlined with an aura of light. Olive was certain she had met her doom. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes tightly. She wondered if her end would be the agony of fire or, should Mist be willing to risk the effects of peranox, the pain of razor-sharp teeth.

  When several heartbeats had passed without a violent attack on her person, the halfling, still holding her breath, popped open one eye. She was ready to close it at a moment’s notice should the dragon attack.

  But her view of the dragon was blocked by the body of Dragonbait. The lizard stood before Mist, brandishing his toothed, diamond-headed sword.

  Olive could not believe her eyes. He’s going to defend me. But Dragonbait remained motionless before the dragon. What’s he doing? Praying? It’s too late for that, she decided, crouching down and edging away from the lizard. Mist ignored her. The dragon’s amber eyes were locked with the lizard’s.

  Why aren’t they attacking? Olive wondered. Neither creature moved. Her curiosity overwhelmed her good sense, and Olive stood watching the two combatants.

  Banks of steam evaporated off Dragonbait’s neck and chest. Olive found herself suddenly thinking of baking bread. Then she realized it wasn’t a stray thought; she smelled hot rolls, fresh from the oven, begging to be smeared with butter and jam. The halfling’s mouth watered. It was, after all, time for breakfast.

  As the dragon and lizard engaged in their battle of wills and the daylight grew brighter, Olive became aware of the additional damage Mist had wrought while the halfling slept. The ground about the campsite and where the horses had been staked was all torn up, plowed by the dragon’s claws. “And I slept through it all,” Olive muttered in a daze.

  Then Mist rumbled, “Well challenged, noble warrior. What are your terms?”

  Olive stared flabbergasted at Dragonbait. Mist understands him? After all the foolishness I went through to try to communicate with him, he talks to a dragon first. That figures. They’re both lizards.

  But even more astonishing to Olive was the polite manner in which Mist accepted the lizard’s challenge. She treated him with a courtesy she hadn’t bothered to use even when Alias fought her.

  Mist continued to watch the lizard, nodding occasionally as though taking in some point or other, though the halfling could not hear a sound from Dragonbait. Is he some sort of telepath? she wondered. No. Then he would have talked to us in our minds.

  Finally, Mist said, “An interesting tale. Yes, agreed. Maximum damage. If you win, I’ll help you take on this abomination you describe. But after the beast is killed, our deal is ended. If I win, you shall tell me where to find Alias before I slay you and your ally.”

  “Brandobis!” cursed the halfling. His ally—that’s me. Where does he get off forfeiting my life? She did not take into consideration that there was little else Dragonbait could do if he lost the battle.

  Her first instinct was to flee. She reached down for her pack, but as she picked it up, that idea curdled like blood in her mind. The thin platinum coins in her pack clinked together, reminding Olive of her deal with Phalse. She wore the tracking ring on a chain around her neck, near the ring that detected magic. If she abandoned the lizard now, she might not be able to find the warrior woman, and Phalse’s friends would believe she had reneged on her agreement and deal with her accordingly. But if Dragonbait won, he would take her right to Alias.

  How do I get into these messes? Olive sighed. She wracked her mind for some means of helping the lizard battle the dragon.

  “We start at three,” the dragon explained. “One …”

  Dragonbait went into a crouch. Olive wondered if she could loft the poison into the beast’s mouth.

  “Two …” Mist said, unfurling her wings. In the sunrise they were the color of human—and halfling—blood. The dragon flexed her rear legs and leaped into the air, hovering with a massive beat of mighty wings.

  “Three!” Mist roared, as Dragonbait dodged beneath her.

  Mist breathed fire—a short, spitting flame that divoted the earth where Dragonbait had been standing. The lizard was beneath the dragon, but Mist lashed out with her tail, batting him forward, once again in her sight.

  She’s playing with him, the halfling realized and began desperately searching through her pockets for something to help. The poison? No, she might need that for her own use later. Besides, she’d never get it up that high. The coins weren’t enough to bribe a dragon. Her halfling short sword and daggers would be useless against that great hulk.

  The blow of the dragon’s whiplike tail separated Dragonbait from his weapon. He dodged another small spit of flame and leaped on the lost sword. As he did so, the hovering dragon swooped, snagging his shirt. The shirt ties were already torn off though, and the lizard managed to slip out of the garment. He fell to the ground with a thud, rolling back toward his weapon.

  Mist landed with her paw on top of his leg before he could reach his blade. She moved her head very close to him and smiled broadly, gloating.

  “What’s this, little dragon-warrior?” the dragon mocked her prey. “I think I’ve seen these markings before on your mistress. Are you a matched set? A pity to break you up.”

  The bard gasped. Dragonbait was branded with the same blue sigils as Alias. Only his were set in a ring.

  A ring! Olive thought excitedly. Brands just like Alias! Olive pulled the chain out from beneath her shirt and slipped on the magical detection ring. She ran toward the battle, twisting the ring and pointing her finger at Dragonbait.

  The azure sigils that marked Dragonbait’s chest exploded with a satisfyingly brilliant light.

  Mist pitched backward as the sapphire fireworks exploded in her face. Reflexively, the dragon raised her front paws to her eyes, tossing her prisoner through the air. Dragonbait spun about like a trained acrobat, landed on his feet, and ran toward
the dragon’s rear haunches.

  As Mist pawed at the motes of light dancing before her eyes, she flapped her wings desperately, churning up clouds of dust. The mighty breeze caused blankets and cloaks to flutter about like theater spirits and sent equipment packs rolling over, scattering their contents through the camp. Mist roared, and steam gushed from her mouth.

  Dragonbait swung his sword two-handed, biting deep into the monster’s thigh. Mist gave a shout and pitched forward. Olive sidestepped just in time to avoid being struck by the dragon’s jaw as it hit the ground.

  Raising her neck, the dragon fired blindly, torching the overturned wagon. Her neck snaked, spreading the flames in a wide swath. But Dragonbait had dodged beneath her head, preparing to attack her opposite flank.

  The dragon began batting her wings again, trying to take off. Dragonbait jabbed his sword into her left wing. The backward curved teeth caught in the flesh and tore a huge, flapping gash in the membrane.

  The red dragon crashed to the ground once again. Olive had been waiting for this chance, and she ran toward the huge head. Her sight now cleared, Mist opened her mouth, preparing to bite the brave but foolish halfling into two tidbits. The bard turned and dodged away from the beast’s maw, but not before she managed to toss in, at point-blank range, the opened bottle of peranox.

  The bottle cracked beneath the snapping jaws, sending shards of poisoned crystal deep into the dragon’s mouth. Dragonbait struck Mist again, opening a third wound along her belly. The dragon spat and flamed, trying to drive the poison from her mouth.

  Mist rolled over in the dust like a flea-bitten dog tormented by insignificant invaders. She flamed at the sky until nothing but heated air escaped her innards. Dragonbait made one last gash in her neck, then dashed away, scooping Olive up in his arm and running from the camp—ten, twenty, thirty yards before he stopped. Then he turned to watch the dragon as it tossed and twisted in agony.

  After five minutes, the thrashing stopped and the huge, crimson monster lay still in the dirt. Dragonbait pushed Olive to the ground and pointed as though he were ordering her to stay. He crept warily back toward the dragon. Unwilling to miss this historic moment, Olive followed disobediently after him.

  They halted a few feet from Mist’s head. She was still breathing. Drooling sweat ran from the corners of Dragonbait’s mouth, and Olive had a stitch in her side from her short attack-run. Still, there was no doubt they had won. She wondered if Mist would really obey Dragonbait now or try to deceive him the way she had Alias.

  She turned to the lizard, touching his scaly arm shyly. “Thank you for saving me,” she said.

  Dragonbait bowed his head politely.

  “You can talk, can’t you?” Olive asked.

  The lizard felt for his belt pockets, where he had put the talis deck Olive had given him. But the pouch he reached in was torn along the bottom seam and now completely empty. Dragonbait shrugged.

  “Boogers,” Olive said. “You know what happened to Alias, but you can’t tell anyone.”

  “Nonsense. He’s told me already,” Mist said, popping one eye open, but remaining otherwise immobile.

  Dragonbait raised his sword, and Olive caught a strong whiff of tar. Mist’s eye closed and she whispered, “Yes, I surrender, dragonling. I apologize for judging you by your raiment. You win. I will honor our agreement.” The dragon sighed and opened her eyes. “Bard, you don’t have any more of that putrid-tasting potion, do you?”

  “Oh,” the halfling lied, “about six or seven more jars. Large jars. Why?”

  The dragon closed her eyes. Dragonbait snarled, and the eyes opened again. “I said I give up. You win. Just keep that peranox away from me. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Ruskettle suddenly realized she was shaking, though whether from aftershock of the battle or the thought of a violently ill dragon, she did not know.

  Slowly, like a drunk recovering from her first hangover, Mist reared up her head, flexing the damaged leg and torn wing. “That tears it,” she said. “Literally. I won’t be able to fly for a year. Sorry, but I can’t very well help you if I’m damaged. What say I just let you go and I trek my way home?”

  Dragonbait snarled again. “Only a suggestion,” Mist muttered, laying her head back down on the ground.

  The lizard moved back toward the torn wing, grabbed a handful of it on both sides of the tear, and pulled it toward him like a seaman about to mend sailcloth. He ran his fingers along the tear, and the torn webbing began to mesh. A faint, yellow glow emanated from the wound as it healed. Olive caught the scent of woodsmoke. Dragonbait restored about half the damage along the trailing edge of the wing, leaving a few spotty holes.

  “Thank you,” Mist sighed without lifting her head, obviously relieved of some pain.

  Ruskettle looked at the lizard in confusion. “How did you do that?” she demanded. “Where is Alias? And who are you, anyway?”

  Dragonbait jerked his head from Mist to Olive. Mist appeared to concentrate on the small lizard for a few moments and then began to “translate” his silence. As the dragon spoke for the opponent who had defeated her in combat, Olive’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped.

  “I don’t believe you,” she told Mist. “You’re making this all up. It’s impossible!”

  “No one could make up so improbable a tale,” Mist sniffed. “Not even you, bard.”

  Olive fixed her attention on Dragonbait. The lizard was already gathering the party’s belongings that were still salvageable from the destruction Mist had wreaked on them.

  Olive planted herself firmly before him and demanded to know. “It’s not true what she said, is it? You can’t be what she said. You’re a lizard!”

  Dragonbait looked down at the halfling without expression, holding her eyes with his own unblinking ones. Olive grew nervous beneath his gaze because she realized Mist had told her the truth. He really was one of them. Though he hadn’t seemed like one of them before, there was no other explanation for all his actions.

  “It’s true.” she squeaked.

  Dragonbait nodded.

  Boogers! Olive swore silently. How do I get into these messes? More importantly, how do I get out of this one?

  Moander’s Puppet and Mist’s Pursuit

  Alias stirred beneath the moss-stained roots, and her mind crawled back from the lands of darkness. She twisted once, then again, straining against her bonds.

  She recalled the passage through the wall of enchanted masonry. It had felt like an immersion in a cold mountain lake, chilling her skin and knocking the wind out of her. When she had finally gasped for air, there was a spongy mat against her face—a fragrant glove of pungent, vegetable smells which had reminded Alias of mushrooms in butter sauce gone bad in the summer heat.

  And then she knew nothing. It was like the dark emptiness that preceded her appearance at The Hidden Lady.

  When Alias awoke, the exposed portions of her skin were chilled and slightly wet from the fog. She had no idea how long she had slept, or what had happened while she did, but her adventures in Cormyr and Shadow Gap, and the conversations at Shadowdale, all remained crisp and clear in her memory. If anything, they felt more real than the adventures she’d experienced before she had received the deadly, cursed tattoo.

  Finally, she opened her eyes to glare at the curse scrawled across her arm, only to find it trapped in a blanket of green fibers. She tried to shake loose, but her arm was held fast. She tried to move her left arm, but that limb was also pinned down by the same sort of damp, slimy blanket.

  Alias tried kicking. Her legs were trapped, too. She wriggled and thrashed and bucked, but a wet root, as thick as her arm, held her to the ground. Whenever she moved, the tendrils moved with her. She sensed one of the bonds tearing, but new shoots sprouted immediately to replace it.

  Frustrated, she looked around. She lay on an odd collection of garbage, bog peat, sickly green vines, and large moldy roots. At the edge of her vision she spotted something clean and white jutti
ng out from the greenery. Alias recognized it as a human bone.

  She felt the pile of boggy vegetation shift as though it were moving on a great wagon. She was lying on a ledge at the leading edge of the pile, about fifteen feet from the ground, but she could see no horses or oxen ahead.

  A pile of dead leaves shifted by the right side of her head. As she watched, a single, green tendril burst through the rotting vegetation. At the tendril’s tip was a pumpkinlike pod. The tendril swiveled toward her, and the pumpkin pod opened like a flower. At its center was a great, weeping eye, trapped on all sides by jagged, spined teeth.

  The sight touched some memory buried within Alias, a memory she wished had stayed buried. She screamed.

  The pumpkin pod closed up, startled or frightened by her reaction. The tendril withdrew into the refuse pile.

  Alias swallowed with some difficulty, keeping her eyes fixed on the spot where the tendril had sprouted. When it did not reappear, she began to look around again, though her eyes kept returning to that site every few seconds to make sure her ocular companion had not returned.

  The mound was passing over terrain that resembled the plains about Yulash. The sun was on her left and there was a thick, dark line of green across the horizon straight ahead.

  If that’s the rising sun, we must be heading south out of Yulash, toward the Elven Wood, she thought. Unless I’ve slept for days again—then we could be anywhere.

  The sound of something moving through the garbage made her realize she and the wretched tendrils were not alone. Three figures appeared at the corner of the mound—men, moving in a matching stride like soldiers. A vine trailed behind each man, attached somewhere to his back.

  The man in the center cast a long shadow on her and blocked out the sun, so she could only make out his silhouette at first. The sun shone through the light robes he wore—revealing spindly legs, but a powerful torso. He wore some sort of helmet. She could not make out his features, but by his bearing she knew he was Akabar.

  The men who flanked the mage were dressed in moldy, torn battle gear. They moved stiffly as they picked their way through the garbage.