Bazil Broketail (56 page)

“You traitor, I’ll gut you, I’ll—”

There was a heavy thud.

Relkin could not hold himself back any further. He peeked around the edge of the chest.

The man that had come to Baz’s stall in Marneri was standing there, a cruel smile played over his dark lips. In his hand was a bloodied dirk.

“No, General, I think you will not.” He kicked a figure lying prone on the floor.

“In fact, I don’t think you will be doing anything ever again.”

He knelt down and stabbed the general again, his dirk piercing the man’s chest to the hilt.

Relkin watched spellbound as Thrembode got to his feat with a nervous look around himself. Relkin jerked back just in time. In two strides Thrembode was beside the chest, and he pulled the top up while Relkin cowered there thinking he had been discovered.

A pair of Marneri short swords, a shield and a helmet, all wrapped in a battle flag, were taken out and placed on top of the next chest. Then there was the sound of something being dragged across the floor and stuffed into the chest.

The lid of the chest slammed down once more and Thrembode departed, his boots echoing in the gallery as he retreated at a rapid rate.

Relkin got to his feet and glanced out the door. There was no one to be seen. He moved to the table and lifted Piocar, staggering under the weight, and then headed for the gallery.

The wild dragon hissed and roared and clawed the ground. Its rage was quite awesome; the very ground seemed to shake beneath it.

Bazil had stepped back in alarm, but even as he did so he felt a wave of pity wash through him, for he had seen that the wild one’s great wings had been clipped—this drake would never fly again.

Still it was hissing in a vile rage and stalking after him with flashing eyes. Bazil continued to retreat, slowly, steadily. The wild dragon was possessed by a tremendous urge to kill and keep killing until either it was dead or all its enemies were no more. Such rage could not be reasoned with, and since Bazil had no sword, no shield, no helmet, he had very good reason to be afraid.

Abruptly the wild drake noticed its surroundings. It stopped and reared up and screamed its challenge to the crowd.

The stadium was hushed, awed by this monumental violence.

It roared again and circled, eyeing the people, the imps in the dugouts and the strange dragon that stood in its path. It wanted to kill them all, again and again.

Bazil’s heart sank. He had no sword and this beast outweighed him by a wide margin. If it charged him he would fight, but in his heart he knew it would be of little use and the wild one would tear his head from his body.

Then a great realization struck home. The wild one was wounded, and there were still fragments of a bandage on the wound.

Bazil lifted his forelimbs and shouted in dragon speech, “You are the purple-green from Hook Mountain!”

The wild drake blinked. What was this?

“You and I have met before,” hissed Bazil. “On the mountain in the south, remember?”

The dragon speech was strange, the accent odd, but the wild one did remember. The crazed rage subsided a notch. The great head filled with glittering teeth shook back and forth for a moment, then it blinked and stared carefully at the wingless wyvern that stood in front of it.

“Yess,” it said at last. “I know you. You are he who defeated me, the sword dragon of the south mount.”

Bazil could still easily imagine the wild drake launching itself at him again, and he spoke up quickly.

“How did they capture you?”

The purple-green roared and hissed at the memory, exciting the crowd, which had been expecting him to hurl himself at the Argonath dragon immediately and rend it to pieces.

“I sleep on mountain. Wounded as you know. Men come with nets, ropes, tie me down while I sleep. I would have killed them otherwise.”

Bazil stepped forward and raised his forelimbs.

“I will not fight you again, not for the entertainment of these people.”

The drake considered this for a moment.

“I not fight either. You saved me from death, staunched the bleeding from my wounds. We fought for the female and I was defeated. Only you have ever defeated me in combat.”

Baz released a long sigh of relief, then spoke up.

“She was worth fighting for, great purple-green, and you were a most terrible opponent—I have never known such strength. But now I think that we should join together and show these damned humans that it is not a good idea to kill dragons for their pleasure.”

The crowd had hushed again in puzzlement. Everyone knew a wild dragon would kill an Argonath wyvern— wild dragons hated the breed created by the folk of Cunfshon.

But the dragons were standing close, grumbling to each other in their sibilant rich tongue. It was a disappointment to those who had waited for this scene for hours since the first announcement.

The wild drake could see the trail of blood where Nessi had been dragged into the side hall. He pointed.

“Dragon blood?”

“Yes.”

The drake’s tail lashed in fury and his huge eyes fairly glowed. Baz had seen that fury and he was very glad that it was not directed at him this time.

“Show me how to kill them,” said the drake.

“Be glad to. Follow me.”

Baz suddenly turned and began to lumber across the arena towards the dugout by the main doors.

There were some guard trolls inside. They had weapons.

The purple-green dropped to all fours and came after him; the crowd roared again thinking they were seeing one dragon hunt down the other.

Then Bazil reached the dugout and was joined by the drake. Together they ripped away a pillar holding up the roof at one end. The roof fell in when Bazil jumped onto it with a heavy bound.

Most of the trolls inside were knocked senseless by the collapse. The others recoiled in horror as the purple-green leaped in among them. Baz pulled away some of the bricks and rubble and reached down for the swords.

When he came up with a pair, he found the purple-green pursuing the last troll along the wall of the arena. The others had been torn to pieces.

The crowd was hushed but for gasps of horror.

The purple-green leaped on the fleeing troll, brought it down and bit through its head with an audible crunch.

The double doors in the keep were opening; a squad of trolls in armor marched in to the beat of a drum. At their head was Puxdool.

The purple-green slowed, eyeing the swords in the hands of the trolls. Baz caught up with him. The sight of Puxdool had his heart hammering in his chest.

“Here, take a sword. Try it, move it back and forth.”

The drake found it hard to grasp the sword’s narrow handle; it was an unnatural thing this, to pick up something and wield it like a tool. Tools were for lesser creatures, not for dragons. Thus it had been since the beginning of dragon lore.

Still the sword moved lightly enough. It was hard to believe something so light, so insignificant, could cause such devastating wounds.

The leatherback motioned to the drake to back away.

“We need the men, our men. Come on.”

Men? Why did dragons need such feeble things as men? The drake was puzzled, but it moved back in step with the Argonath dragon. It knew nothing of this situation, this world of men and swords and trolls; it would follow the lead of the dragon from Quosh.

And out of their dugout came the men of Marneri, with steel in their hands and a cheer in their throats.

“To the dragons!” shouted Kesepton.

The squad of trolls came to a halt. They snarled among themselves and raged at the men. They promised to eat them later once they had disposed of the rebellious worms. Then they raised their swords and came on.

There were three trolls: Puxdool and his second, Izmak, concentrated on the dragons while the third, Gungol, protected the rear from the men.

Kesepton darted in and hacked at the rear troll’s leg. A huge sword swished just over his head and he jumped to the side.

Cowstrap charged from the other side and met the troll shield to shield. Gungol dipped his shoulder and flexed his mighty arm. Burly Cowstrap gave out an odd cry as he was knocked backwards off his feet and tumbled to the sand. The crowd erupted with laughter.

“Stupid bastard smith!” snapped Liepol Duxe as he rushed in to distract the troll from Cowstrap. “Thinks he can take on a troll single-handed, does he?” Duxe’s blade flashed and the troll snarled and defended itself with its shield.

“Sorry, Sergeant, mistimed my rush,” said Cowstrap as he regained his feet and moved clear.

Gungol swung his sword and Duxe dodged. Rebak of Marneri thrust in. Cowstrap moved back into the fray.

Behind them steel rang on steel with tremendous force as Puxdool and the Broketail clashed. They went belly to belly, shield to shield, and then Puxdool fell back. Bazil roared his own challenge, glad to have this opportunity to avenge poor Nessi. The troll circled.

Baz cut at him but Puxdool deflected well—the troll had skill with his sword. And for Bazil, this troll blade he held was too small for his usual heavy-handed attacking style.

The blades rang together again. Puxdool was quick, devilishly quick. He spun suddenly and Baz moved just in time to evade that knee cutter that had been used to destroy poor Nessi. He chopped down as he turned away, and his backhand deflected the troll’s blade and almost ripped it loose. The shields smashed together again and Puxdool exerted all his strength against the leatherback.

Puxdool was strong, but not as strong as Puxdool thought, decided Baz, who gave ground deliberately, as if overpowered. Puxdool was a new kind of troll and quick and lethal with a sword, but Puxdool retained many of the usual troll weaknesses. Now he became overconfident. The swords came together again and again; Puxdool stamped forward swinging with a will, hand over hand, and then swung in with his shield to knock the dragon off balance and force an opening for his sword.

Bazil gave ground at first and then dug in his heels suddenly; Puxdool swung in hard and Baz deflected the weight of the blow with his shield. Puxdool stumbled a step too far and exposed his neck and shoulder to Bazil’s overhand.

The troll wore heavy shoulder armor, otherwise he would have been finished there and then. Furthermore it was only a troll blade, six feet long, no dragon sword.

As it was, Puxdool’s shield arm went numb and he backed away from the circling blade in the dragon’s powerful fist with a wail of dismay. Puxdool had been hurt— this had not happened often in Puxdool’s short, brutal life. In addition Puxdool knew that he had been tricked, and he hated that. Puxdool’s small vicious mind became suffused with rage.

Beside him Izmak cut and thrust at the purple-green of Hook Mountain, who had thrown down the human-made things and returned to his normal wild method of combat.

He roared and lunged, but he was mindful of the sharp sword in the troll’s hand. It gave the troll an advantage in reach—the purple-green roared and sprang from side to side while pondering the question of how to get in and kill the thing without being stabbed with its blade.

The purple-green rushed in and swung a forearm tipped with claws; the troll defended with shield and then stabbed forward with sword. To evade the point the drake had to jump backwards, and he almost lost his footing and had to stagger back a few paces. Men scattered as he crashed through their ranks.

Relieved of the pressure, Izmak leaned over and thrust at Bazil, who deflected with sword. Izmak was a maroon troll, a known quantity for the young leatherback. Maroons were strong but they lacked the speed of this Puxdool.

Baz took Izmak shield to shield, held him steady and beat down the troll’s sword with a hard cut. He drove home, but the sword was too light—it slid away on the troll’s chest plate and did not penetrate.

Izmak stumbled back, his chest still ringing from the blow. The dragon was very quick, quicker than anything he had faced except Puxdool.

The purple-green sprang forward again with a sudden rush, but the trolls put steel to his face and he stopped and backed off once more.

Gungol continued to duel with the men, who were keeping the other maroon extremely busy.

The crowd was on its feet, screaming anxiously at the trolls. Many could not understand why more trolls weren’t being sent in.

“Why do they risk the trolls like this?” they cried, and some railed against the ring managers.

“It is the Doom’s wish,” said someone.

“The Doom loves the games!” cried those who heard, and they raised their hands in salute to the black sphere high above in its aerie in the tower. The cries of loyalty turned into a roaring chant of submission to the Doom from a forest of raised arms and clenched fists.

Now Puxdool came on again, shield leading and sword flicking forwards. Bazil knocked away the sword; the shields clashed, but the troll was more cautious now and backed off and went with the sword again, slamming against Bazil’s shield.

Puxdool was fast, and Baz could barely keep his blade in front of the troll’s. His shield was taking a lot of punishment.

Again the purple-green rushed in but was driven back by Izmak. Bazil deflected, parried and retreated. The troll swung overhand and Baz met his blade with a ringing crash. The sword in his hand was shattered, breaking above the hilt.

Bazil roared an oath and dropped the useless thing. Puxdool let out a snort of relief and surged in again.

Baz stumbled backwards.

He felt the wall of the arena at his back.

He slid to his left, keeping his shield up.

Puxdool had abandoned Izmak and Gungol, who were busy enough with the men and the worry of the wild drake that danced about them seeking an opening.

Baz got away from the wall, but kept moving backwards.

The crowd roared its appreciation and rose to its feet.

Puxdool was doing the job! Puxdool was the mightiest! All was fine and well in Tummuz Orgmeen and the filthy dragon would soon be slain!

Once again Baz ran up against a barrier. He was against the doors at the end of the arena just below the keep.