Cormyr_ a novel - Ed Greenwood [13]
In one hand the elf bore a golden staff, its haft twisted to resemble a heavy rope, its tip adorned with another purple stone, this often carved into the shape of a soaring bird. The sash that gathered in the cassock at his slim waist bristled with wands along one hip, each wand in its own sheath. These battle wands had made the warrior mage famous among elves even before he rose to power. On his other hip the mage wore a thin elven sword, a long, narrow blade with a graceful haft and pommel.
Faint glowing auras surrounded some of the wands, seeping through their sheaths. They were the reason the best warriors of the elven House of Amaratharr bowed to this slender, still young wearer of green. His was the power that had brought them victory in battle after battle with the strongest foe they'd ever faced, the dragonkin of dread Thauglor, and his fellow warriors all knew it. That was why he'd been chosen for this meeting, as well as for his fearless demeanor and quick wit.
The dragon, for his part, was well aware of the elf's lack of fear, but dignity demanded a fitting entrance. He had met this one before, and it would not do for the lord and master of the forest to come crawling like a lizard to any humanoid, regardless of what power the small creature might wield. Even-or especially-this small one, so mighty in his magic. The dragon towered over the one who strode to meet him, the elf appearing like nothing more than a small green dot against a living wall of black and purple.
The two smaller dragons, one red, one blue, flanked the great black-scaled beast a respectable few yards behind their liege. They were younglings, newly out of their shell, their colors as bright as the forest around them. That, too, was a sign of power from the dragon. He confidently chose inexperienced youths as his seconds.
"Iliphar Nelnueve," said the largest dragon in a booming voice, "who is called Lord of the Scepters."
"Thauglorimorgorus," replied the elf, bowing slightly, "who is called Thauglor the Mighty and Thauglor the Black Doom."
The dragon beckoned with one wing, then the other. "Gloriankithsanus." The blue made a solemn bob of his neck. "Mistinarperadnacles." The red made a jerky, coltish nod as well, her eyes already scouting the surrounding woods for elven ambushers. "Did you bring your witnesses?"
Not seconds, thought the elf lord, but witnesses. "They are within the tower and await my command."
"You have good cause to summon me to this parley?" asked Thauglor, a warning rumble behind his precise and polite words.
"Ask, not summon," Iliphar returned calmly. "I appreciate your coming, for we have need to discuss matters of our two peoples. I trust you are well."
"As well as can be expected," said the dragon as calmly, "given the continual battles between our two kindreds. I trust the wounds you acquired at our last meeting have fully healed."
Despite himself, the elf touched the jagged scar that crossed his face from temple to chin, the only mark that marred his otherwise smooth skin. It was a souvenir of his last encounter with Thauglor, a reminder that even proud elf lords should think twice before entering into battle with the Black Doom.
The elf ran a finger along the scar, hesitated when he saw the slow, toothy spread of the dragon's smile. The elf lord had flinched first, after all.
"Our healing spells are sufficient," Iliphar said steadily. "I trust that draconian curative spells have similarly undone the damage inflicted on you?"
The dragon's fang-studded smile grew broader. "Damage? Oh, a few scales lost, and a bit of blood,