Cormyr_ a novel - Ed Greenwood [17]
Iliphar's entire body was wracked with pain. He clutched the staff, but could not rise. His legs, lying at odd angles to his torso, would no longer obey his mind's commands.
The dragon's head snaked down once more, jaws agape.
Drawing on the last of his strength, Iliphar surged upward, using the staff as a crutch, and leapt forward into the jaws of the great creature. He shoved the staff upright, into the dragon's mouth, the wide nob of its base jammed into the lower inside gum. The delicately carved bird at the top shattered as it scraped the roof of the purplish beast's mouth and dug into tender flesh.
Thauglor reared back in pain, giving the elf lord the moment's respite he needed to roll free of his attacker's maw. The pain was returning to his legs, but Iliphar managed to rise unsteadily to one knee.
The dragon thrashed, trying to dislodge the staff crammed into his mouth. Thauglor tried to pull it out with a taloned finger, but only succeeded in driving the shattered tip farther into the roof of his mouth. His tongue lolled to one side, and great tears dribbled down the black dragon's cheeks.
The great acid pouches in his throat swelled, and Iliphar realized that the creature was going to melt the obstruction loose. Knowing the nature of his staff, he dropped to the ground and flattened himself there.
The dragon spat a great gout of watery blackness from his throat, bathing the golden staff in its hot sludge. The staff began to glow, then, weakened, slowly bent under the pressure of the dragon's jaws. Finally the elf lord's staff snapped.
And the dragon's throat exploded. The enchantments within the staff were discharged in a single great fireball. For the first and only time in his long life, Thauglor the Black breathed flames.
The force of the blast drove the dragon backward, and the Black Doom thrashed on the ground, smoke spilling from his mouth and nostrils. The sight was too much for the red, and she bolted, rising from the forest like a frightened pheasant, then wheeling and barreling northward toward the distant peaks. The blue held his ground but seemed to pull in on himself, as if he, too, expected a sudden and merciless attack.
Iliphar pulled himself slowly to his feet. He heard movement behind him and tried to wave off the elves from the tower. Somebody pressed another staff, this one gnarled and wooden, into his hands. He did not refuse it, but used the gnarled staff as a crutch. He looked down involuntarily. One leg was hopelessly mangled beyond all but magical remedy, and the other felt as if it had been shattered in a dozen places. He staggered down the steps to where Thauglor lay, belly up, smoke streaming from his burned jaws. The dragon's eyes were wide and wreathed by the smoke.
The elf lord did not even make for his sword, for fear that the effort would be too much. Instead, he put the tip of the wooden staff against the dragon's head and asked, "Give up?"
The dragon hacked a great cloud of black smoke up from his gut. "You weren't supposed to use magic, technically."
"You weren't supposed to use your breath weapon. Technically." He did not move the staff. Let the dragon think this was another magical staff, as deadly as the first.
The dragon responded with another great cough, and Iliphar added, "It was your own breath that caused the magical damage. You know that. We elves have honor. Do you dragons?"
Thauglor, the Black Doom, gave a weak nod and barked for the remaining blue. Iliphar took a half-step back as the two conversed briefly in the Auld Wyrmish tongue of the dragons. Then the dragon turned to Iliphar again.
"We dragons have honor," said the black, the last tendrils of smoke wreathing his bead. "And we honor our