Aren't you going to help your friend, Ryle? Tarran groaned.

We knew it, both of us-he was bait again. Are you afraid? Are you afraid you won't be fast enough? Or brave enough? Are yo u frozen there, Ryle Sworder? My belly churned with the fear he accused me of; my hands shook so that the arro w I tried to nock rattled against the bow. I'll give you the chance you didn't have the courage to take for your father. Cl aw laughed as he wove two nightmares into one. Run for the dwarf, Ryle Sworder-I'll give you a co unt. "Ryle! Don't!" cried Tarran, cried the bait. "Don't!" I tried to place the arrow again, and cut my hand on the steel head. Blood ran d own my arm. I'd sent one arrow into the beast's mouth, another to wound him near the eye. He was hurt , but he was a long way from dying. This futile arrow of mine couldn't harm the beast. With the voice of winter, Claw hissed: The man's got no more courage than the bo y, does he? The boar killed your father while you stood quaking, Ryle Sworder. Things don't seem much different all these years later. In Tarran's glittering eyes, in his hollow pallor, I saw sudden understanding an d swift despair. The dragon laughed, seeing into both hearts. Tarran Ironwood! Old friend! Do you suppose he'll be calling this latest cowardice a 'hunting accident,' too? Tarran got to one knee, tried to get his good leg under him to rise. When he cou ldn't, he crawled, elbow and knee, elbow and knee again, an agonizing progress. He didn't get but a yard before he fell. That dragon had the cold soul of a cat; he liked to play with prey. Laughing, he spread his wings, fanning the air. The stench of his feast filled the air with death-reek. Shadows skittered all over the lair and some magic-or guilty terror-changed every patch of darkness into the gh ost of my father. And the bones littering the ledge were his, the blood staining the lair, even Ta rran's panting groans as he tried to get to the stairs. It was sweat or tears running on my face now. It felt like blood. It was going t o happen again. As my father had died, so would Tarran die, killed by my fear. Or, as Tarran's kins men had, I would be killed taking the bait the dragon offered, the chance of saving Tarran's life. You are helpless, Ryle. You have always been. Now Claw's voice was hollow, like a ghost's. Helpless, useless, and it wouldn't have mattered if you had seen the boar in tim e. No puny arrow from your bow would have stopped it. Helpless! Utterly. Then, as now. And my puny arrows, the honed steel tips, wouldn't hurt C law, but he could snatch Tarran up and dash him to death before ever I could reach him. There was no way to win this cruel game, as there had been no way to stop the boar fifteen years ago. Fear drained away from me in one sudden rush. Shadows were shadows again, and no ghost was here to haunt me. Forgiveness is that achingly swift and final.

I turned to change my aim. Claw stopped laughing. In the silence I heard Tarran' s labored breathing. I sighted down the sure, straight shaft, dead center on the dragon skull glitter ing in its jeweled garb. Swift, I caught the edge of the beast's unguarded thought. Flame! So had his mate been named, the copper she-dragon who'd shone like a blaze, like flash and glare and, in the light of the moons, like shimmering golden fire. And if my aim was t rue, my arrow would strike the brittle relic and turn it into a pile of gems and bone slivers. Claw and I both knew that. "Tarran, " I said, like a soldier snapping an order. "Come here. " Elbow and knee, he crawled again, and it seemed like forever till he touched the first step with his hand. Claw rumbled. Fat drops of acid spilled down into the lair, hissing. But t hat was an empty threat, a useless gesture. If once that corroding slaver came so close as to spl ash near Tarran, I would loose my arrow. Claw knew that, and the knowledge was like an iron shackle on him as he watched Tarran make a painful way up, one blood-wet step at a time, bracing on o ne hand, dragging one leg, sweat running on him as if he were a man in a rainstorm.