Part 4
Melee-Magthere
I do not recall what I originally felt as I ascended the stone stairway and beheld Tier Breche for the first time. There was certainly some anticipation, but I remembered – or fancied I remembered – feeling boxed-in, somehow imprisoned, from all that atmosphere. Students for Sorcere and Melee-Magthere were wandering up at their own pace, and once at the main square, were generally milling around whilst still being able to keep an eye on most of their potential classmates. The tension was such that I nearly expected the air to hum in low menace. No females around – their enrolment date was somewhat later, such that they would not have to rub shoulders with all the dirty male masses.
My classmates – those who seemed to be warriors, anyway – looked unremarkable – all of normal sizes, no dramatic scars or anything of the sort. No actual House insignias that I could recognize from sight, which meant none of them were of the top ten Houses – my memory could not contain every single insignia in this city, so I just retained the important ones.
What had Soelisk said of this? Some advice… ah yes, 'Try not to make fast acquaintances within your year.' He had impressed on me the importance of this, due to the Melee at the end-of-year, where sentimental ties would be a hindrance. Soelisk had a rare sense of perception, such that he often had priorities that seemed strange at first but made sense later, and I had understood quickly that it was this perception which kept him around the House, not through any real sense of convenience, though indeed that had some part to it. He was the one male that the Matron spoke to often on matters of the House, and though she gave no outward indication she did listen to his opinion. And the information from his private spy network, but that was less well-known.
None of them did look friendly, nor would I have expected them to. None were visibly armed – most knew that their weapons would be confiscated anyway. This year's batch of students was more sensible than quite a few other years that I had to face later in my life. It seems to be a current trend to bring weapons, despite the fact that they would be confiscated and the Masters would have to waste time searching the armed student in case of concealed items.
A bell, its tone deep and rich, like the hue of wine – we were to go. I followed the group heading towards the ugly Melee-Magthere building. Whoever did the architecture design must have been on drugs.
Some Masters met us at its high, unornamented gates and read out the roll, on which we acknowledged our existence with a raised hand. Their faces were impassive, with the sharp eyes and curious poise of experienced warriors, even if some wore robes instead of armour. All were armed, weapons sheathed in expensive-looking scabbards, wands half-concealed by the folds of their robes or surcoats, all of which bore the plain but impressive insignia of the Warrior School. Their bracers gleamed dully in grey, dead hues, reflecting the faint light from Sorcere's mage-illuminations.
So far, nothing interesting. Soelisk doubted they could teach me much further about the Dance, though he said they would have points worth listening to involving group fighting. Dark Elves have an exhilarating idea of fighting in groups that require you to pay attention to both the enemy and your allies, since both could switch sides at any moment.
When we passed inside to the iron darkness of Melee-Magthere, all the Masters save one wandered off into the many arched, wide corridors, and this one waited until all of us were quiet until he began his speech. I have successfully managed to forget what he said, so here is an edited version of my own speech to first-years when I later became a Master – the content would have been basically the same anyway.
"Welcome all of you twenty-five year olds to Melee-Magthere. If you are all careful and listen to the Masters, then you will not be included in the dropout rate as a statistic. Since as yet we do not allow commoners – perhaps in some future time – to join, there are few enough of you such that we will be watching all of you very closely. One small slip and you will provide us with momentary amusement as we watch you try to crawl out of the drider pits. No weapons, so those of you who still have concealed weapons drop them now, or if we find them we will force you to eat them."
"I give this speech every year and every year some smart-vith with more muscles than brains will try to keep weapons anyway. Drop them now. No one? Very well… You all know what will happen next – you will be tested for individual aptitude in the weapon of your choice. We do not care how you fare; you will still have to go through rudimentary weapons training in all weapons until you are allowed to specialize later, as I am sure you are aware of. It is just a matter of individual consideration, and will not be taken into account for grading."
"You are not to hold back or try any funny tricks with concealed weapons. We will not be amused, even though we concede that 'funny tricks' are a staple of ordinary Dark Elven fighting. No magic, no potions or suchlike aids, we just need to see how long you can last against a Master. A priestess is standing by to heal you after the fight, so do not worry, we will not make any lasting, serious damage so as to spare her time."
"If you manage to beat the Master, then that would be unusual but not extraordinary. Do not expect special treatment through your ten-year stay, or special consideration for the future post of Master. You are evaluated in part for that on your ninth and last year in Melee-Magthere based on your performance in Melee-Magthere through that time, as well as your later performance as a member of a patrol."
"After the test you will be briefed again as a group when all of you have finished. Any questions? No? Good."
We were shown into a blank, square waiting room with benches lining opposite walls. There was a desk in the centre and a single chair – a mage sat in it. The mage and the Master exchanged polite nods, and then the Master gestured to one of us at random, and led him out of the other door in the room.
"All of you should know what I am here for," the mage began crisply. His voluminous robes were draped over his arms in such a way as to allow us to see clearly the infrared signature of metal heated by body-warmth – bracers of a Master. "I am a Master of Sorcere, and I am here to keep an eye on you. I will not tolerate any tricks you may care to pull on your fellow students so as to 'improve' your general 'ranking'. There is no ranking involved. I have no idea why you students take this fight seriously…" the mage thought a little, "Probably some latent warrior code of pride," he muttered to himself.
"Now, I'm going to quietly meditate. If you try something on your classmates, I will know, and you will instantly be teleported to the drider pits. I hear they have not fed for a week, so you will be extremely welcome to try the same trick on them."
We were very quiet after that.
**
I got bored quickly, and had to fight against dozing off, so I merely kept moving so as to keep my arms and legs from freezing up. Nothing too obvious – just twitchy rotations of the ankle and such. Cramps would not be helpful once it was my turn.
The Master kept coming back in uneven intervals to pick the next student, increasing the air of nervousness in the room as each left, until the place was nearly empty and it was my turn. I followed him a little uneasily out, into a smaller chamber where there were a few racks of well-kept weapons – halberds, scimitars, daggers, spears, pikes, swords of varying lengths, double-bladed swords, axes, maces, flails, warhammers, crossbows and such – all gleaming in the dull light, unadorned, obviously unmagical. I had not come in any armour, having been forewarned that armour would just be confiscated – there were a few suits of different armour on the opposite wall, heavy on their stands. Shields of diverse sizes were neatly stacked on the ground.
"Pick your favourite weapons or a weapon and a shield and take your time, and pick a suit of armour. If the rest of your clothing is not magical, you can keep them on."
"They are not," I said, showing him my gloves, palm open. Normal, leather gloves, slightly shiny and worn from use – normal, hard leather boots. No cloak. Tunic and pants. He nodded.
I picked armour first, ignoring the order of his words – it made more sense, as armour could be put on, while since there were no scabbards in sight the weapons would have just been deadweight. I removed my belt, pulled the padded shirt over my head, nose wrinkling at the rank scent of sweat, then the dryly-clinking chain-mail, then replaced my belt over the chain-mail. Shoulder-plates were unnecessary, so I left them, and picked fitting guards with free-moving joints for my upper arms and lower arms. Light metal scales had been affixed to them, allowing some protection against slashes. Leggings made of hardened leather, all unadorned.
No helmet – it hemmed in peripheral vision, even though it allowed for heavy hits on the head. I had long decided that if I ever let anyone close enough to hit me critically on the head, I probably deserved to die. The young have quite a store of pride.
I could feel the Master watching me, and the hair on my neck was standing, but I ignored the uncomfortable sensation.
Walking around for a little bit to allow the armour to settle, I then went over to the rack and picked two swords, weighing them in my hands, then put a dagger into the sheath of my boots, steeled myself, trying not to let the excitement show. "I am ready."
The Master nodded, face neutral, and opened the next door. He stepped into the darkness within for a moment and said something to a few infrared figures, and they left, save one. He nodded to me, indicating that I should enter.
"Tell the Master inside exactly what you took from here," he said, "If he can tell you are concealing something, he might use tricks of his own on you."
The sound of the door closing behind me, firmly, with a quiet squeal from the hinges that spoke of a need for oil – that I remember clearly.
**
"Your name?" the Master inside asked. He held a lance in an at-ready position somewhat off-centre in a large room – the air smelt cleaner and without the confined mustiness of the previous rooms. His voice was sharp and penetrating, though the fluidity of the words suggested that he had repeated himself several times. I wondered if he was tired, or if indeed he had been fighting at all. It was hard to tell – the infrared signature suggested that he was fresh, but I knew of Priestess spells which could for a short time stave off exhaustion.
"Zaknafein Do'Urden."
"Have you had previous experience in weapons?"
"Some."
"I see. Are the two swords your weapons of preference?"
"They are."
"You just took swords and armour from the room?"
"No, I also took a dagger."
"Do you have other proficiencies?"
"Yes."
The first attack was without warning – no change in the intensity of the heat around his fingers that would have suggested a tightening of the grip, or a shift in the stance. One of his hands flicked up, and I instinctively leaped to the side and kept running. Distant sounds of something metal hitting the walls could be heard – knives or darts. Knives – the rattle of their landing on the ground was too loud for darts. Not straight for him, but in an erratic line, watching his heat and the fingers – dodge again, and more sounds against the wall, and I was on him, no battle cry or fancy leap, swords low, one up in a slash.
The lance clashed with that in a tight parry, and then the Master neatly sidestepped and followed-through in one graceful move which sent the bladed end of the lance rushing towards my temple. Parried, and the other end of the lace came for my hip. I tried to slip my sword past his defence as I dodged, but he knocked it away with a whirl of steel, but I was waiting for this, concentrating on a hand, and as he did so my other sword snaked through and drew a harsh line on his bracer – a metal one, unfortunately, though not a Master's bracer – that was probably kept somewhere safe. I had been aiming for his fist, but he had seen that coming.
We danced back from each other into a safe distance, as if on cue. The shriek of metal-on-metal lingered in the air.
A beat, then he charged, lance still in both hands, in a careful downward swing that was followed with a tight upward one as I dodged. Parried that, then had a close one as he quickly reversed the lance and set the other end on me, his hands shifting, as I leaped back he thrust, aiming for the stomach. I had to sweep this away with some strength, nearly lost balance, and then had to try and keep things together under a barrage of quick stabs, one of which managed to cut my face above my ear. Managed not to panic, recovered, and tried a few futile counters.
Looking back now, I rather believe that the 'first fight' of Melee-Magthere was probably just a session for Masters to drive their dominance into students, although a report of each student's performance was submitted to Arach-Tinilith, and a copy to the House of the student.
I ignored the sharp taste of rising despair that I felt in the presence of a seemingly better fighter. He was more experienced, I was young. Youth made no real difference. So what did I have as an advantage? Two swords were more manoeuvrable than a lance. Faster, though a bit harder on reach and defence, and he probably knew this, which was why he was attacking so furiously. Use his momentum?
I purposely made a high slash that he could block and turn, then ducked the other sword over, and as he whirled again into the tight fan of metal I let it follow the arc up quickly instead of freezing and allowing it to clash against the lance as I had been doing so earlier, which was a customary response to a parry – clash and recover, clash and recover, not follow…
A hiss and an intake of breath, and we were again some distance from each other, watching warily. Infrared betrayed that his shoulder was bleeding from a cut. I couldn't tell how deep. No self-congratulation allowed, or I would drop my guard.
He tried to use the reach of the lance now, but I knew I would lose for surety if I just defended instead of trying to get up close, so I dodged the slices, felt the blade deflect past the side of my chain shirt, and I was close, so close I could see the bright red centres of his eyes in the infrared, and as I stabbed for one the lance reversed, knocking it aside, my right arm awkwardly pushed to the limit from my shoulder, compensated, allowed me to move my weight to my left leg and slam my right heel into his stomach. A near thing, but I recovered my balance in time to go at him while he was down.
He went down, lance arcing for my legs in a quick blur, anticipated, blocked, and he rolled as a sword dived, striking a spark from the stone ground, growled as my boot came down hard on a hand, but didn't let go, instead rolling again and swinging to block a downward slash. I considered discarding a sword to halt his lance with the free hand, and rejected the idea as I dodged a kick. Hard arcs from the lance, numbing to block – force was magnified at the blade-ends – compensated for trying to block near his grips, where he would suffer…
A stab, easily blocked, ah, a mistake! Wide opening, he can't possibly recover in time…
A sharp click – to my surprise the lance snapped into two, and from the clean ends two blades flicked out, one blurred forward even as I tried to scramble back….
Dull impact then a sharp pain – just under the left lung. Definitely bleeding freely – the lance must have been adamantite or better, to have cut through the chain shirt. The Master got up quickly, one hand touching his neck where I'd managed to nick him, and then he probably ascertained – correctly – that it was just a shallow cut. Glanced at me, realized I wasn't yielding, and attacked. Style had changed – now with two blade-things, like tiny versions of double-blade swords.
A wide swipe, which I ducked with protest from my wound, and I managed to parry the other, before we were facing each other again. That had been a test, I knew, to see how badly I was injured, so I pretended to stumble a little, moving my right hand slightly towards the wound as if in a natural move to try and clutch it that was restrained by my weapon. While doing that, I managed to move the sword into a better, higher position without causing suspicion.
I realized quite early that Masters and students alike normally make the same mistake. Seeing their opponent nearly down for the count, euphoria and relief normally cause their guard to be let down for a moment – unwanted thoughts stray across their minds, contemplation about what to do after the fight, how to dispose of the body, that sort of thing…
This Master did not make as glaring a mistake as others I knew later, but his next charge was faster and quick, trying to make an end to the fight. As I stumbled he darted forward, blades raised like striking talons, I dodged one while bringing down the flat of my higher sword sharply on his knuckles. With a curse, he dropped it involuntarily, then swore again as he found that the other sword had scissored over my arm on his now-unarmed side, edge now parallel to the top of his lip. Any move and in my pain-hazed condition I'd have gladly opened another mouth for him.
A quick follow through allowed due to his hesitation allowed me to somewhat belatedly point the second sword at a more lethal area – his neck.
"Do you give?" I panted. No exhilaration allowed – he might have another trick, and this time I had to be ready – he was cornered, and he might do something horrible.
A pause, then a rueful, "I give. Lower your weapons and follow me."
If he'd asked me to walk in front of him, I definitely would have thought him yet wanting a fight. Behind him was fine. I walked as well as I could without staggering to the next door, where the priestess inside took two searching looks at us then started the healing spells on me first, as I clearly had the more serious wounds.
"Well done," the gaunt Master inside that room told me, as he bent over parchment on a small desk. The flat tone to his voice betrayed neither approval nor disapproval. He wrote something on the parchment, and mage-light drew spidery shadows on the wall that seemed to dance along with the scratchy, skittering sound of the quill-tip over the paper. I sneaked a look at the Master I had defeated. There was mild resignation on his face, but to my relief, no resentment. Later I realized I was lucky that day – Master Bae'lan, whose name I learnt later and whom I had fought, was not one who held grudges. Some of the other Masters got very nasty whenever they were defeated.
The strange itchy feeling of a wound closing ceased, and I was left with the sticky sensation of blood on my padded shirt and tunic. The priestesses wordlessly started on Bae'lan.
Two Masters entered the room, spoke quietly with Bae'lan, then one said something that made all of them chuckle except the priestess, before entering the fighting room. Why did more than one have to enter the room, I wondered?
Several answers, but the most probably being that it was uncertain to the last who was going to fight who. Or perhaps it was just some strange custom of Melee-Magthere, which I later realized was full of odd traditions. I looked around this room – it held decorations on the walls, unlike the previous rooms. Mainly framed documents, and one simple tapestry of a crossbow with evil-looking bolts. The colour was interesting, bright blues on the bolts contrasting with the dull sheen of the…
I realized belatedly that Bae'lan and the Master at the table were staring at me. I gave them a blank look.
"Your armour and weapons," Bae'lan explained, pointing at the racks in this room. The sets of armour here were mostly bloodied, especially the padded shirts, and after I mumbled an apology I added my set to them, and left the swords and dagger on the rack. There was nothing available to clean them with, anyway.
As I left the place to the next waiting room, I could feel them looking at my back, and it made the space between my shoulder-blades itch.
The Master who was supposed to brief us in this room looked up when I entered, as did all the waiting students who had finished. "Did you win?" He asked. There was only slight curiosity in his voice, as if he had asked for my name.
"Yes," I said, careful to keep all pride out of my tone and avoid his eyes, understanding, in a moment, some of the social politics involved in Melee-Magthere. I sat down as quietly as I could. There was a snort from his direction, but no other reply – the students shifted a little, and as I surreptitiously looked amongst them, I could discern none who returned my gaze with the feeling of a fellow victor.
The arrogance in me rose then, and I allowed myself a fleeting, self-congratulatory smile, but when I glanced at the Master guiltily, I was slightly – and oddly - disappointed to see that he hadn't noticed. Leaning back on the wall, I decided that Melee-Magthere could prove interesting.