Part 4

Most Important

            "Any progress?"

            Zaknafein shrugged.  "His technique is improving, but he insists on keeping several bad habits.  Many fighters who believe themselves of unsurpassable standards are most resistant to blunt teaching."

            Artemis Entreri, premier assassin of Calimport, looked up from his prone position at the two dark elves scrutinizing him and wished he were dead.  It wasn't the first time, either – training with Zaknafein was simply a long, arduous process of discipline, quick lessons, and very painful fights.  It had come to the point where he'd wondered whether Drizzt's famous accounts of his life growing up in Menzoberranzan had been embellished over  time in the dark elven ranger's mind – surely the elf he'd fought intermittently over the years until they'd decided to simply ignore each other couldn't have beaten the one currently poking at his bruised ribs with a booted foot.  Drizzt had not been this frightening as an opponent.

Or perhaps the old warrior had been keeping back some of his skill in Drizzt's training – young as he was, Drizzt would not have known if Zaknafein had been holding back, and confidence was an important part of a good warrior's psyche.  To fight someone who seemed supernaturally undefeatable on first contact – and have said someone as his only opponent for years - could have had dangerous consequences, and Zaknafein might have 'let' Drizzt 'win', a few times.

            On the other hand, Zaknafein considered Entreri 'old enough' to learn in whatever way he thought best.  And Entreri was definitely 'old enough' to know when someone was purposefully not doing his best.

            "Do not be too hard on him," Jarlaxle said, with a wicked, somewhat patronising grin, "He is considered quite skilled for his kind, resistant or not."

            Zaknafein glanced up at Jarlaxle accusingly.  "You were his companion for a time.  He could have learnt something."

            "I do not believe he can afford my teaching," Jarlaxle grinned.  "And yet here you are, a better teacher than I, offering your services for free.  I do not know about you, old friend, but such generosity grates on my spirit."

            "Jarlaxle…" Entreri managed, though due to the fact that all the air had just been kicked out of him a few moments ago, the warning only managed to sound like ineffectual gasping.

            "Everyone changes, mercenary." Zaknafein said, extending Entreri a hand and hauling him none-too-gently to his feet. 

            Jarlaxle chuckled, his gaze intense.  "And you not at all?  To think just a week ago you were akin to a bloodthirsty, rabid creature…"

            Zaknafein simply stared at him coldly, jaw working nearly imperceptibly, as if considering certain rather violent options, so Entreri quickly intervened before anything could turn ugly and the ever-present-in-the-mind Kimmuriel showed up.  "Jarlaxle… why did you come in, anyway? You've never, er, checked in on these training sessions before."

            "Is concern for the welfare of my old friend not enough reason?" Jarlaxle feigned hurt, winking at him.  Zaknafein growled deep in his throat, making Entreri wince mentally.

            "Jarlaxle, can I speak with you privately for a moment?" Entreri said, as calmly as he could.  "Zaknafein… I'd be back soon."

            "Fine," Zaknafein said, turning his back on the both of them.  The ice in his tone was extremely biting, and Entreri had to bite down a sigh. 

            Once outside, in the corridors, and more or less out of dark elvish senses, Entreri turned on Jarlaxle.  "What in the Nine Hells was that for?"

            "What was?" Jarlaxle asked innocently.

            "You were provoking him!"

            "I always provoke him," Jarlaxle said mildly, "And he always gets provoked – but except for one instance I can think of, he never acts on it.  Not… normally."

            "Was that what it was? A test?"

            "You could call it that," Jarlaxle said enigmatically.  Entreri forced his own not-inconsiderable temper down.  Jarlaxle had only ever found Entreri's occasional outburst of temper – whenever directed at himself – amusing, nothing more.

            "Don't you think it's a good sign that he's normal?"

            "More or less."

            "What do you mean?"

            "I normally charge for information, you know," Jarlaxle said, grinning merrily at the increasingly frustrated assassin.  "Though I believe I would waiver the fee due to our long-standing friendship."

            "Just spit it out."

            "What a crude term for my distribution of such gems of wisdom.  Well then… Zaknafein is not above acting what he believes others expect of him, so they do not ask him too many difficult questions, nor has he ever been."

            "What…? So you mean… nothing changed?" Entreri asked, greatly disappointed.  And he'd actually thought that… destroying the mask actually jerked Zaknafein a little out of his self-destructive mire.

            "I am not quite sure of that," Jarlaxle said mildly, "Since Zaknafein is a dark elf who has seen various types of battles, he knows quite well what psionist's touch feels like, and he is extremely likely to get upset with Kimmuriel if Kimmuriel tried anything on him."

            "Didn't Kimmuriel try to 'speak' with him the last time?"

            "Hmmm.  Despite what you might have thought of that endeavour… Kimmuriel was actually rather rudely routed from Zaknafein's mental space.  He was quite embarrassed about it."

            "A psionist of that power?"

            "Oh yes.  Even a normal person, with adequate training, willpower or determination, can prove quite harmful for a psionist to try and manipulate or communicate with, actually." Jarlaxle smirked.  "You learn a lot when a psionist takes you as a master."

            Entreri grimaced at the obvious innuendo.   "So we can't use your pet mage to find out anything concrete."

            "In a nutshell – yes, which is why we have to rely on other methods."

            "And you would suggest…?"

            "I was going to see if he was still anything like his old self," Jarlaxle said as soothingly as he could, which immediately raised Entreri's hackles.  "Nothing very extraordinary."

            "If you hurt him…"

            "My, my, has it come to this extent already?" Jarlaxle pulled at his chin in an outrageous display of… knowing.  It was incredibly annoying.  Said temper outburst was beginning to bubble upwards.

            "What extent?" Entreri said, pretending at puzzlement. 

            "You two act like a married couple.  In a non-Dark Elven definition, of course."

            "I knew you were going to say that," Entreri muttered.  "Of late, you have grown over-fond of banal human phrases."

            "I find you humans extremely interesting," Jarlaxle said, tipping his hat with mocking courtesy to Entreri.  "This is one reason why I actually bothered to come all this way to help you, despite the danger, the inconvenience and the fact that I make a lot more money staying in the Underdark instead of playing around in the Surface."

            "I was wondering about that," Entreri sighed.  "Considering you did not even talk about compensation.  In any case, what we are…"

            "Is none of your business," Zaknafein's voice appeared, somewhere behind his head.  Entreri blinked, tried to turn around, but was stopped by the arms encircling his waist from behind possessively, and the hard, slithering rasps of chainmail pressed into his back, Zaknafein's scent of metal, leather, sweat and something darkly, rather indescribably attractive.  "Mercenary."

            One day, Zaknafein's – or even Jarlaxle's, on occasion – habit of walking around in a cat despite wearing armour was going to give Entreri a heart attack.

            "Ah, greetings, Zaknafein!" Jarlaxle said, unperturbed.

            "I grew tired of waiting," Zaknafein said, his voice now apparently calm.  "If you let that mercenary talk for as long as he wants to you will never be able to get anything useful done."

            Entreri could actually feel the tension, at least that emanating from Zaknafein – his grip tightened, until it nearly became uncomfortable.  Jarlaxle seemed to exude a good-natured-ness which was almost choking. 

            "I see I am interrupting your training…"

            "About time," Zaknafein muttered, just barely audible, but the rather rude remark was ignored blithely by Jarlaxle, who continued to take his leave in a dignified and suitably flowery manner.

            Zaknafein watched Jarlaxle coolly until the other dark elf was out of sight, before releasing Entreri, then he stalked back to the training hall.  "Whenever you're ready," he threw over his shoulder curtly. 

            Entreri wasn't sure, but he could just detect the faint hints of jealousy in the dark elf's stiff stride.

**

            "What do you think?" Jarlaxle asked Kimmuriel, once he located him within Bregan D'aerthe's makeshift headquarters.  The psionist was seated cross-legged on a divan in the even more makeshift library, where due to the current lack of existing shelves books were piled into unsteady towers, and parchments strewn into a corner, strange shadows thrown onto the stone walls by the light of a single candle.  Kimmuriel was apparently deep in meditation, but he replied, without opening his eyes. 

            "I think your friend is constructing a mask of his past self… as much as he can remember."

            "Which is not the smartest thing he can do," Jarlaxle mused.

            "May I ask why not?"

            "Because everyone changes," Jarlaxle felt mild pleasure at reusing Zaknafein's words in an appropriate but rather dissimilar context.  "And I believe he will soon find how painful it is to keep up masks that so obviously do not fit.  After all, today's person will always be slightly different from the one yesterday, and Zaknafein is trying to build something lost a long time ago, even when counted in years for an elf."
            Kimmuriel frowned.  "I do not believe I understand.  Is he so different from when he was… last alive?"

            "I would think so," Jarlaxle said, pacing, brow furrowed in thought.  "Sharper, and a lot less inconstant, slower to like or befriend.  This matter is most intriguing."

            Kimmuriel sighed, causing raised eyebrows from Jarlaxle and a pause in his stride.  "Is something wrong, mrann d'ssinss?"

            "I had hoped we would not remain long on the Surface," Kimmuriel admitted reluctantly.

            "You do not like the Surface?" Jarlaxle grinned.

            "You know I do not," Kimmuriel said, neutrally.

            "You are quite free to return to the Underdark before me," Jarlaxle said, glancing at the parchments, to make his point.  "What with all the work generated nowadays, Bregan D'aerthe would do well to have its chief lieutenant close at hand."

            "Bregan D'aerthe," Kimmuriel slipped to his feet with elegant grace, "Would do a lot better to have its Head close by."

            "Oh really," Jarlaxle asked, playfully, approaching Kimmuriel and cupping the mage's face gently with a hand, "Or is it just your own wish?"

            "I…" Kimmuriel slid his arms around Jarlaxle's neck as the other elf kissed him in a purposeful interruption, moaning as their tongues entwined, Jarlaxle's hand sliding down to encircle the back of Kimmuriel's neck, above the collar, with slender, gloved fingers, applying just the faintest of pressure on their tips as a reminder. 

            Jarlaxle chuckled at the sight of Kimmuriel's face, flushed with passion in the infrared.  "I think that answers the issue very well." He hooked his fingers in the collar and used that to draw Kimmuriel closer, and then whispered, "But I feel that you have other… pressing interests at the moment."

            "Please…"

            "Hmmm?" Jarlaxle slipped his other hand into Kimmuriel's robes, stroking, caressing, pausing briefly when Kimmuriel's hands tried to slide down to do their own exploration.  "Don't move."

            "No! Don't stop…"

            "Well then… I think I will play a little longer with you today before I take you." Jarlaxle's hand continued its frustrating movements.

            "Aah… do not torture me, please…"

Jarlaxle chuckled, feeling the psionists' own delicate hands fist in his cloak, deciding to take entertainment where he could find it.  "Beg me."

**

            "I think we should search Cloakwood more closely," Entreri said during breakfast.  Zaknafein – or occasionally, Sam – and Jarlaxle had taken to joining him for the meal.  Kimmuriel declined, preferring to stay as much as possible in the Bregan D'aerthe areas, which were darkened more or less to the elf's liking. 

            "You do not trust your scouts?" Jarlaxle asked, after a mouthful of toast.

            "I trust them, but they are more used to the cities, and may have overlooked something."

            "Or they could have been tampered with," Jarlaxle suggested. 

Sam looked up and nodded.  "Those wizards were definitely powerful.  They had… lots of wards and monsters and things."

            "As the lady says," Jarlaxle nodded, causing Sam to blush a little at her 'title'.  "We might have more luck."

            "But you might not have as much luck as your scouts," she pointed out.

            "I would like to think that your 'Uncle Artemis' and I learnt something useful in the time we spent wandering the wildernesses," Jarlaxle grinned at Entreri's scowl on his title.  "And we might just bring a mage of our own along."

            "Oh no," Entreri grimaced.  "You do know that Kimmuriel will hate me forever for this?"

            "I did not say I would bring Kimmuriel," Jarlaxle said innocently.  "But of course if he wishes to volunteer…"

            Jarlaxle's feigned innocence was beginning to get on Entreri's nerves. 

            "You know he's going to volunteer."

            "Actually I had other mages in mind," Jarlaxle said, with a wicked grin.  Entreri rather doubted the truth of that statement… for a moment.  Before he realized – rather obviously – that Kimmuriel was 'listening' in to their conversation, and just by keeping other mages 'in mind', the psionist was definitely already going to get jealous, by the very least. 

            Sometimes Jarlaxle was quite frightening.  The most irritating form of manipulation, in Entreri's opinion, and also the most upsetting, was the unavoidable, in-plain-sight one which at the same time did not generate blame on the manipulator.  The type that changed your mind, without using magic – just one of the various forms that Jarlaxle had mastered.  He would plant seeds in your mind, until you thought the ideas that formed were your own.

            "All right, bring whoever you wish," Entreri said, defeated.  "When do you want to leave?"

            "Whenever it is convenient.  Though Cloakwood, I believe, is quite a distance from Calimport.  You may have to charter a fast ship."

            "For those of means, there is another type of ship." Entreri said mildly.

            "Ah, the Floating Galleons?"

            "Those beautiful hovering ships just to the side of the harbour?" Sam chimed in.  "They have really beautiful sails! And the mages around them all look so… rich; I wonder why they rent out their ships!"

            "Just where have my employees been taking you? Entreri asked suspiciously.  "You can't normally get into proper sight of those things."

            "To stay rich, you generally have to work in some way or another, my lady," Jarlaxle grinned, ignoring Entreri. 

            "Listen to an old hand," Entreri murmured.  "And we might have less trouble taking dark elves onto one of those than onto a normal ship."

            "Perhaps a few illusions might be in order."

            "On a mage-run ship?"

            "Perhaps I will take one of my psionists along, then," Jarlaxle said, and try as he could, Entreri could find no inflection in that line that said anything about Jarlaxle's true intentions.  "Psionic magic is still quite rare on the Surface, even if its novelty, in the Underdark, is eroding quickly." He winked at Jarlaxle, the barb in his words evident.

            "You're really just as cruel as any other dark elf, in your own way, aren't you," Entreri sighed.

            "Every dark elf is cruel in some way or another," Jarlaxle said, examining one of his diatryma feathers with detached interest.  "Sometimes I feel it is the way we are.  You might wish to remember that."

            "Why?" Entreri asked, though he knew the answer.

            "Because you are getting far too involved with one of us.  And one can never cleave away from what one is."

**

            Sam, strangely enough, stayed in her form all the way to bedtime.  That was not much of a problem – Sam also slept with Entreri – though just to share warmth and companionship.  Entreri gathered that after having been kept more or less alone in a room for most of her life up till now, she was quite leery of being left alone, even for sleep.  Generally however, around this time, Zaknafein should have taken over… though Entreri did not really mind – at least Sam neither kicked nor spoke in her sleep.

            When asked, Sam shrugged.  "He's angry about something, again."

            "Sulking?"

            "Yeah, I think it has something to do with what Jarlaxle said just now, because he's denying that vehemently."

            "Can you pinpoint what exactly he is upset about?"

            Sam frowned.  "Something about… only being able to change on the surface?"

            "And why is that upsetting?"

            "I don't know," Sam said, rubbing her eyes and yawning.  "Sometimes I don't understand him."

            "Does he know Jarlaxle might have purposefully said that to get a rise from him? I've heard a lot of Jarlaxle's 'philosophies', and half of them contradict each other because he likes saying whatever is needed to be said at certain moments to achieve certain results.  Whether or not he believes in them is a moot point."

            "He says he's known Jarlaxle for a lot longer than you have," Sam grinned sheepishly.  "Actually he's being very rude now, but that's the general gist."

            "I'm not surprised," Entreri shrugged out of his armour to his undershirt and retrieved soft cotton pants from his sparse wardrobe, then walked off behind a screen to change.  When he emerged, Zaknafein, minus chainmail, shirt, boots… and just about everything except pants, was staring out of the window.  A wave of sulkiness seemed to engulf the room.

            Entreri was far too tired to engage in verbal fencing, so he simply sat behind Zaknafein, put his arms around the elf's waist gingerly, and rested his head against the other's shoulder and closed his eyes.  Zaknafein tensed slightly at contact, then relaxed, and they stayed that way until the assassin began to doze off.

            "Why do you put up with me?" Zaknafein whispered.  Half-asleep, Entreri nearly missed the line altogether.  As it was, it took him some moments to register the question – then he became quite awake.

            "What do you mean?"

            "Why do you let me stay with you?"

            "It's not like I have a…" Entreri was going to add 'choice', but decided in Zaknafein's current mood, it wouldn't be very diplomatic.

            Before he could come up with a better word, Zaknafein sighed.  "Is that it?"

            "N-no…"

            "I am not going to hurt you." A pause.  "Right now, I do not think that I can."

            Unarmed and unarmoured, Zaknafein could still cause a lot of bodily damage on will, but Entreri hoped he meant it another way.  Besides, Zaknafein had taken the assassin's stammer and hesitation quite the wrong way.

            Staring out over the city, Zaknafein added, "Do you want me to leave? I would appreciate a straight answer.  I have had my share of lies in the Abyss."

            There are different ways of gauging sanity, and Entreri wondered, if, at this instant, all the demons had done was make Zaknafein so aware, so 'sane', that he had by general standards surpassed any definition of madness.  What had they done to him?

            "I… don't want you to leave."

            "Why?"

            "I…" Entreri couldn't say it, couldn't say the words.  His upbringing? His philosophy? But all he could think of was the weakness. 

            An awkward pause later, Zaknafein said, "Well? Is it this?" He reached behind him, casually stroking along Entreri's inner thigh. Rather mortified, Entreri pushed the dark elf's hand away.

            "No!"

            "Really.  I thought you liked our… play."

            He was blushing now, he was certain.  "I… do, but it's not the reason why I don't want you to leave."

            "The jobs?"

            "It's not money either! Zaknafein…"

            "Why are you so patient? Why should you care? I am a dark elf – I cannot change my nature."

            "If this is about Jarlaxle…"

            Zaknafein continued as if he hadn't heard.  "I am not even normal, or alive, or anywhere familiar to me.  Just a demon's toy set free for their amusement.  For anyone's amusement.  I can't even die."

            "What?" Entreri frowned, and a growing, terrible realisation struck him.  "What did you try to do?"

            "It just heals, without even a scar to prove my will.  And even if I died, what then? I will return right where I started.  Right where all dark elves return, no matter how much they try to salvage their soul."

            "Zaknafein…"

            "Every freedom, even the freedom of death, is denied to us.  Does that explain our nature?"

            "Listen to me…"

            "When I seek the arms of sleep, all I see are nightmares."

            "You..!"

            "Maybe this is the dream.  Maybe I am still in the Abyss.  Maybe…" All further speculation stopped when Entreri, finally in frustration, pressed his mouth against the elf's to smother his words. Zaknafein blinked, and then responded, a little grudgingly. 

            "Zaknafein, I…" Entreri looked into the dark elf's eyes, and found he couldn't continue.  "I… it's nothing." Was that a flicker of disappointment, or resignation? "I…"

            "If everything is a dream," Zaknafein said, pulling his head close until their lips were nearly touching, "It does not matter.  As long as you are real."         

            "What did the demons make you see?" Entreri asked quickly, before Zaknafein could orchestrate matters such that they ended up not talking about anything important for the rest of the night.

            Zaknafein flinched backwards, and his expression became taut, wary.  "See?"

            "I know they did something to you," Entreri said quietly.  "And it can't be physical, because you probably don't respond well to that.  It can't be verbal, because you have a tendency to ignore whatever you don't like to hear.  So they must have made you see something.  What did they let you see?"

            Zaknafein looked away, face twisting, as if at some terrible memory. 

            "Zaknafein?"

            "I do not want to remember," the elf snapped, finally.  "Are you satisfied? I do not want to remember!"

            Entreri rather doubted Zaknafein had a choice in the matter.  "Whatever it was – was what drove you mad, wasn't it?"

            His earlier remark about Zaknafein's ability to ignore whatever was spoken to him came back to haunt him.  The dark elf was rather pointedly lying down on his side of the bed, ignoring him.  That in itself was an answer, of sorts.

            "Demons are adept at illusions," he offered, as a form of consolation.

            Zaknafein kept silent, until finally Entreri, giving up, slipped under the blankets to try and sleep.

            Then Zaknafein murmured, "It was no illusion."  But however Entreri attempted to get him to speak any further on the subject, the dark elf simply closed his eyes, and to all appearances – fell asleep, tumbling into darkening dreams.

**

            Maybe with you, I can find some consolation.

            But I will never have peace.

**

            The next day, Entreri waited until Zaknafein turned back to Sam, and his thieves had taken her off to whatever dastardly enterprise they normally embarked on, before relating the night's conversation to Jarlaxle.  Probably against his best interests, but Entreri had admitted to himself, a long time ago, that Jarlaxle was far smarter than he could ever become.

            Jarlaxle, despite all appearances, was a very good listener, and when Entreri had finished, he leaned back in his chair and seemed to think about it.  Either that or he was talking to Kimmuriel telepathically….

            The situation was just beginning to make Entreri feel nervous when Jarlaxle decided to speak up.  "So what are you going to do?"

            "I was hoping you could suggest something," Entreri said wryly.  "If he doesn't want to talk to me about it there is very little that I can do."

            "There is something else, is there not?"

            "What?"

            "You are afraid that if you manage to change whatever he has become back to 'normal' – he might try to kill himself, and this time, it would work."

            Entreri winced.  Jarlaxle's verbal arrow had found its mark.  "Well, what then?"

            "I have always felt that one's life should be one's own to dictate," Jarlaxle said mildly.  "Let him do whatever he wants with it."

            "Like you aren't above assassination," Entreri muttered.

            "Everything must be within limits," was the mercenary's blithe reply.  "And of course, they were interfering in how I wished to dictate my own life."

            "You just want me to let him kill himself?"

            "Why not? He is already doing it."

            "Surely, with enough help…"

            "Perhaps you are just being optimistic," Jarlaxle said rather patronisingly.

            "Are you going to help me find out what he 'saw', or not?" Entreri asked irritably.

            Jarlaxle seemed to ostensibly think about this, gloved fingers tenting in front of his nose.  "I do concede to a certain degree of curiosity.  Though despite what Zaknafein claims, whatever it was could just as likely have been illusion."

            "Do you think it's about Drizzt?"

            "No," Jarlaxle said, rather surprisingly.  "Zaknafein would know his son well enough such that he should be able to tell from an illusion – and of course, he would be expecting illusions about Drizzt – or his past life, enough to disregard them.  It is rather hard to psychologically torture an old Dark Elf, since torture is part of our… society.  Therefore, it must have been something else, and that makes me very interested indeed."

            "Any ideas how to get around looking at it?"

            "The most direct manner is to talk to my contacts in the Abyss…"

            "You have contacts in the Abyss?" Entreri asked, in disbelief.  Jarlaxle grinned.  Entreri sighed.  "Somehow, I'm not really that surprised."

            "There is, however, the matter of Cloakwood.  Do you want to delay that trip until this matter is resolved?"

            "I would rather have a relatively sane Zaknafein with me on a potentially dangerous trip."

            "But you have been living with the insane one for quite a while."

            "He has been somewhat more 'sane' lately, and I'd like it to remain that way."

            "Do you? You seem to get along much better with the other one," Jarlaxle remarked, with a wink.

            "What do you mean?"

            "Doesn't the other one spend more time with you, pay more attention to you?"

            "I…" Actually, that hurt, despite sounding as though Entreri was a pet.  "Would rather he got over his pain."

            "In finding out about it – you might worsen it," Jarlaxle mused, but seeing no reaction from Entreri other than that of determination, shrugged.  "Very well, I will see what I can do.  Though on the trip to Cloakwood, do you not think inviting his son along might be a good idea?"

            "Drizzt? Why?"

            "He is, after all, a ranger."

            For some reason, Entreri immediately felt very jealous.  "No! No, I don't think so," He groped for a good reason, "Drizzt doesn't like the both of us, remember? It might prove extremely… inconvenient."

            "If you say so," Jarlaxle said, his eyes twinkling. 

            "How long before your contacts come back with information?" Entreri decided to attempt to change the subject.

            "Well, I have few mages right here of enough power, but I could send a message to those in my Underdark branches."

            "Kimmuriel?"

            "Is not really in any condition this morning to do any difficult summonings," Jarlaxle smirked.

            "Amazing.  Why aren't you tired?"

            "It's all a matter of practice and delegation."

            Entreri made a face.  "Somehow, I think I don't want to know."

**

            Entreri desperately blocked the first swing with his gauntleted hand, and managed to parry the second, the harsh rings and scrapes of meeting metal ringing in his ears, unnaturally loud in the silence of the circular, cold-stone paved practice hall.  Tightly channelled sunlight shot in through the few slitted windows that broke an otherwise plain, continuous cylindrical wall, lined with the occasional weapons rack.  There was no other furniture – hence, no other distractions.

            Zaknafein shot the gauntlet a disapproving look as he leaped back, disengaging, and easily parrying Entreri's counter-attack.  "You rely far too much on that thing."

            "It works," Entreri panted, barely dodging a thrust, then having to stop a downward swing with both swords, scissoring Zaknafein's blade between them, leaning his weight on his left foot and kicking out with his right.  Zaknafein hit his ankle with the hilt of his other sword, knocking him off balance and onto his back, and the assassin instinctively rolled – a risky endeavour when armed – wincing as a thrust tore through his cloak – though missing him. 

            "What if your gauntlet is cut off one day?" Zaknafein stepped on the cloak, adding insult to injury, deflecting the upward stab with the gauntlet's sword and stomping on the dagger hand.  Entreri snarled, refusing to let go, and managed to parry a wicked stab at his eye.

            "Fighting with one arm? That… does not make much of a warrior…"

            Zaknafein raised his eyebrow at him, then purposefully discarded his left sword, folding his left arm behind his back.  "Would you like to try?"

            "You're… stepping on my wrist…"

            "Well then," Zaknafein mockingly stepped back, allowing Entreri to scramble to his feet, cursing under his breath.  The temerity of the elf!  "Of course, now that I am disadvantaged… I will not play with you any more." With that, Entreri had to parry the bright arc of metal that threatened to slice through his leather armour, while with his sword he stabbed towards the dark elf's face. 

            "Very good," Zaknafein laughed, his eyes becoming fierce, twisting away from the blow, "Now we fight." His speed seemed to increase as he proceeded to block every attempt of bodily injury that Entreri tried to inflict on him.  How was that possible? Was it because he only needed to focus on one weapon?

            But… one weapon… and no shield?

            No longer playing? So he had actually been playing… before this?

            Come to think of it, that seemed likely.  Entreri remembered the somewhat more unstable version of Zaknafein being faster, more aggressive – was that the unrestricted version? Training could not take place at that pace, after all – or Entreri would hardly learn anything.

            Seeing the assassin's growing disbelief, Zaknafein merely smirked.  "Watch your own defence," he warned, then Entreri hissed in pain as, snake-quick, the sword slid past an attempted parry and stabbed the arm joint on his dagger arm.   As his dagger slipped from nerveless fingers, Entreri raised his gauntlet – too close to parry with his sword – and found to his shock that the single sword had feinted only, and was now pointed at his throat.

            "You're getting better," Zaknafein conceded, as Entreri 'sheathed' his sword into his gauntlet.  "Though you are far too easily distracted.  A warrior with a sword less is still a warrior, and you cannot let your guard down."

            "That hurt," Entreri said accusingly, looking for something to wrap the injury with.

            "Is that not the point of fighting with real weapons?" Zaknafein sheathed his sword, then went to pick up the other one.  Grumbling about Dark Elves and their murderous ways, Entreri  picked up his dagger with his gauntleted hand and went off to look for one of the Headquarters' clerics.

            Zaknafein, now very amused, followed and watched the process of magical healing, then slapped Entreri on the back as the assassin flexed his repaired arm.  "So, did you learn anything, student?"

            "Not to fight with you even if you appear to be disadvantaged?"

            Zaknafein pretended to consider that thoughtfully.  "Perhaps that might be the most important thing."