Chapter 2

"No, no, you fool! Put your weight on your right foot when you strike with your left!" Dilaere smacked his pupil with the flat of his blade in chastisement. Duel wielding always proved difficult to teach, even with the brightest of his pupils, it seemed. Sab'vrae, well used to such punishment after five years, never bothered to rub the small weld on his skull.

"I'll get it right, I promise." The teenager vowed. Dilaere snorted.

"Don't make promises. Just do it. Keep practicing your drills. I'm done with you for the day." With that, the weapon master exited his training chambers. Sab'vrae sighed, pulling his piwafwi, an enchanted cloak all drow nobles received, closer to himself. Dilaere never went easy on him, probably because he expected more. The teenager rolled his eyes. What else should he expect when his father rivaled Dilaere in life? True, Nath'olin died on his day of birth, but Sab'vrae overheard enough conversations between the adults in his fifteen years of life to realize he did not come from Dilaere's bloodline.

Sometimes he felt his teacher withheld lessons from him for long periods of time, almost as if afraid of his pupil's potential. This only added to Sab'vrae's curiosity of his father's skill. Shrugging, the student exercised his legs, working on his balance. By himself, the noble had no trouble duel wielding, but when his instructor tested and sparred with him, Sab'vrae found himself reduced to a bumbling oaf. Perhaps Dilaere's constant criticisms of him made the drow nervous. The elderboy needed to block out the weapon master's judging words and bolster his own confidence.

Despite Dilaere's roughness, Sab'vrae found he much preferred living here than with Vicala and his wretched sister. The weapon master's wing was a more than welcome change. Sab'vrae still recalled the day he left Vicala's care and entered Dilaere's large chambers…

---------

The main room in the weapon master's wing spread out wide in all directions. The small drow's footsteps echoed loudly off the stone walls. Sab'vrae looked about, trying to detect Dilaere. Normally, finding other dark elves was never too difficult -- the heat radiating off living bodies greatly contrasted with the cold stone walls in infrared vision. When no sign of another drow came to the young noble, Sab'vrae sighed and plopped down on the ground.

He nearly jumped to the ceiling when he heard, "Get up, boy," behind him. Sab'vrae turned to see the slim weapon master behind him. Dilaere wasn't the best looking drow Sab'vrae ever saw, but he supposed the warrior passed as average looking by the typical drow standard of beauty. Dilaere's face was long, his chin pointed. His amber eyes, smaller than most, narrowed at the little boy's start. He kept his pearly long hair loose, flowing freely past his shoulders, down to his mid-back. Much of it hung in front of his long, pointed ears, shielding his face from view when looking from certain angles.

Dilaere held two katana in his hands. Aleanani's weapon master was well known in Ched Nasad for his kensai skills. He twirled his blades casually, pushing his piwafwi cloak back.

So that's how he snuck up on me. Sab'vrae noted. Piwafwi cloaks masked body heat from infrared vision, among other things. Dilaere spoke again.

"Well, Master Sab'vrae, as you know, the Matron has decided you are best suited to be a fighter, and your decade of training begins today."

"Will I be here a lot?" the young elf questioned.

"You will hardly leave this room for the next ten years, if at all. Your food will be brought to you, and everything else you need is here." His new master answered.

"Thank Lloth!" Sab'vrae sighed, "I can't stand being around Masantar. I'm sick of that brat always lashing me with that stupid toy whip of hers..." Barely finished with the sentence, Sab'vrae felt the sharp sting on his cheek when Dilaere slapped him.

"You will never speak of a female as such, especially when she is a noble in your station." The weapon master warned in a low growl.

Sab'vrae rubbed his sore face, "Just cuz she's your daughter--" Dilaere cut him off.

"That has nothing to do with it." He snapped, "Remember, boy, that is all you are: A male. We must always respect our superiors, and that means all females in and above our station. It is Lloth's own edict. Besides... you never know when the Matrons are watching." Saying this, the elder drow looked about the room cautiously.

Sab'vrae rubbed his cheek again, "I guess." He muttered. Dilaere turned back to his newest pupil.

"Now, enough bantering, Sab'vrae. We shall begin. See that weapon rack over there?" he used his katana to point at the stand of weapons, "Select one of them and we'll begin the lessons." Sab'vrae walked over to the rack, inspecting the large assortment of weapons.

"Oh, I'll take this cool sword!" He exclaimed, picking up a long sword and stumbling, trying to keep balance. Dilaere sighed, shaking his head.

"We're going to have to work on your balance and strength first, it seems. Now, first we…" he instantly began his drills with the young noble.

---------

Sab'vrae grumbled to himself, easily twisting his body about to attack a dummy with both blades. "My balance is better than anyone else's here, expect Dilaere's, and I'm stronger than most males." He looked at the muscles rippling under his black skin, chiseling out his slender elven body. "I just need to prove that to Dilaere." Sab'vrae dodged an attack from the enchanted dummy, parrying the blow and following up with a quick flick of his wrist, sending the doll's cloth head flying.

He glanced down at the light bruise the dummy's last blow had left, "Apparently, though, my agility still needs a lot more honing."

---------

"Ha! You call that an attack? A rothe could do better!" Dilaere mocked his seventeen-year-old student as they sparred. Rothe were, essentially, underground cattle. Sab'vrae grit his teeth, blocking out his teacher's taunts. Usually they wore his defenses down, but Sab'vrae made a careful effort to tune them out, only concentrating on the battle itself. Long swords clanged against katana, then slid away from each other as the owners twisted their bodies about in battle.

Sab'vrae ducked a swing to his head, countering with a quick stab to the underarm. Dilaere dodged, parrying with his exotic weapons. The weapon master yelped in surprise when he felt his katana fly from his fingers, hitting the ground with a loud clatter. He blinked dumbly at Sab'vrae, who tapped the flat of his sword to his master's shoulder.

"Slash. You're dead." Sab'vrae grinned. Dilaere glared at him, but relented.

"So, you're finally learning something, boy." He mused.

"I just need to block out your sad attempts at insults." His pupil countered.

"Oh, really?" Dilaere picked up his blades. "Another round, then." He thrust his katana forward, which Sab'vrae easily blocked. Dilaere twitched, countering his students well-aimed attacks. He inherited too much from his father. He's getting too even with me. Thought the weapon master with worry. Still, if Sab'vrae entered Barra Velve, the academy for Ched Nasad's fighters, like this, Dilaere earned bragging rights to anger his current rivals with. Very few of his opponents could boast of a pupil with this skill. Perhaps Sab'vrae's superior abilities could serve him well in his own ambitions after the teenager completed training at Barra Velve…

Dilaere smirked to himself, even as Sab'vrae disarmed him once more.