Chapter 5: Melee-Magthere
Chapter 5: Melee-Magthere
Amalagh stood at the entrance to V'elddrinnshar's Qu'ellar D' yorn – the academy of drow training. Like most things in the city it had been modeled almost exactly after it's counterpart in the drow 'capital' of Menzoberranzan. In the middle of a massive plaza stood the city's clock – imitatively called Narbondel – which was at this moment glowing all along its surface to the top of the massive spire that reached its climax at the top of the cavern. The aspiring warriors around Amalagh lurked in the shadows given off by its light, most of them preferring to stay in the darkness rather than show themselves.
The Lolth-touched himself stood openly in the red glare of Narbondel's light, caring little for who saw him. The more well-informed of the other initiates would all knew that he had no House to support him, and so they would not be expecting any threat from him even with his formidable physique. Even if they had not already been told of his status by their respective houses, it was clear from his equipment that he did not represent.
Magthere was not only a school for warriors, but it was also one of the many arenas for competition among the noble clans. The abilities and standings of even male warriors were of great importance among them, so each House sought to outfit their representatives with powerful magical items that would give them an edge against the other males. As a result, many of the males had magically enchanted weapons and armor that Amalagh could distinctly detect.
He, on the other hand, did not have any such equipment. His armor was a shoddy set of studded leather interlaced with iron plates to defend the vital points. Amalagh had stitched this armor together himself and was confident in its make, but it had no magical enhancement whatsoever, which would leave him dangerously exposed to the ensorcelled weapons possessed by other warriors.
If Amalagh was at all satisfied with his armor, he most definitely was not with his weapons. On his sword belt were two scimitars he had scavenged from the slave armory of House Godezynge, the only place he could steal from without alerting the nobles. The blades were poorly made and balanced towards the hilt, which to even the young warrior was a sign of deplorable workmanship. Worse still, the blades were dull despite his best attempts to sharpen them, and the crude surface iron used to forge the weapons felt exceedingly fragile and weak in Amalagh's massive fists.
Despite that, he knew he would have to make do. Complaining about his lack of proper equipment would not accomplish anything and if he managed to defeat these warriors it would be by his skill, not by virtue of some magical aid, that he would be victorious.
After his inspection of his own equipment, Amalagh studied his surrounding environment. At first glance, one would suspect that Magthere was the simplest and least ornate of the Qu'ellar D' yorn academies; closer examination would hammer in those suspicions with a crushing finality. The school itself was extremely straightforward in its construction – a pyramidal structure lit by numerous magical faerie fires – but the many levels above and below the surface were said to be extremely deep and cavernous. Magthere was covered in a reddish-purple glow as the light from Narbondel and the building ran together. The effect created a mystique around the school as the areas not directly exposed by the light were cast into deep shadow. Amalagh knew to be wary of the gloom; in his experience the most dangerous of enemies were those who struck from the darkness, not those who stood in the open.
The Lolth-touched recognized several of the drow there, including Azdal of House Godezynge. He had sparred against Azdal many times and never lost, so if the Godezynge warrior was at all representative of the skill level of a student, he would not have too much to worry about.
"Ptau'al!" said an unfamiliar voice, a harsh and gravelly tone that shook Amalagh from his thoughts. The cadets hurried to form ranks, each of them having been drilled in such obeisance from an early age.
Amalagh did not dare turn his head, but his keen eyes darted around, looking for the speaker.
"Keep your eyes down, e'trit," the voice said from right behind him, using the Drow word for "filth" as contemptuously as possible. Amalagh felt a bead of cold sweat roll down his cheek as he felt the unmistakable pressure of a blade pressed against the small of his back. After several tense moments, the pressure was gone, and the young drow could just barely detect the movement of a figure in his peripheral vision.
"Eyes up," the voice commanded, now ahead of Amalagh. All of the students complied and shifted their combined focus to the three drow standing on the steps of the pyramidal structure that was Melee-Magthere.
The first was a massive one, only an inch shorter than Amalagh but probably weighing just as much, with bulging muscles and a fierce complexion. His his was so dark it took on almost a purplish hue, and his hair was wild and free with no particular style to denote a position. He wore only a leather vest, and tattooed on his bare arms was "Streeawun xonathull, lu'ib'ahalii wun streea." Strapped to his hip was a wicked double-headed battleaxe with a hook on the end of the haft opposite the main blade. It's cruel and inelegant design suggested it was of duergar origin, for no normal drow would use such a rudimentary and heavy weapon. Perhaps this one was a berserker, a rarity indeed among the dark elves who so dearly treasured finesse and subtlety.
The second warrior looked much more suited to the part of a high-ranking drow. His hair parted neatly into the double braid that signified a master of Melee-Magthere and he was clad in a suit of elegant chainmail with the emblem of the school stamped on its chest plate. At his belt were a rapier and dirk typical of drow warriors, but slung across his back was a bow made of hewn yew wood, undoubtedly taken from the corpse of a surface elf.
"We three," this drow said, and Amalagh recognized his voice as the one he'd heard just moments before but this time spoken with a rich and melodious tone, "are the three primary masters of Melee-Magthere who have had the misfortune of being assigned to your class. Others wait inside, but we are your immediate superiors, the Sut'rinos. I am Anglin Rilynath; the one on my right is Randiir Zaumtor. And he," the master pointed to the third officer on his left, "is Ralak-Nûl Zumud."
Amalagh's eyes widened with surprise as he recognized this third master from the night of his abduction from the slums. His offset topknot, scarred face, and missing left arm were all familiar to Amalagh, but the other elf's eyes were what gave him away.
Just as they had during the Beggar's Nightmare almost ten years before, the one-armed drow's eyes shined with a nonchalant and casual spark that was vastly different from the intense and cold stares of the other masters. He seemed almost bored, as if he would not even pretend to care for these pointless proceedings of induction. Amalagh felt his lips beginning to part in a grin; perhaps this drow was also discontent with the facades and feigned ignorance that made up drow society.
"But to you," Anglin continued, "we are all to be addressed as Sut'rinos. You will report directly to us, and you will never waggle your worthless tongues to a female unless explicitly ordered to do so. Now, you are all to be referred to as Sargtlin. And Sargtlin…"
He paused, and Randiir stepped towards the nearest student and kicked him in the shins, causing the unfortunate youth to collapse to his knees.
"…must bow," Anglin added, a note of irrevocability in his voice. The other drow scrambled to kneel before the assembled officers; obedience was often considered the most valuable trait to be found in a Sargtlin.
"Now form up and assemble in your barracks," Anglin ordered. The drow quickly broke ranks and moved up the steps of Melee-Magthere. Amalagh was in the middle of the pack, but he turned quickly to look for Zumud. The master was gone.
"By the way," Anglin called after them, "should any of you be able to defeat Master Zumud in a duel, there will be substantial benefits, including a swift advance in rank and the privileges that go with it."
Note: "Death in battle, and glory in death," saying among male drow in V'elddrinnshar, particularly popular with the small numbers of berserkers.