Chapter 7: Master and Apprentice

Chapter 7: Master & Apprentice

Zumud rolled his bastard sword over Amalagh's thrust and outside of the younger drow's defenses, using his shield to ward off the second blade. With nothing to protect his core the Lolth-touched was vulnerable, potentially mortally so, and the one-armed master made him acknowledge his mistake with a sharp uppercut to the midriff.

Despite being made with his one hand which had just parried the scimitar, Zumud's attack was so swift that Amalagh was not able to register it and try to defend. The blow winded the muscular elf but did little in the way of damage. Even so, he was forced to stumble backwards to recover his breath.

"You are improving," Zumud admitted. It was quite true; Amalagh had progressed greatly as a swordsman in the few months that they had been training together, so much so that he was able to put the older warrior into a corner several times during each fight. "But you will need more if you are to beat the masters here. They are not as skilled as I, but they will pose a formidable challenge to you as you are."

Amalagh nodded in acquiescence. There was no gloating in Zumud's voice. His words were merely a statement of fact.

"I see, master," he said obediently, inclining his head in a slight bow. As a lowly Sargtlin it was his duty to respect his superiors without question or retort and even in the presence of the usually relaxed Zumud he dared not disobey.

"One more time for now?" Zumud casually inquired, raising his bastard sword once again. Amalagh stood and their duel resumed.

The Lolth-touched attacked strongly, his scimitars working in tandem to create a storm of deadly metal. Zumud met it with his typical calmness, his bastard sword moving quickly to intercept one scimitar while the shield defended against the other. The one-armed weapons master had come to expect this offense from Amalagh, who was still relatively naïve in the way of swordsmanship. He thought of swordplay as fighting exclusively with the sword, when Zumud knew that it was much more than that. Swordplay was a fight to the death, and like any mortal conflict, the only real rule was that there was a winner and a loser, decided by who survived to the end.

If Amalagh fought in a real battle in this way of his, not utilizing every opportunity to take down an opponent, he would surely be slain.

Zumud came forward with the bastard sword and parried two sweeps from the scimitars. While skillful, Amalagh's strikes always seemed strangely uncoordinated, as if he had trouble keeping his balance with the blades. For this reason, the Lolth-touched was not reaching his full potential, and Zumud always ultimately prevailed. The master had to find the secret to helping Amalagh discover his true potential, or all of his work would be wasted when the apprentice found himself impaled on another's blade. Zumud had never and would never tolerate weakness.

Amalagh increased the speed of his attacks in typical fashion, keeping his strikes fast and unpredictable so as to keep Zumud on his toes. The master was pleased with how the young warrior could vary his attack angles; few drow would be able to defend against it.

But the best of them would.

The Lolth-touched hammered Zumud's bastard sword with both scimitars, driving it upwards and sending a numbing sensation down the master's arm. Knocking the shield out wide for a fraction of a second, Amalagh saw his opening and thrust in for his final strike. He knew how the glamer effect worked; Zumud's body was always three inches to the right of where it appeared.

He grinned in anticipation of his victory as he felt the tips of his scimitars come into contact with something solid, but it quickly vanished as he realized that they had not actually struck home.

Zumud's shield, having recovered, smashed into the apprentice's outstretched forearms and pinned his swords to the wall. The one-armed master stabbed his bastard sword through the shield's surface and into the calcite barrier, preventing his opponent's weapons from being moved. He then adjusted the grip on his sword, collapsing the hilt to reveal a minuscule dagger with a blade not as long or wide as a drow child's finger. Putting the knife to Amalagh's throat, Zumud made a gesture with his wrist as if to cut the jugular vein before reinserting it back into the hilt of the bastard sword.

"I win again," he said as he reset his shield on his back and sheathed the bastard sword. Amalagh examined his blades carefully, his eyes roaming up and down the steel edges, before throwing them to the floor in frustration with a resounding clatter that echoed throughout the large sparring chamber.

"What is wrong with me?" Amalagh muttered angrily, pacing the room and restlessly clenching and unclenching his fists, staring at them the whole time. "I'm not strong enough to beat you, but I had you at my mercy. I felt the blades connect."

"I felt them as well," Zumud said, speaking slowly and reassuringly to calm his hotheaded apprentice. "The problem is not you, Amalagh. Your strength is unparalleled in the school, as is your potential. But your equipment—"

The weapons master broke off, casting a somber look at the young elf's scimitars, which still lay abandoned on the floor.

"They are sub-par, unacceptably poor for one such as you."

"But a strong warrior should be able to win with any weapon. Or none at all."

"Ah. But sometimes a powerful warrior deserves a great weapon. Do you not agree?"

Sensing the rhetorical tone of the question, Amalagh decided not to answer. Zumud observed his pupil's reaction to this with one raised eyebrow. His face was a jumble of conflicting emotions: anger at his seemingly lackluster performances, hatred towards some other or others who had wronged him, and a hint of pride that his skills had been acknowledged. The one-armed master resisted the urge to smile and chide Amalagh on his lack of composure; the Lolth-touched still had a great deal to learn about subtlety.

"Come with me."

Zumud turned and strode out of the sparring arena. Amalagh hesitated for just a moment before following. The dark elves moved through numerous rooms similar to the one they had just left before reaching a large, solid iron doorway with a complex series of different locks. Zumud uttered words Amalagh could not understand, but the Lolth-touched had been around enough mages to understand when sorcery was being used. The locks on the door undid themselves, and the door swung open to reveal the armory Melee-Magthere.

In no way a grand room like the halls of the nearby Arach-Tinilith, the armory had been made to serve its purpose. A long and narrow room with a high ceiling, the armory was dominated by three long racks of weapons and armor. Swords, bows, axes and polearms, all expertly forged by meticulous duergar craftsmen and enchanted by drow wizards. Amalagh was too awestruck by the sight to notice as Zumud thrust the hilt of a sword into his palm.

Once he had recovered himself enough to be once again aware of his surroundings, the young warrior looked at the blade in his hand. A longer and straighter blade than his iron scimitars, he felt its heavy grip, unbalanced towards the tip. Strangely, this uneven sword felt right in his hand, like it was made for someone with great strength.

"This is the blade for you," Zumud said, his voice now deadly serious. "Use it and make me proud." The master took another such blade from the wall and held it out along with two scabbards. Amalagh sheathed them and pulled the belt around his waist, latching it into place with a soft click.

"I will, master."