~4. The Testing~
Rismyn
Rismyn ascended the stairs that led to the top of the bluffs, trying not to let the ringing of blades and shouts of training churn his jealousy into nausea. He moved his feet out of habit, forcing each step toward the depression known as the Pit with mounting disdain.
This really wasn’t fair. He probably should have just gone home. Testing new Voices? He wasn’t even qualified for the Militia. What made him qualified to test against new Voices?
Sour and frustrated, he kicked a pebble that just happened to be in the way of his toe. It skittered across the uneven terrain and did little to relieve his vexation.
What a joke. Anders probably didn’t really want Rismyn’s help. It was probably all Belnir’s idea. Treating him like a child, offering him a toy sword when he’d been asking for steel. Keeping him out of the way while he trained his new team.
But even as he thought it, the notion shamed him. If he really believed it, then that meant he believed Belnir was capable of lying to him. Once, he believed all drow lied just as often as they breathed. But that was before he’d made friends, before he met people who would tell him the truth, even when he didn’t want to hear it. It was part of the unspoken agreement that formed between friends.
Resigned, Rismyn approached the Pit, which was as aptly named as the Cove. A sheer, twenty-foot drop into an almost perfectly round arena. What had caused the rocks to form this way, Rismyn would never know, but it made for an ideal battleground when fights needed to remain in close proximity.
Rismyn hesitated at the top, remembering his own testing, eleven months prior. There was Anders, of course, and Jillette, the half-elf instructor in charge of the beginner’s class. Beside her was Rothgar, a drow, one of the instructors in the intermediate class, and Elvyr, another drow, who taught in Rismyn’s former advanced school. It wasn’t the same mix present when he had tested, but they represented the same thing. Teachers and trainers, ready to assess the skill of these new would-be soldiers.
The three surface-dwellers stood in the center of the pit, side by side, listening as Anders barked out the introductions and explained the expectations of the test. He considered turning back, returning to Belnir and telling him he’d changed his mind, but he wouldn’t dare. The shame would be impossible to recover from.
Besides, Elvyr had just seen him and tipped his chin in friendly acknowledgment, which alerted Anders to his presence, and the dwarf broke off mid-sentence to hail him.
“Aye, it’s about time ya showed up. Hurry up, get down here before me beard loses its coppery sheen. The light’s leakin’ away and we’ve got stuff to do.”
The coarse voice jarred Rismyn into action, erasing all thoughts of changing his mind. Anders was rough around the edges and quick with a tongue-lashing, but Rismyn liked him, once he got used to him.
On the other side of the Pit were steep, narrow stairs carved into the rock, but Rismyn didn’t waste time going for them. Instead, he stepped right off the ledge, letting his levitation magic catch his fall. The moment his feet hit the sand, he hurried across to the instructors.
“Now, as I was sayin’,” Anders said, as Rismyn took his place beside Jillette, though a little off to the side, lest he be mistaken for an instructor. “We’re gonna test your skill with the blade through one-on-one duels first. This lad here’s going to be your opponent.”
The eyes of the new Voices trailed over him when Anders gestured, and Rismyn tried not to read too much into the expressions. A little too much hunger for violence in the woman, a little too little interest from the human. As for the golden elf…he almost looked disgusted. Was he still upset over the sword incident?
“Before we get started,” Anders continued, “I want to hear yer tales. What’s yer battle experience, yer weapon of choice, and reason for fighting? Mind ya I don’t want yer whole life story. Just what’s relevant. Ladies first.”
The woman cocked her head to the side, considering. “My name is Jezzra Heartwood,” she began. “My brother, Corith, and I grew up on the planes south of the Sword Mountains. We’ve been defending our village from raiders since we were big enough to fight, before joining up with your Fleet. I prefer the bow, though I’ve been told I won’t be finding one here.”
“You were told right,” Anders said. “Bows are forbidden by the Dark Maiden. Ask a priestess if you want the details as to why.”
“I can get by with a sword,” she said, unconcerned, “and most martial weapons. Our Da taught us not to be picky.”
It was only when Jezzra glanced at the big man next to her that Rismyn realized he was Corith, her brother. He tried not to let his surprise show. They looked nothing alike, but he quelled any rising curiosity to know more as Jezzra went on.
“As for why I fight”–she shrugged–“I was raised to defend the defenseless. When we met your Fleet and learned of the need here, it seemed like the place to go.”
“Very good,” Anders said, turning his eyes to the human. “And you?”
“It’s like Jezzra said,” the man rumbled. He didn’t quite make eye contact with anyone. “We protected our village, but we wanted to do more. I fight with whatever I can grasp.” He held up his abnormally large hands, then fell silent, glancing expectantly at Vaylan who had yet to shift his piercing glare from Rismyn.
The golden elf was silent for so long that Rismyn wondered if he was going to refuse to answer, but just as Anders started to lose his patience, the elf snapped his attention to the dwarf and smiled a congenial smile.
“I am Vaylan Rivertone,” he said, with a flourishing bow. “I have been trained in a monastery and…” his eyes roved over the others, lingering not only on Rismyn but on Rothgar and Elvyr as well. His smile curled. “That’s all I want to share.”
Oh. So that’s how it was.
Rismyn didn’t try to hide his surprise, arching an eyebrow and glancing at Jillette, but the usually critical instructor showed no reaction, as if this was a perfectly acceptable way to disobey Ander’s orders. Elvyr and Rothgar, however, looked unimpressed. Perhaps they, too, had noted how Vaylan’s gaze had lingered on them.
But the dwarf merely huffed, not pressing for more. “Right then. Let’s get started. Jezzra–”
“Pardon, sir,” Vaylan said, interrupting the commander.
Anders just stared at him, and Rismyn suspected he was so unused to being interrupted that he didn’t know how to respond. He braced for an explosion of dwarven temper, but Vaylan took the opportunity to speak.
“What about our opponent?” He gestured offendedly to Rismyn without even looking his way. “Everyone else has been introduced, their credentials laid bare, but him. That hardly seems fair.”
The dwarf’s face turned red and splotchy, but he managed to control his outburst. Vaylan was a guest, after all. “Him? He doesn’t matter, he’s just the elf yer fighting against–”
Normally, the words wouldn’t have stung. Anders didn’t enjoy being corrected, and Rismyn was used to his ways. It wasn’t that he didn’t matter, it was merely that Anders didn’t want to look like he’d forgotten about Rismyn, even if he truly had never meant to introduce him in the first place, which Rimsyn would have preferred.
But he was still nursing the very raw rejection of his childhood dreams, still quietly wondering why he’d been found unworthy of being commissioned.
He did matter, and what was left of his pride demanded he make it known. Especially to Vaylan.
“You already know my name,” Rismyn said, cutting off Anders yet again as he stepped forward, meeting the elf’s golden stare with his own crimson ire. “But I’ll repeat it for you in case you weren’t paying attention the first time we met. I am Rismyn Tear, formally of the fifth House of Menzoberranzan, before my dissension. In addition to the years of experience gained from my home instruction, I’ve trained five years at Melee-Magthere and one year here, under the fine instruction of those who stand before you now.”
Well, at least under Elvyr. He’d never set foot in Jillette or Rothgar’s classes, but he had a point to make.
“I favor the draa velve combat style”–in a flash, Rismyn had both his practice sword and his real, sharpened dagger in his hand, flourishing them in a simultaneous twirl that had taken him twice as long to master as his naturally ambidextrous classmates–“but for this demonstration, I’ll be using sargh’elgg.” He tossed his dagger point down into the sand, where it stuck. Much as he might not like his opponents, he wasn’t about to take a real blade into battle and risk drawing actual blood. He was civilized now. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
At the beginning of his speech, Vaylan looked surprised, then offended, perhaps at Rismyn’s insinuation he hadn’t been paying attention previously. By the end of it, he was sneering. “I’ve heard of your city and school,” he remarked, his light tone not matching his expression. “I’m surprised it’s something you’d boast about.”
Now that stung more than Ander’s offhanded blustering, and the rage made Rismyn’s blood hot. His nostrils flared, but before he could finish drawing in his breath, the commander regained control.
“That’s enough, lads. Save it for the testing.” His voice was gruff, but when Rismyn glanced at him, the dwarf shot him a wink. Evidentially, he approved of Rismyn’s outburst.
The other instructors wore mixed expressions. Jillette was clearly unamused, rolling her eyes and walking away without a word to stand on the outskirts of the Pit. Rothgar looked troubled as he moved to follow her, but Elvyr drew near to Rismyn, placing a hand on his elbow and turning him away from the Voices.
“Watch out for that one,” he remarked, glancing back at Vaylan. “He seems to have come predisposed to dislike those of our ancestry. Don’t let him goad you, and don’t let your emotions light your judgment.”
“Yes, sir,” Rismyn said, taking in the wise words of his instructor. Elvyr was a veteran of Melee-Magthere himself, and though his methods were now very different from those employed by the Academy, he’d still been a good teacher. Rismyn had learned much from him in their short time together.
“Aye, but remember also, this test’s not about what you can do,” Anders added. “I already know what you can do, and I’ve signed off on it, no matter what orders come through.” There was bitterness in his tone that Rismyn found surprisingly comforting. “This is about them. If you find the match too easy, draw it out. If you find them too challenging, which I doubt, Elvyr will stand in for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Show them what yet remains to be proud of from your heritage,” Elvyr said, clapping Rismyn on the shoulder. Then he and Anders went to join Jillette, with Vaylan and Corith trailing after.
Rismyn turned to face the half-elf, who smiled pleasantly, her longsword in hand. “Well this’ll be fun,” she said. “Are you gonna go easy on me? I am a delicate lady, after all.”
Her words came with a playful lilt, not mocking, as though this were all a game. Which, Rismyn supposed, it was. Just a sparring match to test skills, nothing serious at all, no matter how wounded his pride was. It wasn’t Jezzra’s fault he’d been kicked out of the commissioning, that he knew of, and she’d not treated him with the same disdain Vaylan had.
Rismyn took a breath to reorient himself, squaring up to face her, but he chose not to answer. He’d never understood why people felt the need to mix combat with words, even when he had nothing to prove.
“Alright, you two, first to three points wins. Begin!”
Rismyn dropped into his stance as Jezzra lowered into hers. She reminded him of the cats that stalked around Eilistraee’s temple. They circled each other, Rismyn’s eyes scanning for any telltale sign of an incoming attack. His empty hand was already twitching for a second blade, unused to adopting the single-bladed fighting style common to those who couldn’t afford his fine tutelage.
In truth, he almost wished he had been permitted to learn it instead, rather than be beaten for struggling to grasp draa velve’s two-handed method. He wasn’t naturally ambidextrous. Learning to become so had been painfully slow–quite literally.
But no prince of House Tear was going to be seen fighting like a mere commoner. So he’d learned, and now fighting without the dirk seemed as unnatural as fighting with it had been in the beginning.
Jezzra tried to start a conversation twice more, but Rismyn remained silent, waiting for her to make the first move. She was the one being tested, it was up to her to decide how the match would go.
When she seemed to understand that she would get no words out of Rismyn, Jezzra finally pounced, lunging with a yell and fierce swing of her two-handed sword.
It was remarkably easy to dodge, though a good try.
Again and again, Jezzra swung, and each time, Rismyn stepped neatly out of her way. He parried once or twice, for the novelty of trying something different, but her heavier sword against his lighter blade sent unpleasant vibrations shooting through his forearm.
She really wasn’t all that bad. Someone had taught her well. Her stances were solid, her swings disciplined. She did have the unfortunate surface-habit of shouting with every blow, but that would be easily trained out of her. Silence was far more valuable in the Underdark than the extra oompf the shouting supplied.
When Jezzra’s amusement had melted into frustration, her face blazing and her breath labored, Rismyn glanced at Anders and received a nod. The next time Jezzra struck, Rismyn slipped in between her defenses. He delivered three swift, light, and successive strikes to her shoulder, and then stepped back, raising his hands in surrender.
Jezzra groaned, her arms falling limp. “Really? You were toying with me that whole time?”
Despite himself, Rismyn offered her an encouraging smile and broke his silence. “Not toying, testing. You fight well.”
“Oh! You do talk.” She sheathed her blade and tossed her hair over her shoulder, pointing to him as she hailed Anders. “Whatever class he’s in,” she said between gulps of air, “I want to be in, too.”
That garnered a laugh from the instructors and Corith, but drained all of Rismyn’s fragile good humor.
He wasn’t in a class anymore, and he wasn’t on a patrol, either. The feeling of having nowhere to belong was unsettling, and he was thankful when Anders called her back and sent Corith in her place. Belnir might have sent him off to be distracted, but it was a good distraction. He would just never admit it out loud.
Corith was as uninterested in speaking as Rismyn was, which suited him just fine. He carried a claymore in one hand the way Rismyn carried a shortsword, which might have been intimidating if Rismyn had never fought something giant before. But after the bone flayer and Mendroktovin, size had become just another factor to consider.
What Rismyn hadn’t counted on was the quiet human’s speed or ferocity. The call to begin had barely left Ander’s mouth before the giant charged, surprisingly swift, and swung. Rismyn’s retreat was less than graceful, as he narrowly avoided the point of the claymore, and Corith didn’t relent.
His third frenzied slash caught Rismyn right in the chest and he grunted as pain blossomed throughout his whole torso. It was accompanied by a telltale crack he’d gotten all too used to.
“Point!” Anders hollered.
Okay. Yeah. That was mildly unpleasant.
Rismyn gasped for breath, skipping back as he put a hand to his chest, willing himself to focus less on the pain and more on the brute charging straight for him. Unlike Jezzra, Corith didn’t show any inclination to formal training. He was big, he was fast, and that made him dangerous enough without being well trained, too.
But now that Rismyn knew it, he knew how to counter it. Corith was fast, but so was Rismyn, and for once he was the smaller opponent. With his balance restored, it became a game of cat-and-mouse, until mercifully Anders gave the go-ahead to end the fight. When Corith next struck blindly, Rismyn went low, tripping the human with his sword and slashing twice at his back as he went down. Had the blade been sharpened, there would have been a nice, neat X in Corith’s shirt.
“Match,” Anders called, and Rismyn’s breath came far more labored than it had before.
Corith pushed himself up, spluttering as he wiped sand from his face, but when he found Rismyn, he grinned. “Good fight,” he said, and offered his hand to clasp.
Surprised by the friendly gesture, Rismyn accepted, though his whole body shook as the giant gripped his forearm.
“I need a moment,” Rismyn said, as he followed Corith to the wall. Anders granted it, and he leaned against the stone, regaining his breath. He’d left his waterskin behind in the locker cavern, assuming he wouldn’t be straying far for today’s training. His chest ached, though whether his bones were bruised or broken, he couldn’t yet decide.
“Tired already?”
Rismyn glanced up, narrowing his eyes as Vaylan edged near him. The others were distracted, with Jillette already showing her fellow half-elf some pointers and Corith looking on with interest. The men were in discussion with Anders, so no one had noticed the golden elf detach.
Tired? Of course he was tired. He’d just fought two duels back-to-back, leading his opponents around in circles for the sake of drawing out their potential, not to mention how every breath came sharp and stabbing, after the blow he’d taken to his ribs. The matches hadn’t been short, and now he was injured. It was a lot, even for him.
He didn’t say any of this, though. He just went back to his focused breathing, willing his heart rate to steady.
“Didn’t they work you twelve hours a day in Melee-Magthere? That’s what I’ve heard, at least. I thought your stamina would be better than this.”
Rismyn cut his eyes back to Vaylan, a sharp rebuke poised on his tongue. But he saw Elvyr out of the corner of his eye and recalled his instructor’s advice.
Vaylan wasn’t the first surface-dweller to treat him with disdain. Depending on where they were in their healing process, many of the former captives of dark elves gave him a wide berth or a hateful stare. Rismyn might not have done anything to them personally, but he bore the reputation of his people in his red eyes and white hair. It wasn’t fair, but it was something to be patient with. Or so Solaurin had said.
With that in mind, Rismyn suddenly saw Vaylan in a different light. Just because he’d come from the surface didn’t mean hadn’t been wounded in the past by drow. Hadn’t Mazira been on the surface when the drow found her?
Rismyn straightened, mastering his temper. “I don’t know what’s happened to you in the past,” he said. “But I am sorry for it. It’s our goal in the Sanctuary to ease suffering and reunite a people never meant to be parted. I hope you can find your peace here. I have.”
He actually meant it, too, which surprised him almost as much as it seemed to surprise Vaylan. The golden elf’s smug satisfaction dropped, and he looked momentarily stunned. It would be a lie to say it wasn’t at least a little satisfying, but Rismyn turned away before he could find too much joy in his victory.
“I’m ready,” he said, which wasn’t completely true, but he wanted to avoid any more discussion with the elf.
Anders nodded and motioned for him to take his place. Vaylan stalked after him, and Rismyn could practically feel his iron glare.
When they faced each other, Vaylan’s face was indeed contorted with fury. “You don’t know anything,” he hissed.
True, but Rismyn was already in his battle stance, his ribs still protesting. The time for speaking was over.
“Begin!”
Rismyn expected Vaylan to charge recklessly, overcome with rage as he was, but instead, the golden elf relaxed, adopting a decent stance and raising his blade. Then, as though he hadn’t a care in the world, he shut his eyes and breathed deeply.
Rismyn just stared, unsure what sort of trick this was. Who would willingly close their eyes in battle? He shuffled forward, testing Vaylan’s alertness, and the elf tensed, though he didn’t open his eyes. Rismyn danced back, then forward again, then feinted left and right.
Each time, Vaylan shifted, keeping Rismyn in front of him.
Walking silently on sand was an art Rismyn was still mastering, but he trod more carefully on his next feint, and was disappointed when Vaylan didn’t react. He’d been interested to see how far this challenge would go.
If nothing else, Vaylan was more patient than Rismyn. He’d waited out Jezzra’s circling, but he was already tired of waiting for Vaylan’s first strike.
So he lunged with true intent, and Vaylan’s eyes popped open just in time to counter.
The fight was on, and Rismyn’s disappointment only increased. He’d expected more after Vaylan’s blind stunt, but though the elf was trained he wasn’t…good.
He was mechanical. A construct. He’d memorized routines and patterns and didn’t deviate from them in the slightest. Having learned similar routines, Rimsyn barely had to try. After living for a year in a community that worshiped swordplay, which considered fencing its own form of art and dance, this fight was just boring.
What a letdown.
Rismyn didn’t even wait for Ander’s approval. He just ended the fight, with a slice to either side of his ribs and a chop to the shoulders. Vaylan didn’t say a word. He just walked back to the others. Unsure of what was coming next, Rismyn followed.
“Alright, well done,” Anders said. “Does anyone want a rematch with Rismyn, now that you’ve had a chance to learn his style?”
Only Jezzra did, and to her credit, she fought better this time. She actually scored a point against him, with a clever feint he hadn’t expected. After Vaylan’s sleep-inducing duel, it was a welcome pick-up in pace.
Once they finished and the others declined their opportunity for a rematch, something Rismyn was quite grateful for as he drank deeply from Elvyr’s waterskin, Anders gathered them together.
“We’ve got one more match for ya,” he said. “This time, it’s three-on-one. You three versus Rismyn. One strike, and you're out. Think you’re up for that, lad?” Anders added, glancing at Rismyn.
Rismyn nodded, handing the waterskin back to Elvyr. “Shouldn’t be too hard,” he said, before realizing how arrogant that sounded. He’d only meant he wasn’t too tired for the challenge, not that he expected to win, though in truth he did. He’d learned enough about their styles and was well-practiced in facing multiple opponents.
“That’s the spirit,” Anders said. “Alright then, when you’re ready, get to it.”
The light from the city was steadily glinting from blue to white, now a powdery color. The time for the mid-cycle meal was drawing nearer, and Rismyn had places to be. Part one of his cycle might have been a total disaster, but that didn’t mean he’d given up on his garden-cavern walk with Mazira.
He moved to the center of the Pit, already analyzing his strategy. Of course, he knew what the purpose of this exam was. It was teamwork, the most crucial skill a warrior in the Militia could possess. Where nobles in Menzoberranzan were taught draa velve and commoners studied sargh’elgg, the Sanctuary taught bautha z’hin, a style that favored superior numbers working together to destroy an enemy. It didn’t matter how skilled each individual fighter was, if they couldn’t work in a team, they’d be relegated to the beginner class until they learned how.
The Voices took up a triangular position around Rismyn, Corith at his back, Jezzra and Vaylan in front. Unlike the duels, Rismyn wouldn’t have to draw out this battle. It would draw itself out naturally. He was good, but he wasn’t that good. It would take time to defeat all three opponents while avoiding taking any strikes himself.
He’d go for Vaylan first, when the match began, and take back his favored shortsword.
But when Anders called for them to start, Vaylan suddenly vanished. One moment, he was there, the next, he’d disappeared, with nothing but the shift of sand to give evidence that he had once stood there.
Rismyn had no time to look for him, as Corith charged from behind. He leaped away, finding Jezzra there to meet him with a clash of steel on steel.
Corith was back again, but his wild swings were as much a hindrance to his sister as they were a threat to Rismyn. Not wanting to see anyone get hurt, Rismyn decided to take him out, first. A swing and a slice later, and Corith was backing away, his hands raised in surrender. He was out of the game.
Jezzra was upon him once more, and they traded parries, while Rismyn’s eyes darted around, searching for Vaylan. He found the golden elf standing aside, watching with interest, swinging his sword casually.
The sight sparked fire under his skin. This was supposed to be a team match, and Vaylan wasn’t playing as a team. Corith might not have been defeated so easily if he’d had more than Jezzra to support him. Though it wasn’t kind to the half-elf, Rismyn caught her sword with his own and then planted his boot in her gut, kicking her back. She gasped as the breath left her lungs, and it would have been the perfect opportunity to remove her from the game, as well, if Rismyn wasn’t after a different prize.
Vaylan didn’t deserve the sword he carried, blunted though it was. Rismyn was going to take it from him.
The golden elf smirked as Rismyn came for him, and as if he knew what Rismyn wanted, he threw the sword at his feet, which made Rismyn draw up short.
“You’re going to want that,” Vaylan said.
There was no time to respond. Jezzra had regained her breath and came for him again, and Rismyn didn’t think; he reacted. Sweeping up the other sword, he spun and batted her attack away.
It felt good to have two weapons again, even if he preferred the shorter dirk to two swords. He took the respite between attacks to switch his swords around, so that his favored blade was held in his favored right hand, before following Jezzra’s attack with a counter of his own.
The sound of footsteps behind him made him duck, just as Vaylan’s fist swung where his head once was.
Really? A fistfight?
Rolling to the side, Rismyn popped up to his feet and made for Jezzra, his two hands spinning faster than her one sword could keep up with. A chop to her thigh sent her staggering back to her brother.
Rismyn turned, expecting to find Vaylan right on his heels, but instead, the elf stood in the center of the arena, hands raised for battle.
It was impossible for him to win now. He had no weapon, and this was a weapons test. Rismyn advanced on him slowly, so irritated he broke his no-talking rule.
“If you wanted a rematch you could have asked. You let your team be defeated.”
“We would have lost, anyway,” Vaylan said. “These fights aren’t really fair, are they? Forcing us to battle with weapons we don’t prefer, against one who is trained explicitly for it.”
“It’s not about fair,” Rismyn countered. “It’s about character. Who you are and how you behave.”
“No,” Vaylan said. “It’s about skill.”
He lunged forward, moving so fast that Rismyn almost missed it, barely raising his arm in time to block Vaylan’s open-handed strike.
Where was this speed during their one-on-one duel?
Rismyn staggered back, trying to keep up as Vaylan rained blow after blow with his palms. What he couldn’t dodge, he blocked, surprised at the lack of force in Vaylan’s strikes.
Yet something wasn’t right. Rismyn lost his breath far sooner than he should have been out of it. His arms were heavy, his strength weakening. Was he really that worn down from the previous fights? He didn’t think he’d lost that much stamina since leaving Melee-Magthere. The Militia was kinder, but still intense.
The longer this went on, the slower Rismyn became, until Vaylan seemed to move as a blur. He struck Rismyn’s bicep with the open side of his hand, and all at once, Rismyn’s whole arm lost feeling. His sword clattered to the sand.
It felt like being stung with the numbing venom of a snake-headed whip. Panicked, Rismyn ordered his arm to move, to pick up his sword, but it just hung there, limp and useless.
In his moment of distraction, Valyan’s hand came down on his other arm, and he lost feeling in that one, too. Startled, he tried to back away, but his head was filling with fog and his feet weren’t moving the way they ought. In an instant, Vaylan was before him again, his open palm landing squarely on his heart.
Rismyn’s entire chest seized as his ability to breathe ceased. He collapsed, choking on nothing, real fear erasing all his anger and confusion.
What had this sun elf done to him?
Distantly, he heard shouting. Vaylan stood over him, sword in hand and looking rather pleased with himself. “I told you,” he said. “I’m deadlier without a sword.” He pressed the tip of the blade into Rismyn’s chest, and all at once, his lungs began working again. His limbs tingled as though reawakening from sleep.
Rismyn gasped and spluttered, rolling over and shoving the blade away from him. It was all he could do to not wretch right there in the sand.
“What in the nine hells of the Abyss do you think you’re doing?” Anders hollered, marching over. “What did you do to him?”
Vaylan raised his hands in surrender, painting innocence on his face. “Showcasing my skill, Master Anders,” he said. “I am trained in the art of tua hauta.”
“I don’t care what sort of devilish sorcery you know, this was a weapon’s test–”
“It’s not sorcery.” It was Jillette who spoke, her eyes narrowed as she regarded the sun elf. “Tua Hauta is an ancient, and supposedly extinct, martial art. Where did you say you were raised again?”
Vaylan only smiled, clearly not intending to answer.
“Well, I don’t care what it is,” Anders barked. “It was a dirty trick–”
Rismyn rose to his feet with Elvyr and Rothgar’s help, tuning out the dwarf’s tirade. His legs were shaking, but his head was clearing. Now that it was all over, he was more embarrassed than hurt.
“Are you alright?” Elvyr muttered.
“Fine,” Rismyn said shortly. “Give me a rematch, and I’ll be better.” He wouldn’t be fooled twice.
“Not this cycle, I think,” Rothgar said. He was glaring at Vaylan’s back, obviously as displeased as the dwarf, though less vocal about it.
“This might take a while,” Elvyr added. “Why don’t you and I leave Anders to it? It’s almost mid-light, anyway, and I want to talk to you. I heard about the orders.”
Rismyn wanted to argue, his fingers twitching to redeem his pride. Or maybe they were just twitching after whatever Vaylan had done to him. He stared after the elf, debating whether or not to disobey Elvyr’s suggestion, before ultimately deciding not to. He allowed the older elf to guide him to the stairs, fuming more over his recent defeat than Elvyr’s reminder about the orders.
And he’d thought the cycle couldn’t get worse.
Well, one thing was certain. Tortured past or not, Rismyn did not care for the golden elf. Whatever class he ended up in, he’d hopefully be kept far away.
Disclaimer: Forsaken by Shadows is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.
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