Just one of the short drow related stories I wrote and translated to English. Written originally in Croatian. I do not own any of the characters or places. Do enjoy :)

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Just Like Brothers

“Everybody to the grand chapel!” the voice of Matron Malice roared through stone hallways of the Do’Urden compound, shaking windows and doors in their hinges. It was redundant to stress that the summons applied only to the drow of royal blood and a very narrow circle of plain soldiers; in fact only to Zaknafein, the Weapon Master of the house, and to Rizzen, Malice’s current unwedded husband. Her future ex, as Zaknafein labeled the male behind his back with a cynic humor, since Zaknafein once also shared the bed of the powerful Matron.

Briza, the oldest daughter, was already standing in her usual place right behind the throne and watching with a smile of superiority as her two younger sisters rushed in and hastily bowed to their mother, before resuming their places left and right of the Matron. Behind them Rizzen lurched through the door and literally spread himself across the floor before Malice’s feet in a bow much deeper than was expected even from a worthless drow male. He was very well aware that if it wasn’t for her goodwill he would be just another nameless, expendable soldier in troops of cannon fodder stationed by dozens in every house of Menzoberranzzan, so he used every occasion to display his endless gratitude. But today Malice’s face didn’t change a bit under a frowned mask of wrath and sunken Rizzen withdrew, moving away from her smoldering glare.

After him Zaknafein and Dinin stepped in with cloaks tossed over their sweaty backs in haste; the two arrived straight from the practice room, instantly suspending their morning session to obey the call. Practice with weapons was a crucial part of every single day in their lives because the skill was crucial for survival, but both also knew that ignoring Matron’s directives would equal certain death. Especially when she called in such a jagged tone. The two were just raising from a quick, short bow, when finally the elderboy, Nalfein, arrived to the chapel. With horror he realized he was the last one to come, so in haste to obey his mother he almost tripped over his own feet, causing displeased frowns from his sisters in the process. As he watched Nalfein rise from a clumsy bow, Zaknafein quietly snorted; it seemed that even so much as a harmonious usage of their limbs was too much to expect from wizards. Being an old, seasoned warrior Zaknafein didn’t think too much of magic wielders and his contempt towards their entire lore was open, as the male couldn’t care less about enemies he created that way.

Ever since childhood Nalfein displayed more talent and affinity towards studying magical mambo-jumbo, than dexterity required for handling weapons, so, unlike young Dinin, he went only through the most basic training with Zaknafein. An utter waste of time, in Weapon Master’s opinion, since the elderboy, although unquestionably superior in speed and agility to humans and most other races, was judged by drow standards – to his mother’s horror – rather clumsy. Her eldest son would never be the leader of her drow assassin squads as she had wanted him to be. Malice immediately recognized Zaknafein’s brilliant potential as a trainer for her army, so her disappointment at the discovery that her firstborn son isn’t the warrior material never quite disappeared, no matter how great Nalfein successes at Sorcere were.

“Down!”, snarled the Matron, whipping the males with her blazing gaze. She didn’t have to tell them twice; even proud Zaknafein who, because of his value to the house often tested boundaries set for males in the drow matriarch, didn’t hesitate to obey and get down on one knee, placing a sword by his foot on the floor. By the sharp tone of his former lover’s voice (and he knew her well, maybe even better than her oldest daughter) he could easily tell there was trouble in sight. But what kind of ordeal – he could only guess. His presumptions were confirmed when he heard her low growl, like nails scratching across stone, as she rigidly sat upright on her throne surrounded by her daughters and barely containing a clearly growing anger.

“Which one of you maggots did it?”

The four on the floor first exchanged quick confused glances before they finally dared to look Matron in her scowling face. With a sharp move she removed a cape that fell in cascades of heavy fabric across her knees to reveal a notorious whip carried by all Lloth’s priestesses and well known to all drow males. But, instead of three ferocious animated snake heads that usually lashed out and hissed at everything that moved, the odious object lying on Malice’s lap was now hanging mutilated and motionless. Behind her back Vierna and Maya’s jaws dropped in surprise with shocked exclamations, only Briza looked pleased like a fat cat, glancing from male to male and anxiously waiting for the punishing part to begin, on whomever it was to be executed. She didn’t care about petty details as “why”s or “how”s. Such unexpected chance to inflict pain brought the eldest daughter more excitement than any stimulus of pleasure ever could, and she unconsciously stroked her six-headed whip in an almost lascivious motion.

“Who did this?” echoed louder because Matron Malice hated to repeat herself. Getting no answer, she furiously stood up and the headless whip dully fell to the polished stone floor. Malice kicked the now useless tool across the room and stepped closer to the males kneeling in line, shoulder to shoulder.

“Outrageous. Unprecedented. Blasphemous.” Zaknafein clearly heard whispers of appalled Lloth’s priestesses behind the throne, as he wisely kept his eyes glued to the chapel floor. Malice’s feet first stopped in front of Rizzen who shrunk so much he appeared only half the size from when he first entered the room.

“Was it you?” hissed Malice, knowing very well this poor drow had neither an interest nor guts for an act of that sort. Nevertheless, she indulged in her anger. “I’ll put you through torture so hellish in the end you’ll be BEGGING me to turn you into a drider!” she squeezed through teeth while the sole of her boot slowly crushed his fingers against the stone floor.

“N-no, it wasn’t me!” Rizzen’s trembling mouth panicky wailed as his face pressed against the pavement in a spasm of agony, “It wasn’t me!”. Helpless desperation seeped from his every pore and Malice feasted on his fear like a spider on a helpless fly, allowing herself a moment of pure pleasure. It was sweet nectar for her black soul.

“Like I ever thought otherwise”, she spat out in cold contempt and lifted her foot off his squashed fingers. Warm blood welled up from beneath his fingernails, bringing smiles to faces of the females in the chapel. Malice then strode away, but in ears of the remaining males the sound of Rizzen’s muffled sobs echoed louder than clinking of her approaching boots. She then walked over to where the Weapon Master, notorious for his boldness as for his fighting skills, was bowing. He was still staring at the floor in front of him, not raising his gaze even when Malice’s feet came in sight.

“You?” she called out coldly, and Zaknafein readily raised his head, clearly asking with his eyes if she had lost her mind. However, every trace of cynicism disappeared from his face when he met her adamant glare that didn’t promise any good. She was far more enraged than she appeared, patiently saving the entire might of the storm of her wrath for the committer of such sacrilege. So Zaknafein just shook his head in denial, putting on a serious expression; for flies it was smarter not to test the sharpness of spider’s jaws on their own skin. It was a lesson he learned in time, the hard way.

Malice narrowed her eyes at Zaknafein, judging him, pondering on his reaction, but wisely keeping violent outbursts of rage to herself. Here she didn’t want to hastily jump to any conclusions because Zaknafein was renown as the best Weapon Master in the city, a station that made him the treasure she didn’t want to lose over shaky accusations. She couldn’t find a motive that would compel him to do such a thing, i.e. he had no more reasons than any other male of the house. Moreover, Zaknafein wasn’t the type prone to such risky, suicidal displays of insolence. But, then again, who would be?

“Than it was you, you little worm!” Malice snapped at Dinin so abruptly he cried out in surprise despite the expected grilling. As if she were suddenly possessed by a demon, the Matron grabbed the secondboy’s piwafwi and pulled him up in a single jerk like he was no heavier than a feather. The sword he brought from the practice room fell from Dinin’s hand but he made no attempt to defend himself; he knew it would be an useless effort and eventually worse than death. Instead he just silently stared at his mother with eyes wide with horror, while his feet desperately sought firm footing on the slick floor.

Seeing mortal fear on Dinin’s face and knowing Malice’s sadistic potential, Zaknafein could hold back no longer: “All three heads could be hacked with a sword only in one single blow… otherwise the remaining heads would kill the attacker. It’s an action that requires a great amount of strength and speed”, he studied Dinin who was trying real hard not to struggle too much, suspended in the air as he was, “I seriously doubt the kid could have performed such a feat. He doesn’t even have a real sword yet!” Zaknafein’s head motioned towards the dulled wooden sword Dinin had dropped, Malice’s gaze following his gesture.

“If it wasn’t done with a sword…” she thought out loud, letting the secondboy fall as if he was just an inanimate object and showing no reaction to the dull thud his body made in collision with the hard floor. Malice knew very well that no one outside the group present here had the access to her possessions and now the choice dangerously narrowed down to only one candidate.

“Then it was done by the help of magic!” she screamed in sudden realization and kicked Nalfein, a successful young wizard from Sorcere, square in the chest so hard the poor drow fell on his back. Lying frozen, sprawled in front of his mother, the elderboy’s eyes frenetically darted from one person to another in a shocked disbelief. His mouth silently formed the word several times, before he finally mustered enough strength to utter a sound;

“NO!” he emphatically denied, but it was too late; Malice’s boot had already found his belly and planted its high heel there, sharp as a dagger.

“Oh YES!” she toothily grinned at him while reaching out for the white mane of his hair and drawing him so close he felt the heat of her breath, as she spoke slowly to make sure he understood the weight of her every word. “You and I are now going to have a little private conversation. You don’t like whips?” Her bony hand clenched even tighter and almost tore the white locks it was gripping off Nalfein’s skull, making the male scram in excruciating pain. The Matron pressed her boot harder in his soft stomach to warn and quiet him down and when his wails turned into muffled groans, she continued: “Never mind, I have LOTS of other instruments at my disposal.”

Nalfein vainly attempted to shake his head in denial one more time, petrified by unspeakable terror, but Malice completely ignored him. She dragged the unfortunate male by hair a few inches across the polished floor before he shakily scurried up to his hands and knees, following behind her on all fours. As soon as Malice went for the door, her daughters promptly followed, swift in their long dresses, soundless and quick like three dark shadows. But a single threatening glare from their mother sent them all one involuntary step back.

“This one is mine”, the eldest female hoarsely growled from depths of her throat, driving the others away like the biggest vulture would scare off the flock of smaller ones. Not even cruel Briza dared to protest.

The three males kneeling on the floor didn’t make a sound throughout the entire scene, nor did they dare to raise their eyes, feeling lucky Malice focused her anger elsewhere. They knew she was taking the elderboy to a dungeon below the house foundations, a place that made skin of every Do’Urden family member crawl. Nalfein’s ever quieter groans and fear that could be smelled were a poignant reminder of what happened to those who drew the unwanted attention of Lloth’s priestess upon themselves. And with three disappointed and resigned priestesses in the room, neither of the males wanted to push his luck. But, in those seconds long as an eternity, Zaknafein dared to cast a furtive glance at Nalfein; he simply didn’t understand why the damned fool pulled such a stupid hoax. If he really wanted to kill himself there were so many easier, quicker and – most importantly – less painful ways to do it.

But for some reason Zaknafein found the horror and disbelief on the elderboy’s face authentic and frank.

He cast a fleeting glance to his right, at Rizzen, to see if maybe he too had noticed something was wrong, but the other male slumped back and was literally melting in relief, not caring one bit about the fate of Nalfein who easily could have been his biological son. But Dinin, to Zaknafein’s left, was still kneeling with back tensely arched, vigilantly listening to every dying cry of his older brother. Behind the long locks of his thick snow-white hair, Zaknafein made out a wicked smile.

Then it dawned on to him in a sudden flash of realization – Dinin did it! It was Dinin who destroyed Malice’s whip! And he, Zaknafein, practically helped him as a defender. What was even worse, his words directly accused Nalfein! Even thought he never liked the elderboy, Zaknafein didn’t want the young drow’s blood on his hands. It was expected the two brothers would, just like any other two dark elves, try to eliminate competition between themselves, but the fact he was used as a tool in one such dirty square-off made Zaknafein literally mad with rage.

As soon as the females left the chapel taking the atmosphere of immanent death with them, Zaknafein raised up to his feet and barked out an order, eyeing the secondboy on the floor with a stern glare:

“Practice room, now!”

Dinin was more than happy to leave this vile place that invoked only bad memories. He promptly jumped up, picked up his sword and lunged down the corridor to get to the practice room before his teacher and to wait for him there, prepared.

“You!” Zaknafein spouted from the practice room entrance, taking off his sweat-soaked piwafwi in one wide move, “You did that idiocy!”

Dinin didn’t even attempt to defend or explain himself, or try to hide a triumphant smirk that curved his lips. The fact that Zaknafein put two and two together didn’t worry him at all; being a male, Zaknafein’s opinions and beliefs had little repercussions on what happened in this house. The only thing that mattered for Dinin was the fact he did not get caught then and did not get picked out by his mother today. The fact that everyone else knew he managed to pull off something like this and go unpunished could only raise his status and respect in their eyes. Not when it came to Zaknafein, though.

“But how…?” began the Weapon Master confusedly studying Dinin’s dulled sword. Then he suddenly realized. Zaknafein turned, grabbed his sword that, as always, laid on a nearby table during the practice sessions and pulled it out of its scabbard. He then turned the blade and meticulously examined its smooth metal surface, before running tips of his thin fingers across it and bringing them to his nose. It took a millisecond for the old warrior to recognize the characteristic smell of tanned leather and shoot a dark glare at Dinin;

“With MY sword? You damned fool, what would have happened if Malice decided to inspect it?" he hissed out the rhetorical question through teeth.

Dinin calmly shrugged and looked him straight in the eyes, saying flatly: “Neither of us lied to Matron today, so we have nothing to fear.” He continued almost conspiratorially; “Nothing happened anyway.”

“Nothing?” exclaimed Zaknafein, not believing Dinin’s cockiness, “If you really wanted to see your brother dead so much, you could have killed him yourself with one clean blow. If Malice finishes him off today, know it will be fate worse than a thousand deaths…” Zaknafein’s voice trailed off when he clearly saw on the face of the young drow that was exactly the scenario he had hoped for. The Weapon Master went blind with rage.

In a motion dripping with bitterness, Zaknafein cast away the scabbard of his sword far behind his back, retreated couple of steps and raised his weapon in level with his eyes, glaring at Dinin across the blade. “You’re right secondboy, neither of us lied to Matron today. You didn’t deny anything and I still stand behind my words that an exceptional speed and power would have been required for such a feat. So let us see the level of your skill for real!”, and with these words he darted towards the younger dark elf like a projectile.

Dinin didn’t even attempt to parry, knowing that with a wooden sword he had little chance against a real weapon. Instead he nimbly jumped aside avoiding the blow and the next few that followed in a rapid succession, forcing him to constantly retreat. Whenever Zaknafein’s swing came low and parallel to the ground, Dinin would call upon his innate ability of levitation to aid his spring. Whenever Zaknafein’s chop came high, the young drow would drop to the ground like a stone, skinning his palms and knees just to keep his head on his shoulders, but would in the next instant already be on his feet again, concentrated on the next attack. Zaknafein’s anger worked in Dinin’s favour, since the Weapon Master hit blindly and without calculation, making it easier for the secondboy to evade his wide blows.

Zaknafein, even more enraged by the moving target he was constantly failing to strike, raised his sword high above his head and brought it down like a guillotine, delivering a chop that would have cleanly split Dinin’s skull in two had it landed right. But in the last moment the younger drow positioned his sword vertically to Zaknafein’s, so the metal hacked into wood splitting it down the middle throughout its entire length, finally stopping at the hilt of Dinin’s sword, just a few millimeters from his fingers. Splinters exploded all over floor and Zaknafein was instantly awakened form his frenzy by a sharp, excruciating pain, as if all the bones in his fist and wrist had been crushed into smithereens. Behind two fists that gripped the handle of the wooden sword so hard their knuckles had turned white, a pair of Dinin’s blood-red eyes stared at him with a mixture of fear, joy he was still alive, relief and – silent triumph.

Zaknafein jerked his sword backwards, pulling the remains of the wooden weapon from Dinin’s hands with ease. With another deft move he stripped it off his blade and cast it to the floor. From the force of the blow the wood split one more time, protested with a sharp crack and remained lying on the pavement so disfigured it was hardly recognizable.

“Starting tomorrow you practice with a real weapon” Zaknafein pronounced in a cold, even voice, again regaining control over himself. “And now…” he shot a glare at Dinin, but looking at him no longer as at a boy, but as at a man. “Hit the floor!” he growled and Dinin readily complied, “Give me fifty!”

‘To Nine Hells with him… skillful as a devil and twice as calculated’ – the Weapon Master made a mental note to himself, still very aware of the pulsating pain spreading from his wrist to his elbow. He silently observed Dinin’s back muscles in their rhythmic waves of contraction and relaxation, fighting the urge to plunge a sword between his shoulder blades. It seemed he managed to create a real drow warrior out of the young secondboy, another supreme assassin for the house Do’Urden. But, instead of making him proud, the notion appalled him.

‘Damned be the day you crawled out of Malice’s womb’ – Zaknafein eventually bitterly concluded and moved away without a word. He wanted to be alone. Knowing what followed, he couldn’t allow the tricky secondboy to take note of his momentary weakness. The old warrior was suddenly swept over by the flow of well-known resignation, anger and desperation, and he was again, just like every time this happened, caught unprepared. This part of him was an enemy the seasoned Weapon Master didn’t know how to fight. That farce about enforcement of justice only reminded him of the omnipresent death and evil that slowly suffocated his will to live, lurking like a spider in the eternal darkness that wasn’t thick enough to hide him from the beast’s beady eyes. He was sick and tired of living that way. But again, the only thing he knew how to do was to survive day by day, which, in the world of the drow meant only one thing - to kill. And now, a big part of that skill was passed on to another soldier in the Spider Queen’s army; yet another monster was created.

Down on the floor, still raising and falling as his teacher had ordered, Dinin followed Zaknafein out of the room with a corner of his eye, noting how defeatist hanged his shoulders were. The Weapon Master was getting old and his attention was slacking; a fact that didn’t escape Dinin’s sharp eye. And when his teacher disappeared in the hallway, the young drow’s lips parted in a vicious smile through sweat that trickled down his face.

His time has yet to come.