***
CHAPTER SEVEN -- Forging a Blade & New Bonds
*all characters in this story are over the age of eighteen*
***
***ARAN -- Ironshire, Ekistair***
Steel clashed and clanged as Smythe and Aran circled each other in the small basement, each man's blade seeking the skin of his opponent. Not a single mark marred Aran's body, but Smythe bore three red stripes on his torso, and one on each arm above the elbow.
Aran's mind was empty, save for the fleeting presence of each moment flowing seamlessly into the next. He was one with his blade, one with the sweat dripping down his chest, one with his muscular mentor, who was relentlessly attacking, trying to force him off balance, but like a boulder before a wild storm, Aran simply allowed the immense force to flow around him, placing sharp counterattacks when moments presented themselves. Those moments were rare, as Smythe truly was a master swordsman, and had Aran not been focused as an arrow in a drawn bow, he would have been amazed at the fact that Smythe had not scored a hit on him so far today.
The big Paladin was tireless in his constant assaults, his greatsword spinning and flicking like nothing Aran had ever seen. From what he knew of these long, heavy blades, they were meant to be used in a manner that resembled vicious, inelegant chopping, as they were too heavy for finer movements, but Smythe handled his as if it weighed nothing, and Aran was careful to respect his skill.
Suddenly, Aran realised why Smythe was attacking so furiously; he must be unwilling to endure another one of Aran's assaults, so he was keeping Aran on the back foot! Either that, or it's what he wanted Aran to think.
Deflecting a particularly sharp thrust, Aran changed to an attacking form and began to press forward. Not in a rush, but in a gradual momentum that would apply slowly increasing pressure to his mentor. Indeed, Smythe reluctantly gave ground until he was back in a defensive form, and that's where Aran began to push.
Smythe was fast, but Aran was faster, their blades ablur as the younger man overwhelmed the older with strength and speed he had kept hidden until now. With Smythe now putting all his focus behind keeping Aran's blade at bay, Aran completed his attack, performing a series of complex feints to lower Smythe's guard. The greatsword went clattering to the stone floor, flicked away by an intricate flourish that Aran had learned from Smythe, and the big Paladin froze as Aran's blade came to rest against his throat.
Aran stepped back quickly; he'd won the match, there was no need to be disrespectful and gloat about it.
"Well done, lad," Smythe said, his face split by a broad grin. "That was masterful work, there. Now that I know how quick you really are, I'll be watching for it next time."
Aran smiled. "Looking forward to it, Master." He really was beginning to enjoy these sparring sessions, as tough as they were. The sword work in particular was usually the pinnacle of his day.
Smythe grunted in response. "Don't let it go to your head, boy. You're good, but if you start imagining you're the best in the world, sooner or later it will cause you problems."
Aran nodded respectfully. "Duly noted, Master. Shall we continue?"
Smythe shook his head, his shoulder-length black hair swaying a little where it wasn't plastered to his head and neck with sweat. "No, we are done sparring, for now. You have proven yourself worthy of carrying a blade, and so now you must forge your own."
Aran nearly dropped his weapon. "Forge my own blade? But I know nothing of smithing, Master!"
Smythe smiled at that. "Then it's time you learned, young Aran."
***
***KING BERENOR -- Dark Elven Realm of Eredor, Palistair.***
"Sire, Lady Shenla has arrived."
"Send her in, Peldin," King Berenor commanded in his bass voice, dismissing the guardsman with a flick of his dark finger. Peldin was a good soldier, and had served Berenor well over the past two-hundred years or so. He was a loyal Elf, proud and strong, and not afraid to perform some of the less glamorous tasks that came with serving a king.
"Yes, sire," Peldin said, inclining his head respectfully before turning heel and striding toward the huge stone doorway that led to the anteroom, where this 'Lady Shenla' would be waiting under the watchful eyes of his Nightguard. This woman claimed to have advantageous information regarding the movements of the High Elves, sworn enemies of the Dark Elves. Berenor was no fool, however; anyone claiming to possess such information would be asking for significant payment, that is if they weren't dealing misinformation on behalf of said High Elves.
Berenor adjusted himself on his throne -- a marvelous piece made purely of worked silver and adorned with rubies and emeralds -- as he watched Peldin go, adopting a relaxed, confident demeanor. He wore not a stitch, as was the custom for Dark Elves when they were in their underground home. Tall and lithe and graced with handsome features, Berenor knew he presented an imposing figure, especially with his manhood hanging heavily between his legs, which were deliberately open as he sat his throne. It was a symbolic display of power, also useful in keeping visitors from the upper world off balance. Often, up-worlders were not used to such open displays of nudity. Especially Humans, sticklers for propriety that they were. As a male Elf, Berenor's loins continued to grow throughout his life, and at over four hundred years old, he bore an impressive appendage, several inches long in repose and twice that when hard.
His attendants stood to either side of the throne, one to his left and one to his right. Evalys and Avalys were twin sisters, both of them young and stunningly beautiful, and both properly unclothed; Berenor knew how important appearances were in matters of court, and only chose the most attractive Elves to serve him. Skin as black as moonless night, and hair as white as snow like all true Dark Elves, his prime courtesans were two of the most stunning creatures in his realm. Less than a hundred years old, their bodies were still slender and lithe, with pert breasts, long, slim legs and tight bottoms.
Berenor's loins twitched as he looked them up and down in turn; he would allow them to service him after this so-called Lady Shenla said what she had to say. He would have let them pleasure him during the audience, but he wanted no distractions at this meeting.
The throne room itself was a vast space with high, arched ceilings supported by fluted stone columns as thick as three Elves. The dais sat at the end of the room, opposite the entrance. The underground city of Eredor was a testament to the skill of Dark Elf craftsmen and women.
The heavy, black stone door swung inward as it was pushed open by Peldin, who escorted a cloaked figure through the double row of thick stone pillars that led to the dais. The figure moved confidently, seemingly unhindered by the pitch blackness in which the Dark Elves lived. So, Lady Shenla could see in the dark then? Or was she aided by magic? Her cowl turned in Peldin's direction every now and then, the tilt suggesting that she was eyeing him up and down.
Berenor's eyebrows lifted slightly as he noticed that, for some reason, Peldin was developing an erection.
"King Berenor, High Seat of the Elven Underground Realm of Eredor," Peldin began grandly. "I present to you Lady Shenla."
Her lack of a title left a telling vacuum at the end of Peldin's announcement, and Berenor suppressed a smile at the contrast.
Lady Shenla reached the dais and curtsied -- though not very deeply -- before lowering her hood, revealing to Berenor the most beautiful face he had ever seen. Lustrous black hair framed a perfect face with large, dark eyes and full, sensual, midnight lips. His attendants looked like common wenches compared to this stunning creature!
"Greetings, your Highness," she drawled in a sultry voice, her tone laden with promise and desire. "I am Lady Shenla. It is a pleasure to be in your presence." Her tongue caressed the world 'pleasure,' sending a tingle up Berenor's spine and stirring his loins. Despite his usually solid self-control, his dark phallus began to lengthen between his thighs. Shenla glanced dismissively at his courtesans, before fixing her hot gaze back on him.
"The pleasure is mine, Princess," Berenor returned politely, willing himself not to grow erect so easily. It was difficult, but he managed it. "I trust your journey was pleasant?"
She nodded gracefully. "Indeed, sire, but for the conservative ways of the surface-folk. Where I hail from, we embrace our bodies, much the same as your people do." To demonstrate, she let the cloak slip from her shoulders, the garment pooling on the floor at her feet.
Berenor's self-control vanished and his cock springing up to full mast as he took in the ravishing rose-skinned goddess before him; all luscious curves and feminine allure. Usually, he favoured slender, willowy women, but this woman was the picture of perfection; lush and fertile with large, round breasts, wide hips and shapely thighs. Berenor's mind felt clouded by lust as he beheld her, and all thought was reduced to dim background noise.
Shenla's eyes focused on Berenor's rigid pole standing up proudly in his lap. She licked her lips seductively. "I see the pleasure is indeed all yours, my King," she purred, stepping up onto the dais. "We have much to discuss, sire. Would you prefer privacy?"
Berenor nodded dumbly. "Leave us," He commanded of Peldin and his courtesans, without taking his eyes of Shenla. He did not even notice the twins' pert ebony rumps as they wiggled out of sight, shadowed by the Guard-Captain.
Shenla was within arm's reach now, and knelt before the throne, placing her hands on his thighs, slowly sliding them up and down. "Mmmm, my King, I did not expect you to be so... virile!" She purred. Just having her touch him was sending sparks through Berenor's body. "Maybe you and I can have some fun together, no?"
