:Just as you thought, those are two of your problem children. Mind, all you need to do is disillusion them. They’ve got good hearts, they’re just, well—:

:Arrogant in some ways, because they’re ignorant and don’t know it,: he supplied.

:Exactly. I can tell you that they are currently the despair of their Companions. Nothing Trevor and Mik can say shakes them out of their conviction that they are never going to find themselves in trouble that they can’t come out of, covered in glory.:

At least he wouldn’t have the problem with these boys that he often had with recruits—bad attitude, bad breeding, either spoiled by indulgent parents and thinking that everything should be given to them, or beaten as youngsters, figuring it was every man for himself. Too many of the Sunsguard troops were like that; hardened, with no morals to speak of.

:Why, Chosen—I believe you are beginning to like your decision to stay with us!: Kantor said with gentle mockery.

Alberich ignored him.

“I Alberich am,” he said gravely, and waited for Dethor to give him his direction. Dethor, after all, was the Weaponsmaster here; it was Dethor who should set the lessons, and Alberich who should carry them out.

He didn’t notice any reaction to his name, which was nothing like a Valdemaran name, or at least, so he supposed.

“It is the new Weapons Second I am,” he continued, meeting their eyes, each in turn. “Chosen by Master Dethor. Himself. Who now, direct us will.”

Dethor quickly divided the group into pairs and set them working with each other. Interestingly, he paired the girls, not with each other, but with two of the brown-haired boys. The last two—the boys Alberich had marked as being a possible source of trouble—Dethor motioned to join Alberich.

“Sword and shield, and make them work, Alberich,” he said shortly. “These lads are ahead of the rest by a bit; treat them as trained, because they are. They can go two-on-one against you.”

The boys exchanged a look; the darker, more muscular one with a touch of smug glee, the other (the one who was taller, less blocky, and brown-haired), with a look of dawning misgiving, which was replaced by anticipation when he saw the expression on his friend’s face. His friend was wildly optimistic about their chances, and he had come to trust his friend’s judgment.

Alberich knew that look of old. Overconfidence, poor young fools, because they were large dogs in a pack of small dogs, and had never been shown any better. They thought that they were the kings of the world, and immortal. An attitude like that would get them killed—

Unless Dethor and I can knock some better sense into their heads.