The Trials of Caste (24 page)

Durik frowned, “Of course, now shut up.”  Worry
from the events of the past day bled into the anticipation of the trials, leaving
Durik in turmoil.  Breathing deeply, he began to feel his focus return as he
calmed the stress.

Tension showed clearly in the faces of all members
of the small group of would-be kobold warriors as the master trainer inspected
them.  Each of them knew that they must score points or kills in the coming
contest, or else there, in front of the entire gen, they would be relegated to
the servant caste.  Such a spectacular failure was not unprecedented, in fact
it was quite common in generations past before the year of training was
instituted, but it was rare enough in these times that to complete the year of
training and then to fail in the Trials of Caste was something that was never
forgotten.

Manebrow’s thoughts were not on whether they would
all pass or not.  He could not help but linger on the fact that at the end of
this day one of them would be his leader, one of them his peer, and five of
them his brand new warriors.  Looking at them, Manebrow shook his head.  Tails
twitching, eyes glazed, and knuckles turning white under translucent rust red
scales grasping spear shafts.  While they were the best, though smallest, group
of yearlings he’d trained yet, still they were just beginning to understand
what it truly meant to be a warrior.  As he watched them twitch and fidget the
thought crossed his mind that these were the hope of the gen for this year, the
best that they all had to offer, but right now they looked like a scared little
group of overgrown whelps.  Fates willing, they would be equal to the challenges
that lay ahead.

Manebrow approached the end of the line from
behind.  “All right, yearlings, this is it!  Do not let the pressure of this
event change what you’ve spent the last year becoming.  Keep your heads on
straight.  Focus on the task at hand.  All this year of training and practice
has led you to this moment.  Today, each of you makes your mark in this gen… in
front of the whole gen!  What you do today will be talked about for years to
come.  Take the Fates by the throat and subject them to
your
will. 
Seize this day, yearlings, for it is your day of destiny!”  Looking at the now chiseled
faces of the yearlings, Manebrow nodded.  “May each of you advance according to
your preparations and take your places in this gen.”  Nodding slightly he added,
“And may the Fates smile on you all this day.”

Manebrow looked to his right and left at the two
assistant trainers, two elite warriors from the ranks of the Honor Guard who
had helped with various training events over the course of the year, and who would
now help judge this event, both of whom were champions of previous years. 

“I believe it is time.”  Manebrow turned.  “Let us
see if they’re ready to sound entrance.”  Manebrow, followed by the two
assistant trainers, walked up the passageway from the bowels of the arena
sub-complex into the light of the massive cavern that formed the arena proper. 
They were dressed in the traditional ceremonial garb of the trainers; swords in
metal scabbards crossed over their backs, suspended from crossed shoulder belts,
loincloths with belts fully a hand wide made of thick leather covering their
stomachs.  The three trainers walked with full confidence into the arena,
masters of their trade and of the trials.

After a short time, from the passageway up into
the arena, the yearlings heard the ringing call of the horn.  In unison they stiffened
and turning, moved out in a line at a slow trot up the passageway toward the
bright light of the arena. 

As they entered the massive cavern that served as
the arena for the first time since the preparations had begun, they saw that it
was filled with almost the entire gen.  Many rows of benches sat atop the
massive wall on one side of the cavern full of shouting, excited kobolds.  Braziers
full of flaming coal dotted the walls of the arena, the fire of them glowing
red off the underbelly of the earthen ceiling above them.  Already the light of
morning in the world above showed through the belly button of that ceiling; the
hole that the first Lord Kale had found almost a thousand years now in the
past.    

The noise reached a deafening roar as the
yearlings trotted in a line out into the light of the arena.  Durik, at the
head of the line, regained his bearings, his senses thoroughly assaulted with
the spectacle of it all, and spotted Manebrow flanked by the two assistant
trainers on the trainers’ stand on the far side of a large patch of sawdust. 
Two large weapons stands stood one on either side of the sawdust circle. 

Durik led the line at a slow trot past one of the
weapons stands and into the circular sawdust area, eventually slowing to allow
the others in the line to space themselves evenly around the perimeter.  The
crowd cheered loudly in the enclosed chamber as they came to a stop and the
seven yearlings held their heads high. 

Knowing his bronze scales made him stand out,
Durik could feel the eyes of the entire gen staring at him.  From the corner of
his eye he could see several younger kobolds from other warrior groups pointing
at him and talking to each other.  Taking a deep breath, Durik tried to ignore
the extra attention and refocused.

On a command from Manebrow on the trainer’s stand,
the seven yearlings turned as one and faced the middle.  An assistant trainer
led the yearlings as they stretched their tense muscles to his commands and
limbered up for the challenges of the day.  Despite their rigid training and
discipline, some of the yearlings could not help but let their eyes wander a
bit to look for their families’ faces in the crowd.

As they finished stretching, the other assistant trainer
came down from the stand and ran up the stairs that led to Lord Karthan’s box,
which sat at the edge of the large wall, in the center of the stands.  Here
Lord Karthan and his three whelps were seated surrounded by the leader of his
Honor Guard dressed in full battle garb, his chief elite warrior and one of his
warriors who had a rather loud voice; the announcer for this year’s trials. 

Performing his ceremonial duty as chamberlain,
Khazak Mail Fist stood and held out a scroll with Lord Karthan’s seal on it. 
The assistant trainer bowed his head in respect and took the scroll, returning
with it to the stand.

Manebrow broke the seal and read the short list,
which was the order in which the trials were to be executed this year.  After a
brief moment he rolled the scroll back up again and stood straight to address
the Council’s boxes in the stands directly behind him.

“Lord Karthan, your instructions are understood.  We
await your orders to begin the trials!” Manebrow’s voice rose over the crowd. 
The crowd grew quiet as they awaited the traditional speech and the order to
start the trials which would follow.

“My people,” Lord Karthan began as he stood and
addressed the host of kobolds in the stands behind him, the shape of the
chamber carrying his words to all.  “Today is more than just the day of the
Trials of Caste.  Today is the Day of Beginnings where we celebrate,” he said,
pointing with outstretched hand at the line of yearlings, “these the Creator
has given us to take the places of those warriors whom He has taken to Himself.”

His words had brought the desired moment of
soberness to the assembled crowd, and he smiled a tempered smile for all to see.

“Today is also a day of great tradition, for the
Day of Beginnings and the Trials of Caste that occur on this day have been with
us since before our Kale ancestors left the citadel of The Sorcerer where our
race began; our ancient home of Palacid.  Now, as we receive with glad hearts
these yearlings into our ranks as warriors, let us remember who we are,
remember our heritage, and renew our commitment to strive always to live up to
that heritage.”

Turning, Lord Karthan looked down at the assembled
line of yearlings, few as these children of a year of famine were, then steeled
himself as his gaze settled on Manebrow and the two assistant trainers.  “Good
trainer,” he continued, loud enough for all to hear, “remember your charge to
ensure the readiness of the gen.  Today you are no longer trainer, but rather
you are the standard against which these yearlings will be judged.  May you
execute this charge diligently, that the future leaders of this gen may be
determined and the strength of this gen maintained through the trials.”

As Lord Karthan sat, Khazak Mail Fist’s voice
boomed out.  “Master Judge, begin the trials!”

W
ith
the order to start the trials given, and to the roar of hundreds of assembled
kobolds, Manebrow hit his right fist to his chest then extended his arm in the
ceremonial salute of a warrior to the Lord of the Gen.  Turning around, he
waited a moment for the crowd to quiet down then yelled to the two assistant
trainers and the seven yearlings, “Prepare for the first melee weapons match!”

One of the trainers stepped forward into the
center of the sawdust circle.  Around them stretched out the rest of the arena,
filled with the targets and weapons racks of the ranged weapons trial and the
wooden passageways covered with netting, large wooden structures, and hidden
traps for the scouting trial.  The promise of a long, hard day that would test
the yearlings to their limit was arrayed around them.  Durik set his jaw. 
These, his friends, were now his opponents, but tomorrow they would again be
his friends.  The trainer lifted his hands and faced the crowd as the announcer
in the Honor Guard box began with the rules.

“Each yearling will have his choice of weapons
from the weapons racks that stand outside the sawdust area before the match
begins” the announcer began.  “If a yearling exits the sawdust area after the
match begins, he forfeits the entire match.  A match is three rounds.  Limbs
struck by the painted end of the weapon are not to be used for the round.  A
glancing blow to a vital area is a round loss, but not a match loss.  A solid
blow to a vital area with the painted portion of a weapon doesn’t just win that
particular round, but is considered match loss and therefore elimination from
the trial.  The trial will continue until there is only one remaining.”

Turning to face the yearlings, the trainer spoke. 
“Durik!  Trallik!  Choose your weapons!”  In the stands, Trallik’s father and
Durik’s uncle both tensed.

Durik’s stomach knotted as his name was called. 
He spun on his heel and ran over to the weapons rack closest to him.  Looking
over the training weapons, he selected a solid looking fighting spear with a
bright red wooden tip.  Trallik came up next to him.

“Good luck, Durik,” Trallik said, a slightly
sarcastic tone in his voice.

“And to you, Trallik,” Durik answered, never sure
of Trallik’s intentions.

Trallik chose a pair of long fighting knives,
short swords really, with bright red hardwood blades.  Together the two
yearlings returned to the circle.  The trainer drew a line and the two faced
off on either side.

“Fight!” the trainer yelled as he stepped back
from the center line.

Durik leapt forward, spear at a thrusting
position, hoping for a quick and easy kill.  Trallik was much too quick for
that, however, and easily sidestepped the point of the spear.  It was all that
Durik could do to block an undercut from Trallik’s knife as his momentum
carried him past his opponent.  He cursed himself for being so anxious to end
the match quickly.  Having sparred with Trallik on so many occasions, he should
have chosen a much better tactic.  Fortunately, this time he’d not lost because
of his nervous impetuousness.

The two of them faced off again and began circling
each other in the center of the ring.  Suddenly, Durik feigned a thrust to the
head, bringing the tip instead toward Trallik’s chest.  Trallik blocked toward
the feint, then, realizing his mistake, dodged the tip as it drove toward his
chest.

As they began to circle again, Durik saw that
Trallik was crossing one leg in front of the other every few steps as they
circled instead of sidestepping as they’d been taught.  He continued to circle
for a few moments, watching for him to do it again.  As Trallik crossed one leg
in front of the other, Durik seized the moment and drove his spear tip in a
hard thrust toward Trallik’s stomach.  Caught with his legs crossed, Trallik
stumbled as he tried to dodge.  But instead of taking the blow to the stomach,
Durik scored a glancing blow to Trallik’s chest and arm as Trallik desperately
tried to block.

“Round one, Durik!” announced the trainer.

The two opponents squared off again on either side
of the line.  This time, Trallik was sweating.  Durik’s eyes focused squarely
on Trallik’s chest, avoiding his misleading eyes and watching his body rhythm
for clues to his true plans.

“Round two.  Fight!” yelled the trainer. 

Trallik leapt forward this time.  Durik moved his
spear point to intercept, but was not fast enough.  Trallik easily kept his tip
away with one long knife as he moved to strike a decisive blow with the other. 
But Durik was stronger than Trallik, and only slightly slower.  He brought the
other end of his spear up sharply, connecting with Trallik’s wrist and knocking
the knife out of Trallik’s hand.  As Trallik tried to recover, Durik kicked him
firmly in the stomach, knocking him off his feet and onto the sawdust. 
Following up quickly on his advantage, Durik threw his spear as Trallik was
still landing.  With a resonating ‘thump,’ Durik’s spear rebounded off of
Trallik’s chest.

“Match!  Durik wins!” announced the trainer. 
“Return your weapons.  Durik, to the right of the trainers’ stand.  Trallik, to
the left.”  In the stands, Trallik’s father looked concerned.  Durik’s uncle,
aunt, and sister were all excited and almost the entire Wolf Guard Warrior
Group was on their feet shouting and cheering their yearling on.

The two young kobolds shook hands, though Trallik
was visibly upset and felt shamed by his quick loss.  They retrieved their
weapons, placing them back in the racks, and took their respective places. 
Even before they got to their places, the trainer had already announced the
next match.  Keryak and Arbelk ran to the racks and retrieved a spear and a
short sword with shield respectively.  They squared off and began the match
quickly.  Where Durik’s style was more aggressive and Trallik’s was quick, but
not as aggressive, both Keryak and Arbelk were more cautious in their style. 
Their match went longer than most would that day, as both of them circled quite
a bit and neither of them was in any great hurry to rush the other.  It didn’t
help that they were just as strong as each other and neither one was clearly
faster or more skilled.  Finally, after a couple of minutes of poking at each
other from arm’s length, Arbelk made a rush and ended up bowling Keryak over. 
In the process, however, he caught a low thrust from Keryak in his abdomen and
lost the match.

The last match of the first set of matches was the
most exciting.  As there were three left, it was decided that Gorgon, Troka and
Jerrig would all fight simultaneously.  Gorgon, the strongest and most
aggressive of them all, chose a padded, two handed wooden-headed hammer. 
Troka, by far the tallest of yearlings, chose a two-handed wooden broadsword. 
Jerrig, who knew he was sorely outclassed, cursed his bad luck and chose a
javelin with shield.  Gorgon was ferocious with the hammer and neither of the
other two wanted to get close to him.  He was much stronger than Troka, who in
turn was stronger than Jerrig.  Troka’s one great advantage was his height and
reach.  He was easily a hand taller than Gorgon and two taller than Jerrig. 
Gorgon and Jerrig, however, were equally as fast, which was more than Troka
could handle. 

Once the match started, it was only a matter of a
few seconds before Jerrig threw his javelin and scored a glancing blow on
Troka, putting Troka out of that round.  Then, retrieving Troka’s sword, he and
Gorgon circled for a moment before Gorgon, swinging his hammer menacingly,
caught Jerrig’s shield, ripping it from his grasp.  Knowing that he had about
three seconds to either score or face getting pushed out of the ring with
Gorgon’s wide hammer sweeps, Jerrig went low for a sweep at Gorgon’s legs.  He
hit, but in turn Gorgon brought his wooden hammer down quickly.  Following the
rules of sparing, Gorgon tapped Jerrig on the back with it.  Jerrig was out of
the match.

The second round of the match was between only
Gorgon and Troka.  The two of them were very good with their respective weapons
and it was a hard fought battle.  Though Gorgon was the faster and stronger of
the two, Troka’s long reach and equally long sword kept Gorgon from getting too
close.  After a couple of minutes of give and take, both Gorgon and Troka were
using only one hand.  Finally, with a sweep from his hammer, Gorgon knocked the
sword from Troka’s grasp.  Troka made a desperate jump for Jerrig’s fallen
javelin, but was not fast enough with one hand to bring it to bear before
Gorgon had swept his legs with his hammer and stood over him with his hammer in
front of his face.  The match was Gorgon’s.

Durik leaned over to Keryak, “My friend, you’ll
excuse me if I beat you senseless.”

Laughing, Keryak responded, “Only if I don’t beat
you senseless first!”

With all three matches decided, Gorgon, Keryak,
and Durik stood to the right of the stand, while Trallik, Arbelk, Jerrig, and
Troka stood to the left.  The other trainer came down and replaced the trainer
that had judged the first round while the yearlings took advantage of the pause
to stretch a little more and prepare for the second set of matches.

“Gorgon, Keryak, and Durik stand tied in the
bracket for first place.”  The crowd quieted as the announcer from the Honor
Guard box started.  “He who first loses will be in third place.  He who loses
to the last yearling standing will take second.  He who wins the last match is
in first place.”

The trainer faced the remaining three yearlings
and spoke, “Choose your weapons!”  Keryak and Durik both chose spears from the
rack.  Gorgon again chose the two handed hammer.  Durik grimaced as he looked
at how lovingly Gorgon felt the weight of the wooden hammer and how gracefully
he swung it about, testing its weight.  Padded or not, the hammer could be a
dangerous weapon if not handled with care.

“Keryak, you know the only way one of us is going
to win over Gorgon is if we both go for him.” Durik observed.

“If it works out that way, then so be it.” Keryak
responded.  “I think I can take him on my own.  Let’s not team up this time. 
I’d rather whichever of us wins be able to say they won it on their own.”

“You’re stubborn as a mud-lodged boulder, Keryak”  Durik
shook his head.  “Or maybe just cocky.” 

Keryak just smiled.

The three of them stood spaced evenly around the
edge of the sawdust circle.  The trainer stood just in front of the trainers’
stand.  “Fight!” he announced, dropping his hand.

Gorgon immediately came toward Durik, swinging his
hammer as he came.  Keryak slowly approached the two, wanting to see how the
match would go and more than willing to wait for a good opportunity.  Durik
held his spear at the ready and began to circle in Keryak’s direction, bringing
the action closer to Keryak.

With a yell, Gorgon swung his hammer in a mighty
arc downward, hoping to make Durik scramble so he could then catch him off
guard.  Durik was more confident in his abilities than that, however, and was
able to sidestep the blow, leaving Gorgon scrambling to get out of the reach of
Durik’s spear tip.  Though he avoided the tip, Durik slapped Gorgon across the
ribs with the butt of his spear.  As Gorgon retreated, Keryak came up on Durik,
hoping to break his rhythm with a sweep of the legs.  Durik posted his spear on
the ground, stopping the sweep with a solid crack, then, stepping forward, he
caught the spear under his foot, causing Keryak to lose his grip on it and
trapping it to the ground.  Keryak stepped back quickly before Durik could take
advantage of his disarmed opponent.

The only thing that kept Keryak from losing at
that moment was Gorgon choosing to come back at Durik instead of letting Durik
finish Keryak off.  As he came in, swinging his hammer, Durik backpedaled
quickly, leaving Keryak’s spear on the ground.  Keryak followed behind Gorgon
and quickly retrieved his spear.  Focusing too much on Durik to his front, it
was easy for Keryak to get a shot in at Gorgon’s back.  Just as Keryak was
thrusting, however, Gorgon brought his hammer back, knocking Keryak’s spear to
one side accidentally.  Keryak did, however, end up landing a glancing blow on
Gorgon’s back, putting him out for the round, but not for the match.  Both
Keryak and Durik felt much relief.

“Durik, why does it always come down to us?” 
Keryak panted.  “Well, for this round at least.”

Durik grunted and looked Keryak squarely in the
chest, dropping into a crouch and holding his spear at the ready.

“Not talkative today, I see.  Ok, to battle it
is.”  With that, Keryak closed quickly with Durik, directing his thrust up and toward
Durik’s face.  Durik tucked his spear in to his side, holding it with his left
arm, while he swept his right hand in front of him, knocking the thrust off to
his left while grabbing the end of Keryak’s spear just below the head.  Once he
realized he had Keryak’s spear firm in his grasp, he held his own spear out to
the side and thrust forward violently with the tip.  Though Keryak tried to
dodge, Durik had him and he knew it.  Durik landed the blow deep into Keryak’s
stomach.  Keryak buckled, trying to soften the thrust, and went down.  It was a
solid blow, and it took Keryak out of the match.  The trainer raised one hand
and pointed toward Durik.

“Keryak takes third place and gains two points toward
the cup!  Round one goes to Durik!” the announcer boomed.  From the stands,
several kobolds watched Durik admiringly.  Though many of them were family and
friends, one of them was Kiria, Lord Karthan’s only daughter.

“A promising yearling, this bronze-scaled one, wouldn’t
you say?” Kiria stated to her father, the memory of their meeting yesterday
outside this very arena still rather fresh in her mind, the lingering taste of
it appealing to her on many levels.

“Yes, I’d have to agree with you,” stated Lord
Karthan, “but today will tell whether strength or presence of mind will ultimately
win this.”  His inference to the more obvious differences between Gorgon and
Durik was not lost on Kiria, though it wasn’t her focus.