by Joel Babbitt
During this year of training for the Trials of Caste he’d applied this power in small doses and had learned to manipulate small portions of it in different ways. Mostly, however, he had not had the time to focus on this power, and he could feel it lying dormant within him, awaiting release, aching to no longer be suppressed.
“Yearling,” an unfamiliar voice said from just around the corner of the passage, catching Trallik completely by surprise. “Your name is Trallik, is it not?”
Trallik stopped suddenly. In front of him an elite warrior of the Deep Guard stepped out from around the sharp bend. “Who are you? You wear the trappings of my warrior group, but I don’t recognize you.”
“Who I am is not of great concern. Suffice it to say that I am a friend of Trelkar,” the warrior answered.
“How do you know me?” Trallik asked. “And what do you want?”
The unknown warrior smiled. “I saw you yesterday at Sheerface, but I’ve been watching you. You have done well in this past year of training. You have talent that few recognize, wouldn’t you say?”
Trallik nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“I would say that you deserve to be chosen as an elite warrior. I hope the Trials of Caste show the same.”
Trallik puffed up his chest a bit. “I think my chances are better than most. I’m good at what I do.”
“You’re not afraid that that Gorgon or Durik will win the day? You have great talent, but you will have a hard time overcoming Gorgon’s strength or Durik’s skill. They have won most of your sparing matches so far,” the stranger offered.
How did he know so much about the yearlings? Trallik grimaced. “Yes, they’re both hard opponents, but I think I can take them,” Trallik said, the lack of confidence in his voice clearly apparent.
The warrior smiled. “If I told you I have a task that needs doing, which would make you an elite warrior whether or not you win the Trials of Caste, would you be interested?”
Trallik looked quizzically at this warrior he’d just met for the first time. “What do I have to do?” he asked.
“That I will tell you shortly,” the warrior answered with a grin. “I know where to find you. We will talk again soon. In the meantime, Trelkar will hear of your willingness. He rewards well those who serve him, as do I.”
Trallik watched as the warrior walked away. After a few moments, he shook his head and continued on his way. Could this stranger possibly be right? In his heart he longed to become an elite warrior. Was this his chance? One task and elite warrior status? It almost seemed too easy, certainly much easier than a year of training followed by a competition. The more Trallik’s mind dwelt on the strange conversation, the more hope of the future began to burn within his heart.
Not far down the passage, Mynar the Sorcerer smiled to himself as he walked away. This yearling was but a pawn, but he needed pawns to further his plans… plans which did not depend on his barely loyal student Khee-lar Shadow Hand.
Chapter 5 – Meetings and Mysteries
The third gong rang out through the great common chamber long before light spilled forth, like wash water splashed on the ground from the entrance to the large common chamber ahead of Durik and Keryak, ruining their heat vision. The sudden adjustment from the lightless caverns, where their only vision had been the white and gray of heat variations, to the bright world of color was discomforting.
The very poignant memory of meeting Kiria for the first time had only grown in Durik’s consciousness, though he’d tried to contain his interest as much as possible. Despite his self-discipline, however, Durik had been subtly probing his friend for what he might know about the mysterious young female. He quickly found that Keryak knew nothing more than that she was the daughter of the Lord of the Gen, then the stark light and multitudinous noise of the common chamber cut the rest of the conversation short.
Through squinted eyes they saw the many kobolds that thronged the area, conducting matters of daily life. Lining the edges of the great cavern was a myriad of small shops. Most were large, heavy wooden closets set in the sand with doors that, when open, were where storeowners would stand to hawk their wares to the public. Several larger structures had been constructed to house wool, mutton or ham, or other bulk goods as well.
But there was only one shop carved into the wall of the cavern.
They crossed to the far side of the common chamber, and approached Goryon’s blacksmithy. The pair walked quickly, passing through the rough-hewn doorway into the smithy’s dim interior. Dark, lustrous light from the opening in the forge mound painted all with a red hue. A large kobold, the scales on his forearms and snout blackened by years of standing over fickle cinders, was pounding a long, thin strip of metal into a curved shape on an anvil next to the forge. A yellow beam from the center of the fire reflected crimson on the rust red scales of his chest and head. Behind the sweating form of the muscular kobold loomed an orc, who was taller seated than they were standing. In one hand was a sharpening stone and in the other a set of tongs holding a spear tip, which he was examining by the light of the forge. Durik and Keryak stopped just inside the entrance to the large shop.
“Greetings, Master Goryon,” Durik called between strikes of the hammer. His face was unworried, showing that he found acceptance here, despite the uniqueness of his bronze scales. The large kobold at the anvil stopped pounding and brushed the sweat from his eyes with his brawny forearm, smearing soot across his snout as he blinked at the pair of yearlings.
“Welcome, yearlings,” answered Goryon. “My son Gorgon and the others recently arrived and are in our quarters.” Goryon paused, remembering something, “Durik, come. Try something. I must see if my guess is correct.” Durik moved toward the far side of the shop as Goryon picked up a large wooden shield from a workbench. It was rectangular in shape, a little over half the height of a kobold, with a rounded top and bottom. There was a large metal knob in the center with metal strips, much like the strip Goryon was forming on the anvil, lining the edges. “Here, Durik. Try the arm strappings so I can see if they need adjustment.” He handed the heavy shield to Durik, who put his arm in the brace and grasped the handle with his left hand. Moving around with it, Durik pantomimed blocking a couple of blows.
Goryon next held up the leather belts that Jerrig’s father had brought for buckling. “These will be fine symbols of your warrior status when I’m done with them.” Goryon stated with pride. “And I’ll put a bronze buckle on yours, Durik.” As he held them up, he could see that the pair of kobolds were eager to pass.
“Ah, go, see Gorgon and the others. The third gong has already sounded.” Goryon pointed toward the back door of the shop and the two yearlings quickly passed.
Inside the rear chamber it was much cooler than in the forge room. The cool rock of the floor showed almost black in their heat vision. Seated around the table inside the room were several kobolds; his fellow yearlings as well as several warriors, many of which carried the banner surrounding the sword-shaped scar on their chests; elite warriors, and from different warrior groups by their trappings. Their bodies showed gray in the black of the cool room, the heat that emanated from them giving each individual an almost ethereal glow, like a muted sun shining through tightly packed clouds. This was how those who lived most of their lives without the sun marking their days saw things, and indeed, it never occurred to them that some might think it strange to go without the luxury of ambient light. For Durik, he preferred the anonymity of it, as scales lost their color in the cool embrace of darkness.
A subtle, soothing scent permeated the air of the small chamber, subduing the stronger odor of so many warriors. An unmistakable yearling stood as they entered, contrasting sharply with the cool black of the walls around him.
“Durik! Keryak! We were about to start.” Gorgon ushered them in. “Come, have a seat.” He pointed toward a group of cool chairs that were lined up against the wall, where four other kobolds already sat.
“I see that all of our fellow yearlings ar
e already present,” Durik said under his breath to Keryak as he stepped forward toward a seat. Grasping hands with the closest of his fellow yearlings, Durik smiled engagingly. “Troka, did you finally get enough sleep?”
The tall, lanky kobold laughed, “I did. And you?”
“I think I could sleep for another week, too bad we only have another day before the trials,” Durik answered as he moved to the next of his fellow yearlings. “Arbelk, can’t leave that rope alone, I see,” he said as Arbelk put down a short length of rope he’d been twisting into some complex knot to grasp hands with Durik.
As he came to Trallik, Durik received a scowl and a look of disdain. “Sit down already!” Trallik snapped.
“In fine form tonight, I see,” Durik muttered in response.
Durik unslung his bag from over his shoulder as he stopped before one of the empty chairs. He saw now that indeed all of the kobolds at the table had the marks of the elite warrior caste: each of them had the same scar, a sword-shaped brand inside a banner on their chests, and each wore the crossed shoulder belts of the warrior castes of the gen. Some of them had helped train the yearling group during their year of preparation for the trials, though he couldn’t remember most of their names.
“And what do you have there?” queried Gorgon.
Durik hefted the sack onto the table. “I thought we could calm our minds with the root of the Wallaya tree,” he proposed as he laid the sack on the table.
Gorgon laughed. “We have been together for some time, I can see. I’ve only recently put away a spent bowl of the same.” He pointed to a lukewarm bowl on the counter. “But we can certainly share yours. Come, give me your root and after the air clears of the last batch, I’ll set it in a bowl of water from the pot atop the forge.”
Durik handed the bag to Gorgon then sat between Keryak and his cousin Jerrig, who had the look of one struggling within himself. Jerrig said nothing and stared intently at the floor. In a few moments, the look cleared and Jerrig sat looking meekly about the room.
Gorgon placed the bag to the side, cleared his throat and looked over the assembled group. “Much thanks to these fine winners of past years’ tournaments for coming to speak with us. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of questions about tomorrow’s trials for you,” he said as he nodded to the elite warriors seated at the table.
“Aye, and I’ll start!” Keryak exclaimed.
“Go ahead,” one of the elite warriors said. Gorgon took the cue and sat down.
“Do you know what obstacles will be placed out tomorrow for the scouting trial?”
The elite warriors all laughed. Most of the recent winners had been put into the Honor Guard Warrior Group upon winning the trials, the same warrior group that set up the obstacles and ensured that they were kept secret from the masses until the day of the trials. It was tradition, however, that the winners from previous years gave vague clues about the obstacles to the yearlings in a secret meeting before the trials. This was such a well established tradition that their meeting could hardly be considered a secret. Always the scouting trial’s obstacles were the object of greatest speculation.
Billik, a rather straightforward young elite warrior who had won the trials the year before, brought a small roll of soft leather out of a belt pouch, unrolled it, and, after clearing his voice, ceremoniously read what was written thereon:
The melee weapons trial has not changed. He who wins all matches in hand to hand combat takes the trial.
Trallik groaned. “Those haven’t changed in generations. Why bother telling us that!”
“Patience, yearling,” Billik said, knowing he was torturing the yearlings with anticipation.
The ranged weapons trial remains unchanged. He who strikes truest wins.
“More useless recital of rules which haven’t changed since the trials at Palacid!” Trallik snapped.
“Yearling, hold your tongue!” Billik commanded.
Trallik grabbed a bag from under his chair, stood up and walked to the door. “I’ve heard enough,” he said. “I know what I need to know already.” With that he walked out the door. Jerrig, with a concerned look on his face again, stood up as inconspicuously as he could and left as well, closing the door silently behind himself. None of the elite warriors looked at all fazed by their departure as their spokesman Billik continued the reading.
The scouting trial is still the most difficult and most rewarding of them all. All obstacles are arranged in a circle around the Tower of the Chalice, where the cup that determines the winner always rests, secured in a chest having eight locks. To open the locks one must recover the keys from the eight obstacles that ring the Tower of the Chalice.
Billik paused in mid-stream. He could see the eyes of the remaining five yearlings upon him, as he was deliberately delaying the most important piece. But none of the yearlings gave him the satisfaction of complaining. Nodding his approval of their self-discipline, he read on.
Three of them are one. One of them has a tower and a rope. Another is the home of a being long dead. Two others come from the depths of the earth. The last requires a pole and a jump.
Billik looked up from his reading. “Unless there are any other questions, I will leave you with the clues and we shall depart.” He looked around at his fellow elite warriors before beginning to rise.
“Can’t you tell us which of them are new and which were used before?” Keryak blurted out.
Billik sat back down. He wasn’t getting out of here that easy.
After a brief pause, an older elite warrior leaned forward. He had a nasty scar on his snout and a mouth full of crooked teeth set beneath kindly eyes. “No, young one.” He shook his head. “You know we cannot tell you that.”
“I have a question,” Troka interjected.
“Ask, then,” another of the elite warriors replied. He was a no-nonsense type, so Troka had hopes of getting straightforward answers from him.
“We have all asked many warriors from years past about the various obstacles that they had to face. In years past, the obstacles have not been modified much, if at all. How many of the old ones have you modified? And if you can’t tell us which ones are new, can you at least tell us how many are new?” Troka asked.
“Well, that would be two questions,” the elite warrior remarked, clear-eyed as his companions all chuckled. He then looked Troka in the eye, “Let me put it like this, yearling,” he said, “We in the Honor Guard had all the time we needed to plan the changes and then to work them into the old obstacles. You’ll hardly recognize them.”
All the yearlings groaned simultaneously.
“Why so glum?” another of the elite warriors asked, enjoying toying with the yearlings. “You didn’t spend this whole last year getting detailed descriptions of each obstacle from the last several Trials of Caste did you?” He and most of the other elite warriors laughed heartily as the yearlings’ faces fell, for indeed they had.
After a few moments the elite warrior wiped tears from his eyes as he began to calm down. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we did the exact same thing when we underwent the trials. That’s why we changed them for you!” he exclaimed as they all burst out in a fresh round of laughter.
None of the yearlings seemed to share the elite warriors’ sense of mirth.
“Any more questions?” the clear-eyed elite warrior asked.
“You never did answer the question about how many new obstacles there are,” Durik pressed.
The elite warrior looked at the others around the table then turned back to Durik. “With all the changes, one could say that they’re all new. However, there is one that my fellow elite warriors in the Honor Guard made up special for this year.”
“There won’t be any changes to last year’s rules for tomorrow’s competition, will there?” Troka asked.
Each elite warrior looked to the others and queried their companions. Finally, the clear-eyed elite warrior spoke again. “It would seem that the consensus is that either there are no changes, or at
least we here don’t know about them.”
Several moments passed in silence.
The elite warrior with the scar on his snout broke the silence. “If there are no further questions, then we’ll depart.”
Gorgon stood up, “Again, we much appreciate you coming to talk to us.”
“But of course,” the elite warrior remarked, then leaned forward, his gentle eyes burning bright. “Now, I know you are all nervous about the competition,” he started. “But don’t let it rob you of any sleep between now and then. After all, only one of you can win it, and chances are you already have a pretty good idea of who that probably will be,” he observed, gesturing with his scarred snout toward Gorgon. “The rest of you just have to score in one of the three trials, or get at least one kill in the scouting trial. Do that and you’re assured warrior caste status. That’s assuming you complete the trials, that is.”
A couple of the other elite warriors nodded their heads in agreement and Billik spoke. “Yes, and don’t get down on yourselves if you don’t place in the first, or even the second competition. After all, it’s the scouting competition that counts for the most points. If you’ve got to measure your effort, then make sure you give everything you have left in the scouting trial.” Not sure his words had the desired effect, Billik continued. “Just don’t make a fool of yourself in the melee weapons trial or the ranged weapons trial, then give it everything you’ve got in the scouting trial and make sure you get at least one kill. That plus a little bit of talent and a cool head are the formula for winning the Trials of Caste.”
With that, the elite warriors all stood. Gorgon thanked them again for coming, and grasped hands with them as they filed out of the chamber and through his father’s shop. Following them were Arbelk and Troka.
