by Joel Babbitt
All three of them stood looking at each other for a moment, none of them knowing what to say. Finally, Kyro shook his head and turned back to the cart.
“I hope Raoros does the right thing. He’s a good leader caste,” Kyro said despondently as the two yearlings pushed at the cart. “I don’t care much for Troll. He’s not nice to anyone. Him and that new elite warrior with the barrel; he’s got to be involved as well. I hope they both get caught.”
The three kobolds fell silent as a large group of kobolds, families mostly, came around the corner in front of them. Old kobolds, their scales beginning to bronze, were interspersed with younger mothers and fathers, and all about them little ones ran about in great excitement. The Trials of Caste were certainly a family affair, and the past decade of plenty had produced a prodigious number of shouting, screaming whelps that would fill the stands this day.
The three kobolds moved the cart off to one side and waited for this next large group to go past. “What new elite warrior is this you speak of?” Durik asked.
“And what barrel?” Keryak added.
Kyro shook his head. “Some new elite warrior that Troll brought into the warrior group last night. He and a handful of elite warriors from our warrior group, dressed as servant caste, had me push this cart with a barrel full of warped old wooden weapons to the arena this morning. That’s why I’m out here pushing an empty cart instead of on my way to the arena. Here, you two should be on your way to the arena. You have to be there early, you know. Oh, and don’t tell anyone about the barrel. He made me swear I wouldn’t say anything.”
Durik was thinking, but Keryak was feeling anxious for the coming trials. “Durik, come on. My father’s right. We have to go now.” Nodding, but still thinking, Durik followed his friend back toward the arena, while all the while Kyro the old servant caste pushed the cart and muttered worriedly to himself about how he needed to get better at keeping secrets.
The traditional arena where the Trials of Caste were conducted was the widest natural cavern in the Kale Gen’s entire cavern complex. Certainly it was much more expansive than the large common areas of the various warrior groups, most of which hadn’t been able to fit all their members simultaneously for several generations.
Legend stated that when the first Kale and those with him arrived at the caves, the first opening they had found was the large opening at the top of the chimney leading down into the arena. Legend further stated that, upon dropping a rock down through the hole and hearing it hit several moments later, old Kale had nodded his head and declared that this would be their home. Until Kale and his posterity had explored the caves further, this large cavern had been their first home.
Certainly now, many hundreds of years later, Kale would not have recognized it. Though the hole itself was close to the same, the rest of the chamber was drastically changed. Lining one entire side of the roughly oval cavern was a massive stone retaining wall. Built in the center of the top of this wall were a number of platforms for the leader caste of the gen. Behind these platforms the wall of the cavern had been hollowed out, creating a large, open, steeply sloped area where hundreds of wooden benches had been placed. This construction provided the general population of the Kale Gen with an elevated view of almost the entire arena.
Though the audience could see well into the central parts of the arena, their height above the arena floor made it next to impossible to see the trainers’ area just in front of the stands. As such, over the centuries various wooden stands had been built for the trainers, the latest incarnation of which lifted the Master Trainer and his two assistants, a pair of elite warriors picked to help him with the trials, into the spectators’ view.
Directly to the front of the trainers’ stand, but set far enough into the arena so as to be in full view of the crowd, a large amount of sawdust, woodchips, and sand had been put down to mark off the floor and limits of the melee weapons trial circle. Placed around this circle were several weapons racks, each stocked with the wooden weapons that would be used this day.
Farther out on the left side of the arena, the area traditionally set aside for the second of the trials, the ranged weapons trial, was prepared for the yearlings. Several orc-sized bags of sand, with red and blue splotches of dye on one side of them, were placed at various distances away from a rather large weapons rack holding a number of javelins, bows, and quivers of arrows. From the benches most could see the entire event, though some of the servant caste in the flatter areas of the stands could only watch the arch of the arrows and javelins as they flew toward the bags, relying on the announcements the judges made to know whether the yearlings hit the higher scored red splotches, or the less important blue splotches.
Perhaps the most labor intensive portion of the preparations for the trials involved the setup for the scouting event. While the melee weapons circle and ranged weapons portions took up the left side of the arena, the entire right side of the arena as well as far more than its fair share of the center were filled with the constructs and obstacles that made up the scouting trial.
For the uninitiated, the mass of wood partitions, netting, towers, and tents was an unintelligible mess. For the yearlings, it had been the source of greatest speculation and study, for though the results of all three trials were important, it was well known that the scouting trial gave as many points as the other two trials combined.
Keryak stood in the line, straight-backed as a chair, holding his practice spear firmly planted on the ground, fist in the small of his back. As Manebrow approached the far end of the line from him, Keryak leaned a little toward Durik and whispered, “Will she be here?”
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 war
riors 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!”
Chapter 15 – The Melee Weapons Trial
With 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 traine
r 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.
