The Trials of Caste

by Joel Babbitt

  “He’ll be lucky if that one strikes on target,” muttered Gorgon.

  As they watched, Jerrig’s second javelin, slight wobble seeming to correct as it flew, struck the red heart patch on his target squarely. The crowd roared their approval.

  “Such luck!” cried Gorgon.

  “Luck!?” Jerrig feigned sounding hurt. “That’s pure skill!” The rest of the yearlings laughed nervously. Throwing javelins was not as easy as it looked to the uninitiated.

  The trainer raised one hand with two fingers extended and pointed to Jerrig with the other. The announcer boomed “One kill in two javelins for Jerrig.”

  Troka and Arbelk both struck the targets with one javelin, both in blue areas. However, both of them missed with their second javelin. Having lost in the first round of the melee weapons trial, both of them were starting to get a bit demoralized.

  Gorgon did better, but not as well as Jerrig. At the end of his turn, he had a kill by two blue hits. Durik and Keryak fared similarly. When it came to Trallik’s turn, however, it was obvious that he felt he was the undisputed master of the javelin. Strutting forward with a look of pure confidence, Trallik hefted the javelin. Feeling its weight and balance for a second, he turned and ran quickly forward to the line. Throwing it in one graceful motion, with no wobble it sped forward to strike in the center of the red throat patch of the target. The crowd cheered loudly at the display of skill. Trallik turned, feeling vindicated for his losses in the melee weapons trial. In his mind thoughts of winning this competition again began to flow through his head.

  “Yearlings, retrieve your bows and quivers!” commanded the trainer. In unison, the seven yearlings walked to the weapons rack and picked up bows and quivers. “Approach the line.” The trainer paused as they complied. “From left to right, fire at all targets before ending your turn.”

  Jerrig readied his bow. He steadied himself to focus on the second target, monitoring his breathing and carefully measuring the arch of the arrow’s flight in his mind. He released the arrow with no great motion, letting it spring forth almost of its own accord. The arrow flew straight and true to the target a mere forty paces to his front. With simple precision it struck the center of the red heart patch.

  Jerrig’s next arrow was similarly placed. Calmly, one arrow after another, Jerrig eventually scored four kills in a row with one arrow each. Now came the last of his targets. As he drew back, something in his arm cramped and he released the arrow prematurely. It flew low and skittered through the dirt. Cursing and shaking his wrist, Jerrig looked at his wrist in frustration. After a moment, he picked up his sixth arrow and aimed. His right wrist was shaking slightly as he drew the bowstring. He fired and the arrow flew, striking the blue of the final target. Jerrig was holding his wrist now and flexing it. It was obvious that he was having some sort of problem.

  “Do you forfeit your last arrow, Jerrig” asked the trainer.

  “I do not,” he answered, taking the last arrow from the quiver. With shaking hand, he aimed the final arrow, drawing back the string as far as his wrist could take it. When he released, it was obvious that the fluid control of before was not there. The arrow flew wide, striking the dirt next to the final target. Jerrig, muttering to himself, stepped back from the line.

  Troka, with his long arms and tall frame, used a longer bow than the others, but it didn’t help him much. At the end of his seven arrows, he had only three of five kills, one of them by two hits in the blue. Arbelk’s count was the same, though two of his three kills were from blue kills.

  When it came to Gorgon’s turn, the crowd was ready to see skill and mastery. With deadly accuracy, Gorgon hit the targets, one by one, in the red heart patch of each, until the last and furthest target. Letting what he thought was his last arrow fly, he turned to face the crowd. When the crowd cried in dismay instead of cheering him, he turned to see that the arrow had struck the blue below the heart patch. Embarrassed at his overconfidence, Gorgon quickly aimed his sixth arrow at the target and fired. The haste of his shot caused Gorgon’s shot to wobble slightly, but it still struck true in the red throat patch. The crowd roared its approval at six kills.

  Durik then stepped forward to the line and laid the quiver on the ground at his feet. He drew one arrow from the quiver. As Durik prepared to fire, the crowd grew silent. Having won the melee weapons trial, the gen was waiting to see if he would dominate the ranged weapons trial also. Calmly, despite the storm of expectations, Durik drew back the string and fired, striking a direct hit in the throat patch of the first target.

  Up in the Lord’s Box, Lord Karthan noticed his daughter’s slightly stronger interest in Durik’s performance, or perhaps in the bronze-scaled yearling himself. “Kiria,” he said, tapping her arm, “they’re all performing rather well today, don’t you think?”

  Kiria’s intense stare was broken for a moment and she seemed to blush slightly under delicate rust-red scales. “Yes, father.” After a moment, she continued watching, though a bit more reservedly.

  The crowd murmured and buzzed with talk. The second and third targets Durik struck in the throat patch as well. The fourth one, aiming a little lower, he struck in the red abdomen spot.

  As he readied himself for the final target, the crowd grew silent. With calm precision, Durik drew back the string, aimed, and fired. The arrow flew gracefully through the air. With a solid thud, it landed just low of center in the red heart patch. The crowd cheered with approval as Durik stepped back from the line.

  “Showoff!” Keryak exclaimed as he stepped forward.

  “You’re just jealous,” retorted Durik.

  “Got that right!” Keryak came back with a smile. “Some have all the luck. If I do that well, I’ll be prancing around in front of all of you calling you whelps!”

  Keryak drew an arrow and dropped his quiver to the ground. He knew that if Trallik matched Durik’s performance with the bow, the only way he would make it in the top three would be if he either tied Gorgon, then beat him on the rematch, or if he matched Durik’s performance. Breathing in a heavy breath, Keryak aimed, breathed out slowly, then fired. His first shot was right on target. Keryak’s second, third, and fourth shots were equally on target, striking the red heart patch square on. Last of all was the farthest target that all but Durik had had problems with.

  “Nothing to it but to do it, Keryak,” Durik said.

  “Easy for you to say” he retorted, fixing the target in his mind. Carefully, slowly, and deliberately he brought the bow up and aimed at the target. With a careful ease, he released the bowstring and sent the arrow on its way. It seemed like the arrow flew for minutes, though it was only a couple of seconds, during which Keryak held his breath. Finally, the arrow struck the target… in the blue below the heart patch. Keryak sighed. He bent down and got his sixth arrow from the quiver. Carefully, he aimed it then fired. This one too struck the blue just below the heart patch. Keryak’s only hope to place in the top three was if Trallik did as bad. He returned to the line.

  “Hmm… Well, I guess no taunts about us being whelps, then,” Durik said.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Keryak answered. “There’s still the third trial.”

  Trallik was very confident in his abilities with the bow, and it showed. He strode forward confidently and assumed a firer’s stance. Aiming his first shot, he struck clearly in the exact center of the throat patch. His second, third and fourth shots also struck the throat patches. Carefully aiming his fifth arrow, Trallik released. It struck dead center in the throat patch. The chamber reverberated with the cheers of the crowd. His skill obvious, and his victory in the ranged weapons trial complete, Trallik turned and bowed to the crowd. His fellow yearlings groaned, but if Trallik heard them over the roar of the crowd, it did not show.

  As the crowd roared, Durik looked about for the barrel Keryak’s father had described bringing to the arena. The stress of the first two trials was over, and thoughts of the plans that Troll had alluded to returned. Suddenly his eyes settl
ed on what had to be the barrel Kyro had described, right there between the beams at the base of the trainer’s stand. Durik chewed his lip as he looked over the warped wooden poles from a distance; clearly there was nothing menacing about them. In fact, they were of such inferior quality to all the rest of the wooden practice weapons that they hadn’t bothered to pull even one of them out for the melee weapons trial.

  “Gorgon is third and gains one point by scoring six kills in two javelins and six arrows,” the announcer’s voice boomed out as the arena quieted, bringing Durik back to the moment. “Durik is second and gains two points by scoring six kills in two javelins and five arrows. Trallik is first and gains three points by scoring six kills in one javelin and five arrows,” the announcer’s voice boomed once the crowd died down. “Overall, Durik is now in first place with eight points, followed by Gorgon with five. Trallik has three and Keryak has two!”

  Chapter 17 – Second Meal

  The entire gen emptied the stadiums for a short time before the final event; the scouting trial. Almost everyone made their way back to their respective homes, be they a ragged tent in a large cavern or a separate cave carefully carved into the rock walls, well appointed with flagstone and boar fur rugs. It was time for a long second meal for the spectators, so the yearlings could check their equipment one last time to make sure everything was in good order and tied down, so as not to make an accidental noise.

  In the order of the three competitions, most important was the scouting trial with each place worth three points, second in importance was the melee weapons trial with each place worth two points, and last in importance was the ranged weapons trial, each place being worth only one point. Speculation could be seen in the seven yearlings’ eyes around the circle in the sub-chambers of the arena as they prepared their equipment and ate. Though most of the yearlings knew that they now had very little chance of winning the title of elite warrior, everyone still had the chance of placing in the top three.

  So far, Durik had led them all in his prowess this day, followed closely by Gorgon. However, the winner of the final trial would end up with nine points. Durik and Gorgon would both have to place in order to have any chance of winning the first place cup, and the title of elite warrior that normally came with it. All of the yearlings could clearly remember the last few Trials of Caste, and how the scouting trial had upset things and made a winner out of a clear underdog more than once in the recent past. If there was anything sure about the trials it was that the results of the final trial could not be foretold.

  The first part of the competition was over now, and the effects of how they’d done up to this point could be seen in the demeanor of the yearlings. Gorgon, Durik, Trallik and Keryak all had looks of various degrees of confidence and contentment on their faces as they sat with open bags, taking second meal in the bowels of the arena. Durik and Keryak joked about what had occurred up to this point, whereas Trallik looked supremely proud of his taking first place in the ranged weapons trial. Gorgon, on the other hand, finished eating as quickly as possible so that he could spend more time on his gear, ensuring that it was in the best shape possible and silenced, to provide him the best edge possible in the upcoming scouting trial.

  Watching all this, Troka was less than enthused. He, Arbelk, and Jerrig sat in various states of discontentment as they munched on shelf fungus and reflected on the hand that fate seemed to be dealing them in the trials. While Arbelk seemed to be the least concerned about his performance, and Jerrig seemed to be almost happy that he hadn’t made a fool of himself in front of the entire gen, Troka on the other hand was rather upset.

  It always seemed to him that his lot in life was to be second-best. After all, despite being the tallest of the group by quite a bit he was at best second strongest, after Gorgon. Despite being excellent with the two-handed sword, the highest he’d gotten in the practice tournaments was second place. Even worse than second best, despite his dedication and practice, it seemed to him now that he was destined to become a no-points warrior, that is, a warrior who scored no points in the trials. At this point he’d settle for second-best!

  As he thought about it, he really wasn’t looking forward to coming home to his parents, having won no points in the trials. He knew his father would still be proud of him either way, but that just wasn’t the point. His father had not only scored, he had gained his elite warrior status in the Patrol Guard by winning the trials of caste several years ago, and as if to make matters worse, it had been in a year where there had been nearly four times as many yearlings competing for it. Troka shook his head in despair and frustration. Standing up, he paced the floor muttering about how the Fates had spat upon him this day.

  Hearing Troka complain, Jerrig spoke up. “Come now, Troka,” he started, “don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on yourself?”

  “Jerrig, do you have any idea what my father will say about all this, or even worse, what my younger brothers will think about me now?” Without realizing it, Troka had spoken much louder than he had intended, and all six of the other yearlings were now looking at him. Bowing his head in embarrassment, Troka sat back down next to Jerrig and Arbelk and began munching on the cap of shelf fungus in his hand.

  After a moment, he spoke again, this time much softer. “My father won this competition many years ago. All my life he’s been a highly respected member of the Patrol Guard because of it.” Troka sighed and shook his head, then continued, “I just don’t want to end up worse off than my father. He expects so much of me. I just don’t want to let him down.”

  Being less than fully socially aware, Arbelk laughed sarcastically, shattering the heartfelt moment, “Ha! At least your father cares. My father has troubles even remembering which of all his sons I am!”

  Needless to say, Arbelk’s words did little to calm Troka’s troubled emotions. Seeing the pain Troka was going through, Jerrig decided to try and lift his spirits somewhat.

  “You’ve done fine, Troka,” Jerrig began. “After all, the yearlings back then were much less prepared than warriors are now. I’d be proud if I were you. Your performance in the ranged weapons trial would have won that trial back in the days when your father won.” Seeing his words were having some effect, Jerrig continued, “It’s all this training we’ve had. Manebrow’s done so much with the training in this gen, so the older warriors tell me. It’s much harder to compete now. In fact, I’d dare say that just about any one of us could have won the trial several years ago with the skills we have now.”

  As Jerrig talked, Troka realized the truth of his words and began the process of letting Jerrig’s perspective calm his heart. “Yeah, I guess maybe you’re right,” he muttered. “I just hope my father sees it that way.”

  Jerrig patted him on the back and nodded, “I’m sure he will. I’m sure he will,” he repeated.

  “Now the three of us just have to get at least one kill in the scouting trial,” Arbelk said, oblivious to the mood of his two companions, “or else we’ll be servant caste.”

  For the leader caste of the gen, it was not to their houses that they retreated, but to the feast hosted by Lord Karthan to celebrate the ending of another year. As the council members walked the smooth stone passageways and sand covered cavern floors of their gen toward the council chamber, a messenger arrived from their neighboring gen, the Krall Gen. It was obvious from the sweat on him and his wolf that he had taken the trip in one straight shot, preferring not to rest along the way.

  Khazak Mail Fist stopped and conversed with the slight warrior as the rest of the council members passed through the chamber where the messenger was dismounting. Accepting his brief report, Khazak took the metal tube from him and thanked him. Having done his duty, the messenger took his wolf off in the direction of the kennels before retiring to the quarters the Kale Gen had provisioned for such as him.

  Rejoining the group, Khazak could feel the mood in the council’s feast hall was much lighter than it had been the night before. Lord Karthan may think
that his open gesture of reconciliation had worked. Be that as it may, Khazak thought it more likely that Mynar and Trelkar being driven from the gen had at least temporarily hamstrung the conspiracy, clearing the air a bit and allowing everyone to focus on today’s events.

  The Trials of Caste was the greatest spectacle of the year, and everyone looked forward to it. Though there had been tension among the council, it seemed inconceivable that anything untoward could be planned for such a day. The fact that all council members were present, to include Khee-lar Shadow Hand and Raoros Fang, led Lord Karthan to believe that, just perhaps, whatever was being planned had been postponed. An optimistic thought crossed Lord Karthan’s mind that maybe, just maybe, Khee-lar had withdrawn his purposes.

  Whatever the truth was, the assembled council members seemed to have mostly forgotten the tension of the night before and were now hotly debating the merits of each of the four top contenders. Khee-lar Shadow Hand was of the opinion that Trallik, who was reportedly the best among them in matters of stealth and had already placed first in the ranged weapons competition, had a good chance of taking the cup.

  Khazak Mail Fist heartily disagreed; “You slinkin’ types always think a dagger in the dark is worth two swords in the light,” he boomed, slapping the table, “I think that Gorgon whelp will spank your Trallik handily.” The image brought raucous laughter from several points around the council tables. Khee-lar muttered as he turned back to the drumstick he’d been working on. “Come now, Khee-lar, you only favor him because he’s from your warrior group!” Khazak chided.

  “You’re all muscle, Khazak,” Khee-lar replied in a cold, heartless voice, “and someday that will get you killed.”