The Trials of Caste

by Joel Babbitt

  The small group of leaders looked at each other in varying degrees of distrust.

  “But whoever would have Karthan as lord of this gen, come stand with me!”

  Manebrow spoke with passion, and the leader caste of the Patrol Guard, Metalsmithies, and Trade Warrior Groups all stepped forward, drawing their swords as they came to stand beside Manebrow.

  This left all of their chief elite warriors and Raoros Fang standing in a group looking at each other.

  “Brorr, why do you stand there?” the leader of the Trade Warrior Group called to his chief elite warrior.

  Brorr shifted from one foot to the other, then shook his head and grimaced. “Sire, this isn’t my fight. This is a fight among the uppers. If they want to fight it out, then so be it. I’ll not get in the way of my betters. It’s not mine to decide who’s lord of this gen.”

  “Sire,” the chief elite warrior of the Patrol Guard said confidently as he stepped forward. “I’ve never been one to sit out a fight. I’ll stand with you.”

  Manebrow looked at the three remaining leaders. “Last chance, my friends.”

  Raoros shook his head. “We’ll see how it goes,” he said, then folded his arms and did just that.

  Snorting in disgust, Manebrow hurried with those leaders who had declared their loyalty toward Lord Karthan and the battle that swirled on the arena floor.

  Just as Arbelk charged, Gorgon flew at the leader of the conspirators from the side, tackling the larger kobold and knocking the wind out of him as he smashed him to the ground. Two of the other conspirators were knocked to the ground in the process, and the remaining three stopped cold as Durik, Keryak, Trallik, and Jerrig all came up on either side of Arbelk, who had stopped suddenly, barely avoiding the same fate as the leader of the conspirators.

  Sword points held toward the five conspirators in front of them, the five new warriors looked their first real enemies in the eyes, gauging whether or not they would make a move or if they had them. Every one of them meant business; they were not holding their swords up for show.

  Getting up to his knees from the tackle, Gorgon gasped as he saw he had a rather normal-looking kobold in his grasp, not the hulking warrior he had tackled. Not only that, but by his look he wasn’t even Kale Gen; most likely he was from their neighboring Krall Gen. Then, as quick as the stranger could catch his breath, he passed his one free hand over his face, and there was the face of the hulking warrior yet again.

  Gorgon jumped up suddenly as if he’d been bit by a cave spider. Staggering back to the line of warriors, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the leader of the conspirators as he stood and looked about.

  The leader and his fellow conspirators could see the determined looks in the faces of these new warriors. Looking about, they saw that Lord Karthan’s bodyguards had thrown off their cloaks and three of them were heading toward them from behind. First one, then another, then all of them except for the leader held up their hands in surrender as they were surrounded by a thicket of blades.

  The leader of the group stepped back into the small knot of conspirators, and in a swift movement he was gone and there were suddenly six conspirators dressed as servant caste standing with arms above them in the air.

  The Fates are a strange thing; Troll knew their fickle winds blow both ways. One moment the wind was at his back and he was certain there was nothing that could stand in his way. He dared to dream of taking Lord Karthan’s bronze crown for himself; the Fates do what they will with Kort and Mynar. Yes, Lord Troll, Lord of the Kale Gen he would be. Now, however, the winds of Fate had turned against him, but he was determined that the Fates would not determine his destiny.

  “Durik!” Troll called as he jumped away from the combined assault of Khazak Mail Fist and Lord Karthan, and instead of fighting them ran toward the knot of surrendering conspirators, determined to reverse his fortunes. “Durik, you are nothing! You’ll be back in your place soon enough. You are sworn to me, Durik! Free those warriors or I’ll have your hide,” he threatened. Behind him Khazak Mail Fist and Lord Karthan had not pursued. Troll didn’t know why, but he didn’t have time to think about such things at the moment.

  Durik was shocked by Troll’s onerous tone. He was a leader caste now, and had promised Lord Karthan that he was loyal, yet the weight of habit and constant disciplining was still there; he’d not yet taken on the role of a leader caste and thrown off the shackles of obedience to whatever elite warrior commanded him. He still felt the pull of loyalty to his chief elite warrior.

  Shaking his head clear, Durik looked at the evil brute. He wanted nothing to do with him! Standing up straight, the look on Durik’s face showed no weakness.

  “I am not yours!” Durik stood firm.

  Two of Lord Karthan’s bodyguards approached Troll, intent on stopping him.

  “No you don’t,” Troll growled. Smashing away one of their swords, Troll reversed his swing and cut the unsuspecting guard’s head from his shoulders. With a surprised look on its face, the head went tumbling horns over snout until it struck the wooden frame of the trainers stand and fell into the sand.

  The other bodyguard got a look of abject horror on his face as his companion’s headless body slumped to the ground. Troll seized the moment and leapt at him, his blade held high over his head in both hands. With a ringing crash he brought it down, shattering the stunned bodyguard’s blade and sundering his shoulder from his neck. Blood sheeted out over Troll’s scales as the lifeless guard dropped to the ground.

  The last of the bodyguards stumbled back in fear, but was caught by surprise by the unarmed conspirators and drug to the ground, his blade wrenched from his hands and his neck broken in a matter of seconds.

  Durik, Gorgon, and the five new warriors all looked on in horror.

  Turning to look back at Lord Karthan, Troll saw that some of the leader caste had gathered to him, though some had not. It appeared as though Karthan was trying to persuade the others to join him. Looking to the stands, he could see that Kort and his several warriors were caught in a desperate fight at the head of the stairs against the many Honor Guard warriors who had gathered in defense of Lord Karthan. Kort was outnumbered, and the longer the fight went on at the head of the stairs, the more warriors were gathering and the closer Kort’s group came to being overwhelmed.

  Seeing his window of opportunity closing, Troll growled as he looked at the yearlings and spat. “We’ve no time for these,” he said to his fellow conspirators, looking at the still-stunned group of former yearlings.

  “Take blades!” the leader reappeared among the conspirators, stepping forward to grab the sword from the lifeless hand of one of the dead bodyguards. “It’s do or die! If you want to keep your heads, we must win!”

  Troll grunted his approval then called “At Lord Karthan!” Holding his sword high, he turned and charged.

  Khazak Mail Fist was ready to receive Troll and his conspirators. Looking left and right, Khazak saw the leaders of the other warrior groups and Lord Karthan standing with him.

  Gripping his sword in one metal-encased hand, he jumped forward with a yell to meet the onrushing wave of elite warriors. He knocked one conspirator’s blade away with a slash. Following up, he grabbed the frightened warrior by the neck and threw him to the ground.

  Then Troll was upon him. Lunging at Khazak, he brought his sword down in a smash. But Troll’s blade was already notched from shattering the dead bodyguard’s blade moments before, so with a ring the two blades met, but Troll’s blade snapped in half and went flying.

  Stepping back and throwing the useless hilt with its short stub of blade off to the side, Troll growled as he sized up his opponent. He knew Khazak was stronger, and he was likely more skilled. Lord Karthan had done well to keep him close to him, as he was likely the best warrior in the gen. But Troll had long ago decided Khazak was blinded by his own honor…

  Grabbing a handful of sand, Troll drew his long knife from behind his back as he threw the sand in Khazak’s eyes. The p
loy worked and Khazak growled in surprise as he stepped back… just long enough for Troll to jump in.

  Bringing his knife up in a sudden slash, he caught Khazak’s arm behind the gauntlet. The pain of the cut and a sudden grab from Troll loosed the sword from Khazak’s hand, and suddenly the armed and unarmed traded places.

  Seeing that Troll had his sword, Khazak’s eyes narrowed as he drew his own long knife. Behind him Lord Karthan was locked in a pitched battle with two of the conspirators, while the three leader caste and two elite warriors seemed to be gaining ground on the other four determined conspirators. He had to deal with Khazak quickly. Karthan was vulnerable, but that wasn’t likely to last.

  “There’s someone behind you,” Khazak called, the ringing of blades around them making it hard to be heard.

  “Likely trick,” Troll grunted as he smiled a wicked smile, Khazak’s own sword in his right hand.

  A footfall behind him made Troll start, but he failed to pull back in time. Suddenly a searing, shocking pain ripped through his right wrist as the bones of his wrist were scraped clean of the hand that held the sword.

  Looking down in shock, his snout agape and his eyes quickly glassing over, Troll saw his hand with Khazak’s sword lying limp and oozing in the dirt. Holding his arm up in disbelief, he saw blood pumping out of the stump that was his wrist.

  Swinging a wooden hammer with both hands into the side of Troll’s head, Gorgon smashed Troll’s jaw and sent him sprawling to the ground where he did not move. Next to him, Durik stood looking at his former chief elite warrior, blood dripping down the length of his blade as the rest of the former yearlings came up to hedge in the conspirators.

  All about the conspirators again was a thicket of swords. Durik, Gorgon, and the rest of the now former yearlings on one side stood facing Lord Karthan, Khazak Mail Fist, Manebrow, and the four other warrior group leaders through the shattered supporters of Troll’s insurrection. Though two of the conspirators had died in the attempt on Lord Karthan’s life, the other four elite warriors with Troll had all given up when the yearlings’ charge had brought down their leader.

  Behind them the last two of Kort’s elite warriors still standing at the top of the stairs were caught as they tried to escape down the stairs. One was brought down by a javelin through the back while the other was tackled and rolled with his captor down the last few stairs, ribs breaking in the process. Kort himself was overwhelmed, fighting to the last before someone clubbed him into unconsciousness.

  While everyone was distracted by that, Raoros Fang and the chief elite warriors of the Metalsmithies and Trade Warrior Groups quietly took places near their lord. They knew they were late for the battle, and Lord Karthan’s peeved look let them know they were not in his good graces.

  Durik stood with hands clasped behind his back. To his left stood Gorgon, then Keryak, Jerrig, Arbelk, Troka, and Trallik in turn. All about the former yearlings in a thick circle almost the entire gen was gathering. Mothers held their whelps close. Fathers talked excitedly about the events of the day, both of the insurrection as well as the trials. The noise of the gathering was one of joy, one of triumph, and the hope of a new beginning on this, the Day of Beginnings.

  “Durik…” his best friend Keryak asked in a low voice.

  “That’s ‘sire’ to you,” Manebrow, their former trainer, corrected him from behind them.

  “Durik… sire!” Keryak asked again.

  Durik smiled. This whole leader caste thing was going to take some getting used to.

  “Yes, Keryak?”

  “Do you think Lord Karthan will cancel our quest?” he asked. “After all, we just saved his life. Isn’t that enough?”

  Durik just laughed and shook his head, keeping his eyes to the front.

  Khazak Mail Fist and Lord Karthan stood talking while an elite warrior from Khazak’s Honor Guard Warrior Group wrapped a cloth around the burly warrior’s bleeding arm. They were waiting for the conspirators to be cleared out to finish the ceremony.

  A group of honor guard warriors were tying up the conspirators from the arena floor before taking them to prison. From the stands those few who had drawn daggers against their lord had been subdued and were being formed into their own small knot of prisoners. Durik didn’t know what Lord Karthan intended to do with these assassins, but the look they wore was of those destined for the chopping block.

  Troll, who had started the insurrection at the end of the Trials of Caste, stood among his fellow conspirators swaying back and forth uncontrollably. Gorgon’s hammer blow to his head had caused one eye to float about aimlessly, and had left him off balance and vomiting. Troll’s right wrist was wrapped in thick, reddened cloth, the stump of his wrist where Durik had cut off his hand obviously pulsing with severe pain by the look on his dour face.

  Despite what Troll had done and the threats he had made against him and his family, Durik felt sorry for the brutish warrior. He was glad that he’d not had to kill him; it was horrific enough to have cut off his hand. Shaking his head, he thought that it must be much easier to spill the blood of an orc or some non-kobold enemy.

  Rope had just been fastened around the neck of the last of the conspirators on the arena floor when the call was made to get up and get in line; their hands were already bound and their feet hobbled. Warriors from the Honor Guard called for a path to be cleared and the assembled kobolds of the gen quickly complied. Still showing some of the discipline that was ingrained in the warriors of the gen, the line of conspirators stood and turned as one then began to shuffle through the corridor in the crowd.

  Finally, Lord Karthan began to breathe a bit easier. He cleared his voice, stepped up on an overturned box, and nodded to his chamberlain.

  “Lord Karthan would speak!” Khazak’s voice boomed out over the excited buzz of the crowd. Presently, the noise of the crowd calmed.

  “Children of Kale,” Lord Karthan called out. He pitched his voice a bit higher than normal so it would carry over the crowds in the arena. “Today has not been uneventful.”

  The crowd murmured in agreement.

  “Today we saw more than we thought we would see,” he continued. “We thought we would see seven yearlings step up and become warriors. And we did!”

  ‘Here, here!’ a voice yelled from among the crowd. Several people laughed at the unexpected outburst, the nervous tension in the great arena lessening somehow by it.

  “What we did not expect to see was these very same warriors drawing swords immediately in defense of their lord,” Lord Karthan’s voice was suddenly serious.

  The voices in the crowd hushed. All could sense the emotion of the moment.

  “My brothers,” he said, holding out his hands. “My sisters. Indeed, fellow children of Kale. This day these seven have proven themselves as defenders of the gen, and have already proven their worth.”

  If it were possible, Durik, Gorgon and the rest of the former yearlings stood a little taller. Having passed through the crucible of the Trials of Caste and the turbulence of an insurrection, they basked in the praise of their lord and the approval of their entire gen.

  “And I can feel,” Lord Karthan continued, “that the quest these heroes of the Kale Gen are about to embark on will only further show their worth.”

  Lord Karthan turned and faced the seven yearlings directly. “On this, the Day of Beginnings, though this is the end of your time as yearlings, today is truly the day of your new beginning. Today you are warriors and leaders of warriors for us, your gen, your family, your people and your heritage. May The Sorcerer guide your path, and may the Fates smile upon us all. So may it be.”

  “So may it be!” the crowd echoed, the words a formality that on this day came from their hearts.

  Lord Karthan stepped down, and as if on cue, a particularly pleased warrior from the Honor Guard broke through the crowd leading the second line of conspirators; those from the stands. Thrown over his shoulder was the unconscious form of Kort, now former sub-chief of the Patrol G
uard. “Sire, what do you want done with this sack of dung?”

  With him came a surge of warriors from the stands, Karthan loyalists whose gleaming smiles and excited talk reignited the crowd, and swept up those who had risked death this day in a surge of joy; even Lord Karthan himself broke into a wide, toothy grin at the joy of his warriors. They were alive! They had put down their enemies, and they were alive!

  On the other side of their lord, Durik and the rest of his companions shared in the elation. They had been through much this day, and indeed throughout this whole past year, but they had made it through it all. Now here they stood; defenders of their lord, conquerors of the Trials of Caste, and champions in their first contest with death.

  Life was good, and, for now at least, the Fates had no further say in the matter.

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  Read the rest of the series!

  Into the Heart of Evil

  The Game of Fates

  Available on Amazon today…

  About the Author

  Joel Babbitt is an officer in the U.S. Army and a bishop in his church. He has spent his entire adult life living and teaching principles of leadership and team building in a warrior environment. Joel and his family live in Virginia.

  (Joel and his illustrator in 2006)

  Follow the author at:

  www.authorjoel.com

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