The Trials of Caste (26 page)

T
he
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.”

The implications of Khee-lar’s bitterness was not
lost on Khazak.  At that moment, however, a fellow councilman was calling for
Khazak’s opinion on Durik.  Khazak was happily diverted and threw himself into
the next hot debate, all the while backing his own opinion that Gorgon would
surely teach these ‘scrawny little whelps’ their lesson and take his true place
at the head of the year-group.

Though betting was not outlawed by Lord Karthan,
he also did not look upon it favorably.  Despite his lack of backing and
participation, several members of the council still upheld this activity that
had been so popular during Lord Karthan’s father’s reign.  The tradition,
however, was not to bet on the final winner until second meal, when the first
half of the trials had already occurred.  The older ones, especially those who
had served under Lord Karthan’s father, bet heavily with anyone who would take
their bets and had the wealth to back it. 

The dialogue at second meal that day certainly had
a lot less to do with the food or anything related to gen politics.  Much
wealth had already changed hands that morning on the results of the first two
trials.  Every minute or two the all too familiar words ‘what’ll you back that
opinion with’ were heard.  One of the oldest and most wealthy council members,
Torgal of the Sundered Skull, who got his honor name in his youth from an
incident with a minotaur where he somehow came out on top, was betting heavily
on Durik winning.  Knowing that Durik was already in the lead, he was still
able to pull in several bets by offering some fine pieces of wooden furniture
he’d had in his chambers since before the wealth from the caravans began to be
distributed more evenly among the members of the gen. 

Khee-lar, on the other hand, was easily able to
secure several small bets on Trallik winning.  Khazak himself wanted much to
take a bet against Trallik.  Only his loyalty to his master, Lord Karthan, kept
him from doing so.

Three of the stoutest council members, the leaders
of the Wolf Riders, the Patrol Guard, and the Metal Smithies, pooled their
resources and were betting heavily on Gorgon taking the cup for the entire
competition.  Several prime boar furs, a fine bear fur, and a couple of
expertly crafted weapons were put up as collateral and placed against Torgal’s
fine furniture.  The four of them argued until the deal was struck that if
neither Durik nor Gorgon won, neither the three leaders nor Torgal would lose,
nor would they gain. 

To this point, Lord Karthan had not interjected. 
He found that, no matter how little control he had over the outcome, whenever
he speculated some of the weaker council members immediately took his
conjecture as a pronouncement of law.  While these displays of loyalty
comforted him, few as they had been of late, he was too smart to let such
things lull him into a false sense of his own inherent rightness.  He knew his
fellow kobolds.  Though he had won the hearts of many of them in the past through
his consistent policies, his leadership through the orc raid crises, and by the
prosperity that had come to the gen under his rule, he was well aware that he’d
made many enemies as well, and then also there was a good number of them that
seemed to go whichever way the political wind blew. 

Lord Karthan was not his father, nor did he fully
support some of the traditions and laws that his father had upheld.  Under his
father most of the wealth of the gen was held by the members of the council. 
Young Karthan, upon taking the position of Lord of the Gen, had abolished the
Laws of Plunder and Wealth his father had instituted which gave all plunder to
the council and all wealth earned through trade to the elite warriors, instead
instituting what he called the new Laws of Merit.