The Trials of Caste (32 page)

Troka thought for a moment.  In his eyes was the
fear of not wanting to chance loss.  Durik saw it and opened his mouth to
talk. 

All of a sudden, Troka turned and bolted for the
opening of a nearby passageway.  In one smooth motion, Durik pulled the string
of his bow back, brought the bow up and released the arrow.  Troka stumbled,
dropping his sword, and fell into the corner of the wall as the arrow struck
him unintentionally on the side of his head. 

The Honor Guard judge, which had followed Troka
out of the obstacle, held up a red flag and pointed at Troka.  From the nearest
crows nest, the trainer called the kill.

Durik winced.  He looked around to make sure he
and Troka were the only yearlings there, looking up at the crows nest as well
to see if the judges were tracking anyone near him, then ran up to Troka.

“What did you shoot me in the head for?!”  Troka
yelped in a hurt voice as he stumbled to his feet.

“Sorry about that.  I was aiming for your back,
actually.”  Durik helped Troka to his feet and looked him in the eyes to make
sure nothing was physically wrong.

“Lousy shot, I’d say,” Troka remarked grimacing. 
He handed Durik his two keys, they grasped hands, and Durik was on his way to
the next obstacle.  Troka stumbled off toward his starting point, holding his
head with both hands to try to contain the splitting headache he had not so
much from the arrow as from hitting the wall headfirst at a run.

Trallik, infuriated at Arbelk’s surprise attack,
was on the warpath.  He’d acquired another pair of long knives from Keryak’s
point, as well as a bow and a quiver of arrows.  After carefully making his way
back to the Tomb of Kor, he kept his snout close to the ground and tried
testing for Arbelk’s scent as he went.  As he suspected, however, the passage
of so many kobolds over the last several days had pretty much eliminated any
hope Trallik could have had of tracking anyone in this small group by scent. 
So, Trallik looked for Arbelk’s tracks in the sand.  He was able to follow them
for some time, but soon his tracks crossed with someone else’s and it was
impossible to determine whether he’d headed toward the center or toward the
perimeter.

After a moment of examining the tracks in the
sand, Trallik decided it was best to head for the center of the obstacles. 
Quite some time had passed already, and he was sure that several of the keys
were already in someone’s possession.  Certainly, he’d heard the crowd cheering
a number of times.

Trallik padded stealthily down the corridor,
looking for any indication ahead of him, or behind, that any of the other
yearlings was around.  As he approached a junction with a side corridor,
Trallik thought he heard footsteps in the sand.  He sank further back into the
shadows of the corridor and waited.  The footsteps got closer until Gorgon
appeared around the corner, turning to head toward the center also.

Trallik grinned, took aim and fired, bouncing an
arrow off of Gorgon’s shoulder blade.  The trainer in the tower just next to
them shouted “Gorgon.”  Trallik ran forward to see if Gorgon had any keys.

“Cheap shot, Trallik,” Gorgon said angrily as
Trallik approached.

“A kill’s a kill, Gorgon.  You know that,” Trallik
answered with a smirk as he reached for the three keys tucked into Gorgon’s
belt.  Gorgon caught his hand and, twisting his arm, pulled Trallik’s face
close to his.

“You’re a whining little whelp and I’ll be the one
to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget if you don’t watch it.”  Then,
shoving him away, he said “Now get going before I swat you.”

Trallik growled, lifted the three keys from
Gorgon’s belt, and ran off toward the center of the obstacles, tail swishing
furtively.  Gorgon watched him go, letting his anger simmer as Trallik
disappeared around a bend in the corridor. 

Quickly he turned and started to make his way out
of the obstacle complex.

T
he
Tower of the Chalice loomed three stories high, jutting out of the mass of
obstacles that was collectively known as the scouting trial.  All three floors
were open wooden platforms with a large wooden spiral staircase running through
the middle of them.  The staircase ended at the final level known as ‘the
finish line,’ so named because that’s where the cup was located that would
determine who would win this competition.  All three levels had a low fence
made of wood and net, just the height of a kobold, set to protect competitors
from arrow fire from outside the tower.  The side closest to the stands didn’t
have this protection, however, so as to not inhibit the crowd’s view.

Plain for all to see on the top level of the tower
was a great wooden chest, nearly as tall as a kobold, with eight large locks
and a handle on it.  Inside the chest this year, as it had been every year,
would be the cup that would gain enough points for one of these yearlings to
put him above his peers and win him a better standing in the gen.  As the
competition wore on, and more kills had been announced, the speculation and
murmuring in the crowd grew louder.  Looking up from time to time, the
yearlings each began to notice how restless the crowd was becoming.  All of
them took it as a sure sign that most, if not all, of the keys had been found. 
Each of the yearlings began to think about what they should be doing in the
last part of the scouting trial.

Arbelk had no great strategy, nor had he been
keeping tabs on who had how many kills against them.  He was mostly using his
instincts, or perhaps keeping true to a style developed over the past year of
training to determine what he should be doing.

Knowing that Trallik would be on the warpath after
the kill he’d gotten on him, he was stealthily making his way toward the Tower
of the Chalice at the center of the entire maze.  Not being a handy target was
all he was trying to do; he wasn’t particularly hunting.  He was quite unlike
Trallik, who firmly believed the maxims taught to all the Deep Guard; that
stealth was better than open confrontation and that an arrow that strikes
unseen is an arrow best used.

The fact that he hadn’t placed in either of the first
two competitions didn’t bother Arbelk.  He was too humble for that.  If not
being the best at melee weapons and ranged weapons, or for that matter not even
placing in the top three out of the seven yearlings, was his lot in life then
that was no problem with him.  In this world where everyone seemed better than
him, he understood his place.  However, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take what
opportunity threw his way.  And, to take best advantage of what opportunity
threw his way, he found it useful to do more hiding and less confronting.

Arbelk looked up at the crowd in the benches, and
at the announcer perched in his booth.  Next to the announcer the seven short
clay jugs labeled with the initial of each yearling’s name were in plain view
for all to see.  Arbelk looked down the line of pots to size up where he fit in
the competition.  Gorgon’s, Durik’s, Jerrig’s, and Trallik’s pots each had one
red flag in them, signifying that each one had one kill against them.  The
remainder each had two red flags, including his own.  Since no one had three
flags in their pot, no one had been put out of the competition quite yet,
though he was sure that would change soon.  

One of the bridge team members he’d been working
with in the Deep Guard had a saying, which was a variation of a more common
one. 
A bird in the hand is stupider than the two hiding in the bush.
 
Arbelk laughed to himself, as the saying seemed to apply to him so clearly now
that he had two flags against him.  If he was not able to make a name for
himself in this trial by fighting everyone he found, then perhaps he would use
his patience to his advantage. 

Finally arriving at the clearing, he found the
deepest shadows he could, hid himself among the pillars and posts at the bottom
of the Tower of the Chalice, and waited.  He was sure that, by now at least,
someone had been to each obstacle and, though he hadn’t looked, that there were
already keys placed in the chest.  At this critical point of the competition he
was sure that there were several keys being carried around, all needing to get
to the same place, and several of his fellow yearlings not wanting anyone else
to get them all together.  But one thing was certain, keys were no good unless
you used them, and the chest where they all fit sat two stories above his head,
on the third floor of this tower.

Arbelk had often thought that, should he get
several keys, he would just hold onto them until he got all eight.  After all,
he’d never seen the sense in putting the keys into the chest until he held all
eight, unless of course you’re sure you’re going to lose and you just want to
level the playing field. 

Most of his fellow yearlings had expressed the
same, as had many warriors from years past.  But somehow, year after year the
lure of the crowd’s approval seemed to draw most of the keys to the tower. 
When the crowd got to cheering, and the yearlings felt the pressure of being
the center of attention, all their level-headed talk was forgotten and, one by
one, the keys made their way to the chest.  Arbelk doubted that this year would
be any different.  After all, fame seemed to have its effect on his fellow
yearlings.

Durik felt the need to hurry as he ran down the
corridor toward the Tower of the Chalice.  It had been some time already since
the competition started and he wondered how many of the keys were already at
the tower.  He did feel safe in one aspect; no matter how many other keys were
at the tower already, he knew that the two keys in his belt were not there. 
The word ‘assurance’ crossed through his consciousness.  That’s just what these
keys were, assurance that no one would win without him being present—unless they
got a kill on him first.

That thought reminded him to be careful.  Slowing
to a trot, he began focusing his senses more on the corridor ahead of him. 
Within moments, and much before he thought it would, the opening from this
corridor into the large clearing that surrounded the tower appeared not more
than twenty paces ahead of him.  He stopped and stepped back into the shadows
slightly behind the bend in the passageway from the tower.  Peering around the
corner, he surveyed the tower and the area of the clearing that he could see
from where he was.  Fortunately for him, he was coming from the direction of the
stands, so the low fence that protected the other three levels of the tower did
not inhibit his view at all. 

He wasn’t sure, but from where he was it seemed
that the shadows under the bottom level of the tower were deeper in one spot
than they should be.  Durik knew it couldn’t be the judge for this obstacle, as
the two trainers in the crows nests served jointly as judges for this
obstacle.  Therefore, he thought, it must be another competitor.  With too much
light streaming down from the hole in the ceiling for his heat vision to
function properly, Durik decided to test his theory.  Placing his spear against
the wall, Durik pulled an arrow out of the quiver and, adjusting for distance,
fired an arrow at the dark lump at the base of the tower. 

Durik’s shot went wide and hit the pole just next
to the lump, and the lump all of a sudden came to life.  Knowing that he’d been
discovered, Arbelk jumped up and ran up the spiral staircase toward the second
level, hoping that the stairway would provide him cover.  Durik picked up his
spear and ran to within a few paces of the opening.  Placing his spear against
the wall again, Durik nocked another arrow.  Arbelk had taken cover behind the
slender pole that formed the center of the spiral staircase.  Durik released his
breath slowly as he steadied his aim, slowly releasing the bowstring.  The
arrow flew straight and true, striking Arbelk with the red dyed tip on his left
arm.  Arbelk yelped in surprise and his sword went clattering down the
staircase. 

Durik readied a third arrow as Arbelk went running
after his sword.  The situation was about to change, however.  With a slight
whistle, an arrow came from behind Durik.  Passing a few feet from him, it
clattered against the spiral staircase, missing Arbelk by an arm span. 
Dropping the arrow and grabbing his spear, Durik ran out of the passageway and
flattened against the wall next to the opening.  Surveying his surroundings to
see if anyone else was around, Durik stuck his spear through his belt behind
him where it hung awkwardly, threatening to trip him at every step.  Seeing no
one other than the now one-armed Arbelk, Durik readied his second to last arrow
and moved slowly from left to right around the perimeter of the tower clearing,
scanning the other entrances to the clearing as he went. 

After several moments, Durik saw someone step into
the shadows at the entrance to the passageway that he had just left.  Raising
his bow and aiming quickly, Durik released his fourth arrow and reached for his
last arrow in one fluid motion.  The arrow flew straight and struck the kobold
in the entrance in the stomach as he aimed his bow, causing him to fire his
arrow wildly toward the tower. 

Shaking his head, Keryak stepped from the shadows
of the passageway and dropped his recently found bow, quiver with one arrow
left in it, a spear, and his one key in the sand in front of him.  From the
small platform above the tower clearing, the judge held up a red flag.  The
trainer in the nearest crow’s nest yelled out “Keryak.”  From the stands, the
announcer’s voice could be heard, “Keryak has sustained his third kill and is
the first out of the scouting competition!”  The murmuring in the crowd grew
louder.  The announcer continued, “Keryak ends his part in the competition with
a final score of two points!”

“Durik, my friend, I’m sorry to say that I’m out
of this competition,” Keryak said, with some emotion in his voice.  “At least I
have the dignity of saying that I scored two points.”

“Keryak, I’m sorry.” Durik started.  “I didn’t know
it was you!  I didn’t realize you were going after Arbelk and not me…”

“Don’t worry about it, Durik,” Keryak interrupted
him.  “I’d rather have lost to you than to anyone else.  I hope you take the
cup, my friend.”  With that, Keryak turned and began the slow trot toward the
trainer’s stand. 

Troka had taken a while to get over his headache. 
At first, as he sat there holding his head, he thought about the two kills
against him, and now this splitting headache.  His emotions began to spiral
downwards, and the stress started to mount with it.  Soon his head was aching
more than ever and he began to cry softly and whimper.  After several moments
of sitting in the cool, dark passageway, Troka realized that building on the
stress of the moment wouldn’t help any.  He gradually began to take control of
his emotions again, telling himself that, win or lose, the most important thing
was keeping his composure in front of the others.  His resolve began to
strengthen and soon after the stress he was feeling began to subside.  As the
stress subsided, the constant ache in his head began to subside too, though it
still ached quite a bit if he moved quickly.

Troka stood and began a slow walk back toward his
starting point.  As he walked, his determination grew.  He was not out of the
competition yet.  Though he knew that his chances of winning were remote at
best, winning in spite of a splitting headache with two kills against him would
only make the victory sweeter.  And if victory was not to be his, at least he
could make a good showing.  At that moment, the trainer in the tower closest to
him yelled “Keryak” and from the stands it was announced that Keryak was now
out of the competition.

One less competitor.  One more step toward
scoring,
Troka thought as his pace quickened somewhat.  His pace only
quickened more when several moments later it was announced that Arbelk was
officially out of the competition.