The Trials of Caste (4 page)

Khee-lar grunted his agreement.  If there was one
thing he had clearly learned from his former mentor, it was how not to take
over a kobold gen.  After all, despite seizing the Krall Stone, Mynar had been recently
chased out of his own gen after unsuccessfully trying to kill Lord Krall.  And it
was Mynar’s undue reliance on his allies the Bloodhand Orc Tribe that had lost
him his bid to seize leadership of Khee-lar’s own gen, the Kale Gen, six years
now in the past.  That had truly been a bloody affair, one which Khee-lar
remembered only too well. 

“I’ve given you much help and gold to make your
cause real.  Are you prepared for the next task you must perform for me?” Mynar
asked.

Khee-lar grimaced, though he tried to make it a
thoughtful look, rather than one that showed the utter disdain he felt.  “Must
you ask me now, when I am but days away from seizing the throne of the Kale Gen?”

Mynar snorted his disapproval at his reaction. 
“Your power is mine, and I will have your obedience.”  He stared intently at
Khee-lar.  After a long, awkward pause with no response from Khee-lar, Mynar
continued.  “Besides, what I ask of you will only further your goals as well as
mine.”

Khee-lar felt that he had taken his mentor’s tools
and used them to build a foolproof plan that would surely succeed, unlike his
mentor’s plans to date.  Indeed, if all went according to plan Mynar the
Sorcerer would be his mentor no longer, but rather his student, if he let the
pompous fool live.  He needed no ‘help’ with his plans.  Staring over the edge
into the long, deep darkness of Sheerface, he pondered on this almost
unnecessary relationship.  Almost unnecessary, but not yet fully so…

“What is it you ask?” he finally said in a flat
tone.

“Ah, yes.”  Mynar smiled, hearing the obedience in
Khee-lar’s voice return.  “Swear to me that you will take the life of Lord
Karthan’s whelps.”

Khee-lar thought for a moment.  “Why do you care
whether or not they live?  He is lord of the Kale Gen, not of your Krall Gen.”

Mynar smiled.  “Surely you jest?  You know that I
will have the closest blood-ties to the throne of my gen once I kill Lord Krall
and his sons, as will you once you kill Lord Karthan and his whelps.  However,
your lord has claim to my gen’s throne.  Don’t forget, my lord took your lord’s
older sister as a lifemate!”

“There is no such agreement between our gens.”  Khee-lar
shook his head.  He was at the end of his patience with Mynar and his
condescendence.  After all, Mynar had been chased here by the servants of Lord
Krall after his botched assassination attempt.  Khee-lar had no patience for
those who failed.  He had found life to be rather unforgiving to those who
couldn’t perform.  With a twitch of the eye, Khee-lar unintentionally let on
that he knew Mynar was next to the edge of the cliff.

“Agreement or not, by the Scrolls of Heritage Lord
Karthan and his whelps have a stronger claim to the throne of my gen than I
do.  I cannot tolerate that,” Mynar said, still believing he was firmly in
control of Khee-lar.  “By killing them all, you eliminate their threat to your
claim on the throne of the Kale Gen, as well as their claim on the throne of
the Krall Gen.”

“Since when have you cared what the Scrolls of
Heritage say?”

Mynar’s brows rose as he looked at Khee-lar anew. 
“Have I taught you nothing?  They give you control over the masses.  Whether or
not you agree with them, you must appear legitimate in the eyes of your gen or
your rule will not last.”

Khee-lar Shadow Hand shook his head slowly.  “Ah
Mynar, that is where you and I part ways.”  He turned and stared into Mynar’s
eyes with a cold intensity that could mean only one thing.  “I will control my
people.  Once I establish my rule, I will have no need of scrolls or any such
crutch.  They will obey me, or they will die.”

Mynar the Sorcerer could see the danger in
Khee-lar’s eyes, in the way he stood, in the tightness of his muscles, as if he
were preparing to strike.  Struggling to not let his fear show, he took a step
away from the edge of the precipice.  He was losing control over Khee-lar, so
he used the last piece of leverage he knew he had.  “You want the Kale Stone,
and I can get it for you.  Don’t forget that, Khee-lar.”

Khee-lar paused for a moment then growled in
frustration as he willed himself to stand down.  Turning away from Mynar, he
took a couple of deep breaths.  Having his gen’s stone of power would ensure
his rule was not challenged.  That was worth maintaining some semblance of
deference to his former mentor, if only in word.  “I will not fail,” Khee-lar
said tensely as he began to walk out of the cavern.  Turning back he snapped at
Mynar.  “See to it that you get me what I need to cement my rule.” 

With that Khee-lar Shadow Hand ducked into the
narrow passageway and departed.

Standing alone now in the wind that rose up from
the underdark, Mynar the Sorcerer wiped the sweat from his brow and
straightened up, breathing deeply before leaving the chamber himself.  As he
left the chamber, he passed his hand over his face again, taking on the visage
of the non-descript warrior as his look became more determined.

“Oh the Kale Stone will return to the Kale Gen, my
dear Khee-lar Shadow Hand,” he spoke under his breath as he entered the chamber
beyond and saw Khee-lar walking down the long passage beyond.  “And with it I
will bend you
and
this gen to my will.”

T
he
sounding of the third gong found the Kale Gen’s arena a hive of activity.  A
night and most of a day had passed since the yearlings had returned from the
underdark and only one more full day after this one was left to the dedicated
warriors of the Honor Guard to finish the preparations for the Trials of
Caste.  High above the floor of the arena, Kormach Manebrow, Master Trainer of
the Kale Gen, sat nursing various aches and pains he’d acquired during the last
piece of the yearling group’s training.  From his vantage point on the lowest
bench in the stands high above the floor of the gen’s cavernous arena he could
see several of his fellow Honor Guard warriors working on various portions of
the obstacles and constructs that formed what was known as the scouting trial,
putting in the final traps, openings, and finishing touches in preparation for
the event that was but two mornings away now. 

It was in this arena, among its various
challenges, obstacles, and pitfalls, that the yearlings would demonstrate their
newly learned skills and earn their standings in the gen.  Indeed, these
challenges would determine who would be chosen to lead and who would be led.

For as long as anyone in this great extended
family known as the Kale Gen could remember, the Day of Beginnings, which
marked the day their gen had separated from the four other original gens, and
its attendant Trials of Caste had been a significant event not only for the yearlings,
but for the entire gen.  Apart from the constant smell of cooking fires and the
preparations for the joinings of some of the females that would come of age
this day or from previous years, a constant hum of other activities led up to
the Trials of Caste. 

Weapon smiths shaped poles into practice spears. 
Construction crews repaired obstacles and ensured the soundness of bridges and
the various wooden constructs that filled much of the main floor of the gen’s
arena.  It was a time of much excitement among almost all the members of the
Kale Gen.  For Manebrow, however, it was a time of great relief, as it meant
that his duties as trainer for this group of yearlings would soon be over.  This
was the comforting thought that he was pondering as he sat surveying the scene.

From behind him a soft voice interrupted his
solace.  “Manebrow?”

Turning to see who was there, Kormach Manebrow
raised the unique, thick, dark reddish-brown eyebrows that gave him his honor
name questioningly and pursed his lips.  “Kiria?” he finally asked.

“Yes,” the young female kobold replied.  “Were you
expecting someone else?”  Her fine features and large eyes appeared almost
concerned, as if she didn’t want to preempt whoever the trainer’s other visitor
might be.

“No,” Manebrow reassured her.  “I was waiting for
you alone.  It’s just…” Manebrow hesitated “it’s obviously been some time since
I’ve seen you.  You’ve grown up.”

Though it was stated matter-of-factly, Kiria flushed
at the off-handed compliment and bowed her head down into the high collar of
the simple red wool dress she wore.  “It has been the better part of this past
year, I guess,” she answered then steeling herself she fixed him with one eye.  “I
can’t stay a young whelp forever, you know.”

“I know, my lady,” Manebrow answered.

“My lady?” Kiria repeated quizzically.  “Come now,
I’m not
that
old yet.”

Manebrow nodded his head.  “Standing there in that
dress and with this adult voice you seem to have gotten, you are a clear
stand-in for Lady Kiri.”

Kiria was taken aback at the reference to her
mother, gone to the place where the ancestors go six years ago during the orc
raid on their gen’s home.  The comparison left her flushed and speechless.

Seeing her discomfort, Manebrow tried to change
the subject.  His efforts came off bluntly; he had little diplomatic skill left
after so many years in the harness.  “The purpose your father had in arranging
this tour was so that you could get a better understanding of what the yearling
group will be doing tomorrow.”

Kiria shook off the memories that were dancing
around in her head, glad for the change in subject.  “Yes, I guess so.”

“Well, let’s start with what you know already,”
Manebrow prompted her.

Kiria thought for a moment, then remembering what
she had read the night before in the Lore Master’s library, she answered.  “The
Trials of Caste is a tradition dating back to the time of The Sorcerer, when
our race began.  Anciently it was called the Time of Trials, and it was said to
have been started by Kobold, the First Sire himself, to determine which of his
progeny would inherit the Place of Beginnings, or Palacid as it was called in
the ancient scrolls, where kobolds first came to be, and thereby become the
next leader of the race.”

Manebrow smiled.  “Right you are, my young lady,”
he said.  “Now this year’s Trials of Caste may not be for such a grandiose
prize, but these young trainees have still gone about their preparations with a
ferocious intensity,” Manebrow said.  “Follow me.  I’ll take you around the
arena and let you see close up some of what lies in store for the yearlings
tomorrow.” 

Manebrow and Kiria walked through the Lord’s Box
at the front of the stands and down the stairs that led into the arena.  Still
slightly favoring an aching leg and nursing a few other aches and pains
elsewhere, Manebrow took the stairs more slowly than he might have otherwise. 
For Manebrow, who was now thirty years old, the effort required to drive these
yearlings was getting greater and greater each year.  With this rather talented
group of yearlings, and toward the end of the year especially, he felt as if he
had spent more effort trying to keep up with them, rather than driving them;
that to him was the sign of a good group of yearlings that were ready for the
Trials of Caste.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs and made
their way toward a large patch of sawdust with a tall wooden stand next to it,
Manebrow continued the tour.  “Every year, each group of yearlings gives it their
all, for to fail any of my tests during the year, or to not complete the
training for any reason, is to become part of the servant caste.”

Kiria nodded in troubled understanding.  One of
the few household servants her father kept had mentioned this in passing when
she was younger, and the absoluteness of such a judgment had struck her then as
it did now.

“This year thirteen yearlings started the year of
training, probably about a third the number of the next smallest year-group
I’ve trained,” Manebrow continued with perhaps a hint of wistfulness.  “But the
small size of the group was to be expected, considering the drought and famine
of almost sixteen years ago now.  You’re the same age as these ones, you know.”
 Manebrow smiled at her.  “You were all progeny of hope, conceived in a time
when we didn’t know if we would survive the winter.”

“You were already a young warrior, past the
trials,” Kiria said, her emotions still brewing.

“Aye, or rather it was the year before my turn at
the trials.  Now in two days the remaining seven will undergo the Trials of
Caste.”  Manebrow paused as he considered the six who had not measured up, and
therefore had not made it through the year of training.

“You mean that almost half of the yearlings didn’t
make it through the training?!” Kiria asked, flustered, her emotions flowing
freely.  “But the gen’s council is always talking about the need for more
warriors!  Knowing the need, how can you send so many of the yearlings to the
servant caste?”

Manebrow thought for a moment before answering the
Lord of the Gen’s young daughter.  He could clearly see that, like the
yearlings who had failed, all of which were her same age, she had no
understanding of what challenges awaited the defenders of this gen in the large
world outside their gen’s home caverns. 

“You must understand, my lady, that there are much
bigger and nastier things in the world than kobolds.  To send a kobold out into
that world unready and incapable of facing those threats… I would have signed
his death sentence, for he would not survive long, and a dead kobold is of no
use to anyone.” 

Manebrow could see that his arguments were gaining
ground with the young female, though emotion echoed loudly still behind her
large eyes.  After giving Kiria a few moments to attempt to master her
emotions, he continued.  “Though I do not relish sending the other six back to
their warrior groups to be servants to their betters, I know that if I do not
hold the group to a high standard that it will only serve to weaken the gen,
not strengthen it, and I will not tolerate that.” 

Manebrow knew all too well that holding to a
standard meant that some would not live up to that standard, a concept that
many disagreed with, including some of their gen’s council members and
apparently his lord’s daughter, though as he watched Kiria seemed to
reluctantly accept his reasoning, if only just.

“Well, my lady, this area is where we will conduct
the melee weapons trial,” he said as the two of them arrived at the empty
sawdust circle next to the tall wooden stands.  “And on this stand, of course,
is where the trainers will stand.”

“Are there not supposed to be racks with wooden
weapons here for the trials?” Kiria asked.

“Yes, quite right.  I’m sure they’ll be brought
out before the trials start in two mornings’ time,” Manebrow answered.  He
could see that she was bored with this part of the tour and they quickly moved
on to the area of the arena where the ranged weapons targets and weapons
barrels were set up.

As they walked, Manebrow sighed with the relief of
knowing this year’s training cycle was complete, even though in the back of his
mind he knew full well that the next group of yearlings were already being
prepared to enter their year of training, and a much larger group at that, for
the year after the drought and famine had brought a baby boom.  Soon, Manebrow
would be deep in training again, training with weapons, climbing, working with riding
wolves and pack dogs, survival, and the tactics that their gen employed in
battle.

This last skill, that of tactics, was the most
intense part of their year, and the part that wore Manebrow down ever more as
each year took its toll on his body.  Despite the physical cost, he refused to
drop his high standards and reduce the intensity of the training.  As such, for
weeks he trained and drilled each yearling group in the art of forming a shield
wall, ambushing, scouting, fighting in formation, and infiltration.  Then,
climbing down the massive cliff called Sheerface into the dark caverns far
below their gen’s home, the future warriors spent their last two moons leading
each other as Manebrow stepped back and let them learn.

After weeks of going days at a time with little or
no sleep, constantly conducting raids and ambushes, assaults and defensive
actions, the yearling group then concluded the fevered pace of their training
with a climb up Sheerface into their gen’s home caverns.  Upon returning to the
gen, the yearlings were pronounced ready for the Trials of Caste, and Manebrow
got a few days of well-deserved rest.

The mismatched pair reached the large weapons rack
that held the bows, quivers, and javelins for the ranged weapons trial.  Grabbing
a javelin, Manebrow offered it to the young female.  By the look in her eye, he
thought perhaps she would accept a challenge.

“What?  Me throw that?” she complained.  After a
moment of looking into his unwavering gaze, Kiria took the javelin and with a
huff turned to face the large bags that served as targets spaced evenly for
some distance in front of the weapons rack.  Screwing up her courage and hoping
she wouldn’t look like too much of a fool, Kiria threw at the closest target. 
The javelin wobbled through the air for several paces, then landed in the dirt,
skittering then rolling sideways to a stop many paces in front of the closest
of the targets.

“Not bad,” Manebrow said offhandedly.

Kiria scowled.  “Whatever happened to all that
talk of standards?” she said, almost jokingly.

“Very well, my lady.  Not bad for one who has not
undergone the year of training,” Manebrow said. 

Kiria picked up a bow and pulled an arrow out of one
of the quivers.  Pulling the string with all her might she was finally able to
get the string back almost to her breast before finally releasing it with a
strained grunt.  The arrow flew downward much quicker than she had anticipated,
almost sticking in the ground some twenty paces in front of her.

“Still,” she said, “I do wish I had some skill
with weapons.”

“Your calling in life is not to bear arms in a
quest to further the gen,” Manebrow answered.  “You have no need of any skill
with such things.”

Kiria gave him a look that he did not recognize,
almost wistful and yet at the same time weighed down by the burden of things
held close.

“Take me through the obstacles, Master Trainer,”
she said.

As they turned to go toward the obstacles that,
collectively, were the scouting trial, a voice called out from the direction of
the council chambers.  Norborib, one of her father’s servants, had come with a
summons for Kiria.  She stopped, a frustrated look on her face.

“My lady?” Manebrow asked.

“My father wants me home.”  She looked longingly
at the obstacles in front of them.  “And the scouting part is the part I least
understood.  Oh well, next time perhaps,” she sighed.

“Or tomorrow, or after the trials and before they
disassemble it all,” Manebrow offered matter-of-factly.

Kiria shook her head. “Not likely,” she said, a
wistful look in her eyes as she turned to go.