The Trials of Caste (25 page)

“Yes, I suppose so,” Kiria replied softly,
distracted by the young bronze-scaled warrior’s unusually calm demeanor even
under the gaze of the entire gen.

Keryak had limped off to the side after Durik
helped him to stand, clutching his stomach and leaving his spear in the ring as
Gorgon and Durik faced off on either side of the line in the center of the
ring, prepared for the next round of the final match.

“Fight!” shouted the trainer.

Gorgon, a little more leery this time, came forward,
swinging his hammer with one hand in broad arcs in front of him.  Durik backed
up a couple of steps.  Having seen Gorgon do this many times, Durik knew it was
only a matter of time before he was forced out of the ring unless he got in
close with Gorgon.

Durik stopped retreating and started to come
forward.  Gorgon, not sure of what Durik was planning, brought his hammer up
and to the ready.  It wasn’t enough, however.  As Gorgon lifted his hammer,
Durik stepped forward, swinging the butt of his spear up and toward Gorgon’s
left side.  Gorgon instinctively moved his hammer down to block, leaving his
head, shoulders and chest wide open.  Durik switched momentum and brought the
tip end of his spear down toward Gorgon’s head.  Gorgon proved to be just fast
enough, however, to avoid a solid hit.  Durik’s spear grazed Gorgon’s chest as
it swung downward and Gorgon stepped back quickly.  The trainer raised one hand
and pointed at Durik with the other.

“Round two goes to Durik also!” the announcer
boomed.

Durik now was causing quite the stir in the
stands.  Most had seen how Gorgon had quickly taken care of Jerrig and had beat
Troka down.  He was clearly the most obvious one to win, and yet the smaller
Durik was somehow ahead.  The match was far from decided, however, as a solid
hit to either kobold’s opponent could still win the match.

Durik and Gorgon lined up again on either side of
the line.  This time, Gorgon didn’t look quite so confident, a desperate look
replacing his natural dominance.  Gorgon knew he had to land a solid blow on
Durik, not just a glancing blow.  Since Durik already had two glancing blows on
him, if he ended this series of three rounds with only one glancing blow he
would lose. 

Durik saw the look in Gorgon’s eye and started to
worry that Gorgon might lose control of his great strength and cripple or kill
him by accident.

“Fight!” yelled the trainer.

Gorgon came forward swinging wildly, harder than
he had before.  Durik, his fears confirmed, stepped back and watched Gorgon
swing.  In a second he saw his opportunity.  Gorgon’s wild swings were causing
him to swing further than normal, exposing his side.  Durik stepped back and
watched one more swing.  As Gorgon swung wide, Durik stepped in to strike. 
Gorgon, seeing Durik stepping in, stepped forward himself and, bringing his
elbow back, caught Durik across the face with a strong blow.  Durik was thrown
back several feet onto his tail, barely managing to hang onto his spear. 

Gorgon came forward swinging his hammer in a
downward arc.  Durik, a little dazed, saw the impending danger and rolled back,
bringing his spear up with both hands in front of him.  There was a loud crack
as shaft met shaft.  Both the spear and the hammer broke simultaneously.  Durik
winced as he expected the head of the hammer to slam into his face.  Instead of
hitting his face, however, the padded wooden hammerhead did not break free of
the shaft, bending instead on its green shaft around one half of the spear
shaft.

Durik opened his eyes and realized that the head
of Gorgon’s hammer and the bottom half of his spear shaft were intertwined,
rendering both useless and leaving the part of the spear shaft with the tip on
it untangled in his left hand.  Gorgon was staring dumbly at his broken hammer
and did not seem to realize the danger he was in.  Quickly, before Gorgon was
able to grasp the situation, Durik cocked the short spear shaft in his hand and
stabbed upwards toward Gorgon’s stomach.  Gorgon exhaled sharply as the wooden
tip drove into his stomach.  The trainer raised one hand and pointed at Durik
with the other.

“Gorgon takes second place and gains four points toward
the cup!” boomed the announcer.  “Victory in the melee weapons trial goes to
Durik, who gains six points toward the cup!”  There were loud cheers from the
crowd and applause.  Durik, gathering his senses and getting on his feet,
turned to face the crowd.  The trainer grabbed his hand and raised it.  The
crowd erupted in cheers. 

Behind Durik as the crowd began to quiet,
breathing heavily and obviously frustrated, Gorgon came up and patted him on
the shoulder, the rage of the moment now past.  “Good job, Durik,” he
complimented.  “You surprise me.  You handle the pressure of this thing well.”

“Thanks, Gorgon,” Durik answered.  “You’re very
strong.  I’m glad you’re my friend.  Though for a moment there I wasn’t so sure,”
Durik remarked with some concern in his voice.

“Hmpf.  Nothing like a good competition to get
your juices flowing,” Gorgon replied grumpily and perhaps a little sheepishly,
knowing that he had lost control of himself and could have possibly killed
Durik if that last blow had landed as he intended.

Around them, the rest of the yearlings knew
clearly where they stood; Durik, Gorgon, and Keryak had all scored, and so
their place as warriors was assured, while Trallik, Arbelk, Jerrig, and Troka
all had yet to score points or a kill.  If they failed to do so in the
remaining trials, then tradition was clear; at the end of these trials they
would be relegated to the servant caste.

Manebrow stood on the trainers’ stand, observing
the competition with much interest.  After a year of training these young
kobolds, there was rarely anything they did that surprised him.  However, he
was surprised at how well Durik had handled the pressures of the crowd and the
competition in the face of a superior opponent, and how Gorgon had been
seemingly distracted by it all.  After several years of training, he had seen
many a competitor fail to keep his composure and do less than he was capable
of. 

Gorgon, on the other hand, was no one to be
trifled with and, in the scrap that was the scouting event, his strength and
talent would give him a significant edge over the rest.  That was, of course,
only if he could keep his head about him.

No matter how the competition went, Manebrow could
already see how the strengths and weaknesses exhibited this day could play out
in the quest that was to come.  Silently, he wished that he’d had even more
time to work with these yearlings before this day.  Once they made warrior caste,
they would pay little heed to what he had to say.  Manebrow sighed.  Ever it
was so.  The young rarely listened to their elders once they felt that they’d
achieved something on their own, that is until they’d fallen on their tails as
a result of their own folly and needed tending after.  Deep in his heart he
knew that this learning must occur, and intensely hoped that the cost of it
wouldn’t be too dear.

T
he
seven yearlings stood in a line facing the stands at one end of the long, clear
portion of the arena on the opposite side from the trainer’s stand.  A short
distance in front of them stood a line of orc-sized bags of sand.  Staggered at
various distances behind the bags were many similar bags.  Overall, there were seven
lanes with six bags spaced about every twenty paces.  Behind the yearlings was
a large weapons rack with seven bows, seven quivers of arrows, and two large
bundles of javelins.

From Lord Karthan’s box the announcer began, “The
objective of the ranged weapons trial is to hit the most targets with the least
projectiles.  Each target has red areas and blue areas painted on it.  Hitting
the red part on a target is a kill.  Two blue hits on the same target are equal
to a kill.  Each yearling can use two javelins for the first target.  For the
remaining five targets, each yearling’s quiver has seven arrows.  He who scores
the most kills using the least ammunition wins!”

As the announcer ended, the trainer turned to the
yearlings.  “Get one javelin each!”  he announced, followed by “From left to
right, attack your first target!”

The dull murmur of the crowd on the other side of
the cavern was a constant backdrop as Jerrig, the first on the left, hefted his
javelin and prepared to throw.  “Redemption time,” he said as he prepared to
throw.  Standing several paces back from the line, Jerrig seemed to be
concentrating, almost focusing on the javelin rather than the target.  After a
couple of seconds, he ran forward to the line, throwing the javelin with all
his might.  He stopped, watching the javelin fly gracefully through the air.

“Not bad, Jerrig,” Trallik said.  “No wobble. 
I’ll have to beat you, though.  I do hope you understand.”  The javelin that
Jerrig had thrown seemed almost to accelerate toward the target.  Downrange,
the first target, painted alternately red at the heart, neck, and stomach and
blue everywhere else, seemed almost aware of the hit it was about to take. 
With a solid thump, the javelin thrust deeply into a blue area of the target,
just below the neck patch.  The assistant trainer called the hit.  The buzz in
the audience remained unchanged.

Jerrig, shaking his head, grabbed a second javelin
and approached the line a second time.  Facing the target, Jerrig ran forward
and released the second javelin with all his might.  It flew through the air
gracefully, but with a slight wobble.  Stepping back, he watched it intensely
as it flew threw the air.  He lifted one hand almost as if he were trying to
guide it while it flew.

“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 settled 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!”