by Joel Babbitt
“I don’t think this is… working terribly well,” Jerrig huffed, his tongue lolling out the side of his dog-like snout as Durik just looked at him. “This is supposed… to be the easy part… of the climb.”
Durik stared at the patterns the rope had dug into his fingers as he flexed them and blinked. Rubbing them against each other he saw a few scales fall into the void below them.
Jerrig sat up somewhat. “Thanks for saving me, both of you,” he said as he looked from Durik to Gorgon. “I thought I was dead!”
Gorgon grunted acknowledgement as he rubbed his scaly head just behind the horns, then looking as though he’d only begun to warm up, he stuck his snout into the wind and looked up and down the cliff face at the other four yearlings and their master trainer, all of whom were in some stage of climbing this ultimate obstacle; the cliff known throughout their gen as Sheerface. Above him, Gorgon could see that Arbelk had climbed much quicker and much further than the rest of them, his lithe form a bright contrast in Gorgon’s heat vision to the pitch black of the cool rock wall he was climbing. On a ledge several paces above them, but still some distance behind Arbelk, Gorgon could see Trallik’s snouted face poking over the edge, intent to see what was happening yet devoid of any particular emotion, other than the intolerance that he typically exuded. Not far below his ledge Gorgon saw the tall, lanky Troka being pulled up by Manebrow, the Kale Gen’s Master Trainer, and by Keryak, who was probably the most normal looking of them all.
Gorgon watched the Master Trainer finish hauling Troka up to his ledge then looked up at the rest of them. This past year of training had made him intimately familiar with every mannerism the Master Trainer portrayed. Now, by the look on Manebrow’s face, Gorgon could tell that they were going to be changing tactics.
“Everyone stay where they are!” Manebrow called loud enough for even Arbelk up the cliff face from them to hear him over the wind gushing up from below. After a moment, when he could see that all seven of the warrior trainees were looking at him, the muscular veteran warrior continued. “We’re not going to make it up Sheerface this way! I think it best that we send a pair ahead to get help and ropes to pull the rest of us up!” The seven yearlings muttered their approval, defeat evident in the eyes of some.
Truly, the Fates wound about them in the wind, and all of them could feel it. They were fickle things, the Fates, and not to be lightly tempted. But the small group of yearlings had already swung Fates’ pendulum far in their favor. None of them wanted the pendulum to swing away from them on their climb; despite their acts of bravado none wanted to join the ancestors quite yet.
Arbelk, already several tens of paces ahead of the rest of them in this climb, cupped his hands on either side of his snout and yelled down to the group. No one could hear him over the wind the first time, so he breathed in deeply and shouted again. “I’ll climb on ahead and bring back help!”
Manebrow looked in the eyes of the other six yearlings as he pondered what decision he should make. He cursed himself again for not ensuring their equipment had been hidden better when they had made the long climb down Sheerface some two moons now in the past. After all, if the outcasts down in the underdark hadn’t gotten to their gear, they’d still have had the equipment they needed to make this climb safely and together in one group. As it was, they had recovered barely enough equipment from the outcasts to help get Jerrig, Troka, and Keryak, their three weakest climbers, this far up the cliff.
There was no going back, either. The small group of yearlings with their master trainer had been chased here by an armed band of those same outcasts, who would now be waiting to see if they would come back down or not. He felt like a fox, chased into a hole with little hope of escape by the route they’d come in, but this hole was thirty paces wide and went straight up.
Manebrow shook his head. He saw clearly that he could send only a pair of climbers up the shaft for help, for that was all the equipment they had. Looking into their eyes, Manebrow knew that Jerrig, Troka, and Keryak would be of no help in this circumstance. Arbelk was by far their best climber, but for this feat he would need someone to help him make the climb, not hinder him. For Trallik’s part, though he was lithe and skilled, over this past year Manebrow had grown to not trust him to help others, which was more necessary now than at any point in their year of training together. That left only his two best; Durik the most level-headed of his yearlings or the much stronger Gorgon to belay Arbelk on this climb.
If he sent Gorgon, he reasoned to himself, and both Gorgon and Arbelk fell, then he knew he’d never be able to get the weaker climbers up. If Durik went, however, leaving Gorgon with the weaker climbers and himself, they might still have a chance if things went wrong. It was cold, practical thinking, but he believed it was the only option he had left. Besides, this past year it seemed as if the Fates had smiled more on Durik, and that certainly wasn’t a bad thing.
“Durik,” Manebrow ordered, “take the remaining equipment and go up with Arbelk. Arbelk will lead the climb. You provide anchor and belay him in case he falls.”
Both Trallik and Gorgon looked surprised, and almost slighted by the Master Trainer’s choice, but while Trallik sulked on his ledge, Gorgon quickly went about the task of gathering the climbing equipment into one kit for Durik to take with him on the climb. It didn’t take more than a moment.
Steeling himself for the life and death challenge that lay ahead, Durik began the arduous climb up to meet Arbelk.
Word of the yearlings’ return spread like wildfire through the gen. Even more titillating and worrisome was the word that only two of them had returned, leaving the rest of them trapped down Sheerface in the underdark and in need of help. When Lord Karthan’s chief elite warrior ran into the council chamber and broke the news to the gen’s council all of them, warrior group leaders and functional leaders alike, got up as one and rushed to see for themselves.
Not last among them was the Lord of the Kale Gen, a kobold named Karthan whose sharp countenance and reserved manner were complemented well by his above average height and erect bearing. More companion than servant, his chamberlain Khazak Mail Fist, an unusually muscular kobold with broad shoulders and powerful arms, tightened the straps about his wrists and adjusted his metal gauntlets as they walked. Walking only a step behind his lord, and sometimes at his side, Khazak’s eyes were set deep in a chiseled face that had seen more than its share of duty and danger. His presence was deliberately menacing, though to those who knew him well they knew the look was actually one of sheer determination, worn as a mask to shield an otherwise playful heart.
Upon reaching the small cavern which sat squarely at the top of Sheerface, Khazak Mail Fist’s voice boomed out. “Make way for the Lord of the Gen!” At that pronouncement many of the curious onlookers who had gathered to see the spectacle filed out of the small chamber, spurred along by Khazak’s constant urging and directing; his presence was intimidating and instantly commanded obedience from those who were not inured to him.
Once the way had been cleared, Lord Karthan pressed into the warm wind that billowed up from the bowels of the underdark, ducking through the doorway and entering the small chamber, now ablaze with torches and full of activity. All around the edges at the lip of the shaft were teams of warriors from the Deep Guard Warrior Group winding winches with long ropes attached to them, tight with the weight of whatever they were hoisting. Sitting slumped next to the doorway were two of the yearlings, one strangely bronze-scaled and the other with a normal dark hue to his rust-red scales. Lord Karthan recognized them by their gear, the same type of gear he had worn during his time of training almost two decades now past. They were obviously exhausted from the climb, with fingers, hands, toes, and feet that were cracked and bleeding. Around their waists the belay ropes had worn off some of their scales and by the way they gingerly sat up he could tell they were bruised in many places.
As Lord Karthan approached the two young kobolds they both struggled to stand. He motioned for them to
stay seated. “Please, yearlings, sit. Relax. You’ve been through enough for now.” He looked at Durik strangely, as though only now realizing this different-looking kobold was one of his yearlings.
Durik and Arbelk sat back down, though neither of them leaned up against the chamber wall. Lord Karthan took a knee next to the pair of exhausted yearlings, smiling at the rust-red yearling and looking with a keen gaze at the other.
“Tell me what has happened? Is the rest of the yearling group alright?”
“Sire,” Durik started, speaking as formally as he could muster. “Though all of our group escaped unscathed, the outcasts in the underdark found our cache of equipment and took our climbing gear. The Fates were kind, though, and we made the climb up Sheerface for help.”
Lord Karthan looked at the pittance of remaining climbing gear; a rope to connect the pair, one small pick, a recently emptied bag of chalk, and a hammer, but no more spikes or pitons. He looked over the edge into the long, dark shaft then back to the pair of yearlings. “You climbed all the way up Sheerface… by hand?!”
The pair nodded in unison.
Lord Karthan looked back at Khazak Mail Fist. “Chamberlain, have you seen such a feat? I think these two” he said, hesitating as he looked at Durik, “will go down in the record of our gen.”
Arbelk’s face flushed beneath his translucent rust red scales at the complement. “It was what had to be done, sire, nothing more,” he muttered.
Durik quickly jumped in. “Sire, it was Arbelk here that led the climb. I merely followed his lead and held the rope for him.”
Lord Karthan studied the pair for a moment before speaking. “A great feat nonetheless Arbelk, and…”
“Durik, sire,” Durik quickly filled in. “Son of Durim, late of the Wolf Riders.”
Lord Karthan’s piercing gaze seemed to see right through Durik. “Ah, yes, grandson of the bronze-scaled immigrant,” he said referring to Durik’s grandfather who had come from the gens to the north of the Kale Gen several decades now in the past.
“Yes, sire.” Durik bowed his head at this mention of this trait that he had inherited from his father, and from his grandfather before him. This difference had been a point of ridicule growing up, for in the Kale Gen only the scales of the most venerable of kobolds had any bronze to them. He counted his cousin Jerrig lucky, as his scales were mostly rust red like everyone else’s in the Kale Gen, with only a tinge of bronze on them, mostly at the tips, the same as Jerrig’s father.
“Well, good climb then Arbelk… and Durik,” Lord Karthan said as he stood and looked over the edge into the darkness. The leader of the Deep Guard’s rescue team had just had the torches doused so they could better see the yearling group’s progress. Still a distance down the shaft the hot silhouettes of the yearlings and their master trainer hung from long ropes like spiders dangling from their silk. A pair of slighter yearlings were tethered together on the same rope while on another rope the largest, most muscular yearling was alone. Below them the rest of the group was strung out over a hundred paces or so, all of them hanging helplessly from the winched ropes, the winds of the Fates swirling powerlessly about them now.
By his look, Khee-lar Shadow Hand, leader of the Deep Guard Warrior Group, was of noble breeding, the wide eyes and broad snout of the Kale line protruded from under a light brow and smaller than normal horns. But his demeanor had changed his look over time, until finally the ravages of his excessive emotions, often focusing inward until some provocation or another brought it all out in a torrent upon whomever was about, had left him with the look of one who seemed to be continually brooding about something or another. In truth, he was rarely a master of his passions, rather they were often his master, and a hard master at that.
As he stood between two of the winch crews, Khee-lar watched the first pair of kobolds from the yearling group crest the lip of the shaft to be helped up onto flat ground. Beside him stood his chief elite warrior, a usually quiet but rather determined kobold named Trelkar, who held the status of second only to Khee-lar among those of the Deep Guard Warrior Group. The seeming disparity between Trelkar’s calm, determined manner and Khee-lar impassioned brooding seemed to belie the fact that they were cousins; but the similarity of their features definitely confirmed the fact that both of them were descendents of the Kale line. For any who knew them well, it could be said that at times Trelkar was as passionate as Khee-lar Shadow Hand, and there were times of self-mastery where Khee-lar was more calculating than Trelkar. It left everyone about them guessing.
By Khee-lar’s other side was a rather non-descript looking Deep Guard warrior who seemed to be observing everything with a deep intensity. By the brands on his chest, a sword on a banner, he was an elite warrior. The cut of his belts showed that he was Deep Guard, though none there knew him by face, which was deliberate.
Not long after the first pair arrived, Lord Karthan had arrived with his chamberlain and leader of his Honor Guard Warrior Group, the brute Khazak Mail Fist. Khee-lar had paid them no attention, though the non-descript warrior watched them with an unusually keen gaze. As they stood there chatting a third kobold was hoisted up to the lip of the chasm, a rather muscular yearling from the Metal Smithies Warrior Group whose name neither Khee-lar nor Trelkar could remember at the moment. Immediately after him a fourth kobold arrived whom they did recognize.
“Welcome back, Trallik,” Khee-lar said as this fourth yearling shed his harness.
Trallik noticed who was addressing him and quickly hid the arrogant attitude he habitually wore. “Thank you, sire,” he said as politely as he could, seemingly over aware that Khee-lar Shadow Hand was not only the warrior group leader of the warrior group he grew up in, but that he would probably be his warrior group leader for much of the rest of his life.
“From what your fellow Deep Guard yearling tells me, Arbelk I believe he’s called, you have had quite the time in the underdark these past two moons,” Khee-lar said.
“Yes, sire,” Trallik said, not meeting Khee-lar’s intimidating gaze.
“Arbelk is quite the climber, from what I hear as well,” Khee-lar continued. “He appears to have climbed Sheerface tethered to nothing but another yearling; Durik, the bronze-scaled one, from the Wolf Riders Warrior Group.”
Trallik scowled. “Yes, sire. Arbelk led the climb, but I should have been chosen to go with him, not Durik. Being Deep Guard, I am the better climber.”
Khee-lar Shadow Hand nodded in approval of the comment, giving a knowing look over his shoulder to Trelkar who stood with him. “Well, you seem to be capable enough, from what I have heard in the master trainer’s reports this past year.” Khee-lar thought for a moment then straightened. “We will talk again, perhaps after the Trials of Caste. Do your best there, Trallik.”
Trallik sensed that he was dismissed, so he stood and turned to leave, not bothering to wait for the rest of the yearling group, wanting only to go somewhere and rest after so long on patrol in the underdark. Khee-lar Shadow Hand’s next comment, however, rooted him in place.
“I believe we have a special place for one of your talents and disposition in the Deep Guard, Trallik. But first I will have to assess exactly how loyal to me you are willing to be.” Khee-lar paused as Trallik looked at him quizzically. “Go on, now. I can see that you are anxious to return to your home.” Behind him the non-descript warrior’s keen gaze focused entirely too intensely on Trallik for his comfort.
Not knowing what to think, Trallik left for his father’s humble tent in the caverns of the Deep Guard. Bowing his head, he passed by Lord Karthan who was too busy talking with Gorgon to notice his passing.
Though it was not his usual custom, but since he was there he decided to do so anyway, Lord Karthan personally greeted and congratulated each of the yearlings as they emerged from the shaft, patting them on the back and telling them how proud he was of their resourcefulness in dealing with a problem that other year-groups had not had to deal with. When Manebrow, the Master Trainer, arrived last
of the group, Lord Karthan beckoned Khee-lar Shadow Hand over as Manebrow was shedding his harness. Khee-lar reluctantly complied. Though Lord Karthan didn’t notice his reluctance, Khazak Mail Fist, Lord Karthan’s chamberlain, saw it clearly.
“Ah, Khee-lar,” Lord Karthan said, “Manebrow’s report of discovering signs of industry and organization down among the outcasts is disturbing. I want you to get with our good trainer and discover the strength of the outcast group that the yearlings were facing, and find out from him their places of refuge. Then I want you to organize a war party and drive them out of the upper places in the underdark where our yearlings train. We should remember to do this each year before their two moons in the underdark.”
Khee-lar Shadow Hand sneered. “If it wasn’t for your overzealous laws, we wouldn’t have so many outcasts,” he quipped. Behind Khee-lar his companions grinned in approval of the comment.
Lord Karthan looked at Khee-lar like he was seeing him for the first time. Behind him Khazak Mail Fist’s gauntleted hand scraped against his sword hilt. Manebrow’s senses immediately sharpened as what little adrenaline he had left kicked in.
Lord Karthan looked at Khee-lar in disgust, “Enough, Khee-lar. You have your orders, now execute them!”
Without waiting for a response, Lord Karthan turned and departed. Khazak Mail Fist followed after him, not turning his back to Khee-lar or the assembled Deep Guard warriors until he was at the exit from the chamber.
Manebrow hastily gathered the yearlings together, noting that Trallik had already left. Without even pausing to ensure they had what little equipment they’d brought up the cliff with them, he quickly led the yearling group out of the chamber and toward the more inhabited portions of their gen’s cavern complex.
Not long after the yearlings’ departure the Deep Guard warriors finished gathering up the winches and ropes they had deployed to rescue the stranded yearlings, and began hauling it all out of the cavern and off toward their warrior group’s storerooms. Taking leave of his leader and the non-descript warrior, the Deep Guard Chief Elite Warrior Trelkar accompanied the other Deep Guard warriors, to ensure that they stored the gear properly. In a matter of a few minutes Khee-lar Shadow Hand and the non-descript warrior were alone in the small cavern, looking down into the inky blackness of Sheerface.