by Joel Babbitt
“You were rather impetuous, my friend,” the non-descript warrior stated. “Being lifemate of your dead sister has made Lord Karthan blind to your involvement, I see. You have done well to put Trelkar’s face foremost in the conspiracy in Lord Karthan’s mind.”
“Hm, yes, well, the time is swiftly coming where I will no longer have to hide my intentions in the shadows, or my actions behind Trelkar and the rest of the Covenant. Wouldn’t you agree, Mynar?” Khee-lar turned to face his companion. “After all, there is but one more piece to put in place, then the time for action will be at hand and I will be Lord of the Kale Gen. Now, tell me, Mynar, where is the Kale Stone? You have your gen’s stone. Surely it must have revealed the location of its brother stone by now.” Now that the two of them were alone Khee-lar’s indignation began to show. By the tone of his voice, it was clear that Khee-lar was beginning to chafe at his companion’s condescending attitude.
The kobold Khee-lar Shadow Hand had called Mynar smiled a strained smile and nodded. He put a hand in a large pouch on his belt which held something heavy and spherical and, in a moment, before Khee-lar’s eyes the illusion vanished and the visage of the non-descript warrior was replaced by that of a middle-aged kobold, the thickness of his horns and the darker hue of his scales marking him as a member of the neighboring Krall Gen.
“You have done well,” Mynar the Sorcerer said as he looked over the edge of Sheerface into the void beyond, deliberately ignoring the question. “I agree. You’ve brought the binding covenants to life and brought many to your cause. But I will save my congratulations until the crown is actually yours.”
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.”
Chapter 2 – The Lord of the Gen’s Daughter
The 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 extende
d 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.