by Davis Ashura
The Castes and the OutCastes
Copyright © 2016 by Davis Ashura
Cover art by Mikey Brooks
Map illustrations by Roger Speer
Interior design by Mikey Brooks (insidemikeysworld.com)
Interior illustrations by Mikey Brooks
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
eBook Edition 2016
DuSum Publishing, LLC
A Warrior's Path Copyright 2014
ISBN: ISBN: 978-0-9911276-0-3
A Warrior's Knowledge Copyright 2015
ISBN:978-0-9911276-4-1
A Warrior's Penance Copyright 2016
ISBN: 978-0-9911276-6-5”
The Trials are our exegesis, and what we need to learn from them is all too obvious…we were meant for so much more.
~The Warrior and the Servant, (author unknown)
“Put some ass into it, men” Sergeant Lathe growled. “You pansies might be needing this ditch an hour from now.” Lathe took his own advice as he bit into the hard ground with his shovel and flung aside a load of dirt. Nearby, other warriors were preparing the stakes meant to line the trench and slow down the horde of Chimeras heading their way.
Six weeks out from the city of Ashoka, and the caravan to Nestle faced what might be overwhelming odds in its first and possibly last battle. Given the history of Humanity since the birth of Suwraith two millennia earlier, it shouldn’t have surprised anyone.
No one knew where She had come from or what drove Her hatred, but upon Her sudden entrance into the world on the Night of Sorrows two millennia ago, She had murdered fully half of all people living at the time. It was a blow from which Humanity had yet to recover because Suwraith’s fury continued unabated. She raged on, stalking Humankind and going so far as to create the brutal, beast-like Chimeras to aid in Her destructive ambition. The only safety was found within the narrow confines of the few cities still alive after the Days of Desolation. But beyond and all around them, in the great swatches of untamed land throughout the rest of the world, it was a killing field. It was the Wildness.
Only the brave ventured into those lands, serving as warriors in the Trials, the great trade caravans that maintained a fragile contact and civilization of sorts between the encircled cities. Those who volunteered to leave the sanctuary of a city were faced with an important yet fearful task because to traverse the Wildness was to court death. Between Suwraith and Her armies of Chimeras, the Fan Lor Kum, one out of every four warriors on Trial could expect to die. Those numbers had declined somewhat in the past several centuries, but the Wildness was not a place into which a wise man would freely choose to travel.
Corporal Rukh Shekton, a warrior of Caste Kumma, the Caste seemingly bred for battle, stood near the officers, waiting for orders as he sweated in the late morning sun. He was young, in his early twenties, and unseasoned. This was his first Trial, he was what the veterans named a Virgin, but panic didn’t seize his heart. Since he had first held a sword, the possibility of an early demise had been greatly impressed upon him. It was something he no longer feared – much. He had been trained to set aside his dread of dying and to focus on the task at hand. Duty above all, as his Martial Masters taught. At this point, death was merely an unwelcome companion, a shadow looming behind him with a cold, clammy breath, but unable to unman him.
Or at least that’s what he told himself. He swallowed, trying to recall the lessons from his Martial Masters as he sought to muzzle his anxiety over whether this day would be his last. For the most part, it worked.
He listened as barked commands had men scurrying about, trying to accomplish the myriad tasks set to them. An outside observer might have thought the Ashokans were all panic-stricken, but most of these men had trained their entire lives for this moment. They had a rational madness. Seeing their calm in the face of disaster helped to settle some of Rukh’s nerves.
He’d be alright.
“How the hell did they get so damn close?” Lieutenant Oak Pume demanded of no one in particular. Rukh’s lieutenant had ordered Rukh to accompany him to his meeting with Captain Stryed Bosna. Pume looked angry enough to chew nails, spit them out, and go back for seconds.
“Doesn’t matter now,” Captain Bosna replied. “We’ve got work…”
His words were interrupted when scouts from the west thundered into camp. Their sergeant in charge, Marag Dwain, dismounted and threw a hasty salute even before his horse had slid to a stop.
Rukh frowned. This couldn’t be good.
It wasn’t.
“Two, maybe three thousand Chims heading our way,” Dwain reported.
“Suwraith’s spit,” Bosna cursed softly.
Corporal Grate, a Muran and one of Lieutenant Danail Starb’s men, stood next to Rukh. He rocked back, his face ashen. “Devesh save us,” he prayed. His emerald eyes, which along with his golden-brown skin were the hallmarks of Caste Muran, darted about in fear. While Grate was a veteran and on his second Trial, Rukh could tell the man was terrified. It was a forgivable breach. After all, while Murans were brave enough, they were generally farmers. They couldn’t be expected to have the courage of a Kumma.
Rukh listened as Grate murmured a fervent prayer to Devesh. Murans were also known for their piety.
Rukh sometimes wished he could pray, but it was a fleeting wish, gone in the instant of a breath. As best he figured, their God, Devesh, was an uncaring sort. His silence through the centuries as Humanity had slowly slouched its way toward extinction echoed with His utter disregard and callousness. So why would He heed their prayers now, especially from someone with as little faith as Rukh?
Devesh wouldn’t. A dog might walk on its legs and talk like a person before Devesh did a single thing for Humanity.
Rukh snorted in derision. Besides, wasn’t it true that bad news was hardly ever an orphan? The worst might be yet to come.
Pume glared at the still praying Muran corporal. “Shut up, Grate! Your chanting is making my ears itch.” He turned his angry gaze to Rukh. “And why in the unholy hells are you standing around, Corporal?” the lieutenant barked. “Do something useful.”
“Waiting for orders, sir,” Rukh shouted, coming to attention and hiding his annoyance. Why was the lieutenant yelling at him? Pume had commanded Rukh’s presence here, but the lieutenant had never bothered to hand out any further orders.
His answer didn’t mollify the lieutenant, whose face was already beet red, from either anger or fear or a combination of the two. “Get over to your unit. Double-time it. Have them ready to move at a moment’s notice. And pass the word to the other corporals. This whole situation stinks like three-day-old fish rotting out in the sun,” the lieutenant said with a growl.
“Yes sir,” Rukh responded.
He saluted and was about to leave, but just then the southern scouts galloped into the encampment. Rukh paused, taking note of the scouts’ appearance. Both the warriors and their horses looked done for. They must have ridden hard out.
“Two thousand Chims,” their sergeant, Derig Liner, gasped. “No more than two hours before they’re on us.”
Captain Bosna took the news with an ad
mirable stoic aplomb.
The same couldn’t be said for Jared Randall, the caravan master. The skinny Rahail hopped up and down like a bug on hot skillet. He screamed like a panic-stricken child. “East. West. South. The damn Chims are coming from everywhere. Seven Fractures. Son of a bitch. That’s almost half a Shatter. What are we going to do?” He looked to Bosna as if the man could magically provide relief from their near-certain ruination. The Captain remained silent as he stared at the caravan master, not bothering to hide his disdain for the Rahail. Randall didn’t notice. He’d fallen to the ground and was sobbing like a child. “We’re fragged. We’re well and truly fragged,” he moaned, rocking back and forth.
Rukh pitied the man. Randall was the caravan master, and he’d already survived three Trials in his life. It was a very respectable number, even for a Kumma, and this was to have been Randall’s last one before he returned to his home city of Nestle. One last journey, and he would have retired fabulously wealthy with a hard-earned and well-deserved respect from all. Randall probably wasn’t a coward, but the shock of learning so many Chimeras were coming after them must have unmanned him. He must have hoped karma would overlook him one last time.
She hadn’t.
Of course, Rukh was in the same position as far as the onrushing Chimeras were concerned. A half-smile formed on his lips. How apropos. His first Trial, and it was likely to be his last. Karma was a bitch, and she’d kissed him hard.
He broke from his reverie at the captain’s shout. “Attention!” Bosna barked.
Shouts from the lieutenants and sergeants reinforced the captain’s order for silence. Within moments, quiet reigned in the foothills northwest of the Hunters Flats.
The captain spoke. “In a little under two hours, this area will be overrun by seven thousand Chims. Seven Fractures. We can’t stop them or even slow them down. They’ll run over us like an avalanche thundering down a mountain. We only have one choice,” he said. He paused briefly, seeming to study the men. “We’ll have to break north and leave everything else behind. We have to escape this trap and carry word to Ashoka,” he said.
“You want us to run?” Pume asked, frowning in displeasure.
The Captain turned to face him. “Think about it, Lieutenant. When was the last time we ever heard of this many Chims gathered together in one place. They wouldn’t all be here just to destroy a single caravan,” he said. “Their aim has to be higher. We have to assume they’re here for Ashoka.”
Murmurs of consternation greeted the Captain’s explanation as his words were passed down to those too far away to hear them. Most of the warriors immediately understood what was at stake.
“Suwraith’s spit,” Pume murmured softly. “I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Captain Bosna turned away from the lieutenant and spoke again to all the warriors. “As of this moment, your pledges to this caravan are hereby rescinded. Your swords must be for Ashoka’s defense only. We ride to the northern hills. From there, one of us must get to the city. Don’t stop and aid anyone you see fall behind if it puts you at risk. Get to the city. That is your only task.”
Stunned silence greeted his words. Rukh had guessed the Captain might say something like that, but hearing the words spoken aloud carried home the truth of their dire predicament with the force of a war hammer to the face. His heart pounded out the rhythm of his sudden dread. The reality of the situation came into focus: he truly might die out here in the Wildness today.
The captain gathered the lieutenants and gave them short, terse orders. Bosna called for the maps, and he and the other officers pored over them.
Rukh wasn’t sure what he should do. Lieutenant Pume had told him to get his unit and the rest of the company up and ready to move, but what about the wagons? Surely he’d want them to offload the supplies they’d need to get back to Ashoka. Uncertain as to what the lieutenant would want from him, he decided to stay put and wait for the officers’ meeting to end.
Pume came striding over. “Shektan. Get to the men. I need you to unload the southern wagons. Gather up anything you think we might need for the trek back to Ashoka: food, medicine, blankets, whatever you can think of. Once the wagons are emptied, fire them. And make sure the Chims don’t gain anything of value from this attack. Go!”
Rukh saluted sharply, glad to have something to do, especially something that made sense. He ran to where the horses were picketed. His heart pounded with adrenaline and fear. He quickly gathered together his unit and passed the word to the other corporals and warriors of B Company. He set some of them to unloading the southern wagons of anything they could use while other warriors readied the horses.
He had to saddle his own mount since no one else would go near the unruly stallion. The beast was either vicious, stupid, or had been mistreated sometime in his life – or maybe a combination of the three. How Rukh had gotten stuck with the animal and how no one had decided to geld the stallion was something he still couldn’t figure out. As usual, the beast reached back and tried to bite him. Through long practice, Rukh slid aside, and the horse’s teeth clacked together, missing his thigh by inches. He tugged the reins until the horse was looking him in the eyes. “We don’t have time for this,” he told the stallion.
For a wonder, the animal seemed to understand his words, settling down with a snort and a shake of his withers. Maybe the weeks of relatively gentle care had earned Rukh the stallion’s trust. Whatever the reason, the horse waited calmly while Rukh saddled him.
As soon as he was done, he led the horse to where the warriors of B Company were unloading the wagons. They worked quickly and soon had a large pile of food, medicines, and other supplies.
“Get those horses out of their traces. Use them as pack animals,” Rukh ordered as some of the warriors began stuffing items into their own saddlebags. There was no way they would be able to save enough supplies for the six week trip back to Ashoka, not just using their own mounts. Rukh watched. Soon enough, the men had the wagon horses unharnessed from their traces and loaded with supplies. The animals whinnied nervously and shifted about, catching the mood of fear and agitation that had swept over the caravan, but eventually they settled down.
Rukh glanced around. B Company was about ready to go. The other companies weren’t far behind. They’d be leaving soon.
“Looks like we chose the wrong caravan,” Keemo Chalwin said, leading his deep-chested roan mare and surprising Rukh as he appeared next to him.
“We all have to die sometime,” Farn Arnicep said, moving up to Rukh’s other side while also leading his mount, a gray gelding.
The three men looked to be brothers. Their resemblance wasn’t surprising since all members of a Caste shared certain defining physical characteristics. As Kummas, they all had a tall, rangy build, dark hair and eyes, and skin the color of tea touched with milk. But in the case of Rukh, Keemo, and Farn, the ties went even deeper. Farn was a cousin and Keemo a close family friend. The same age, all three men had essentially been raised together. They had even attended the same Martial College, the House of Fire and Mirrors. And now, here they were, together in the Wildness, having joined the same Trial as Virgins. Keemo and Farn were as close to Rukh as his own brother.
Of course, it was said that during a Trial, all men were brothers – a trite, meaningless phrase, but it sounded nice.
Before Rukh could respond to Farn or Keemo, Brand Wall strode toward him. He was a member of B Company and a part of Rukh’s unit. He, too, was a Virgin, but unlike Rukh and the other two Kummas, Brand was a Rahail, the only other Caste other than Kumma and Muran who ventured out into the Wildness. And also unlike the other two Castes, whose members were universally darker skinned, Rahails were noted for their fairness and had hair ranging in color from honey-brown to blond. Their eyes were typically lighter in hue, either blue or hazel. A green-eyed Rahail was a rare and striking sight.
During the Trial, Rukh had come to know Brand pretty well. He liked the man and considered him a good frien
d. They’d shared laughter, food, and the gallows humor that developed between two men on Trial together.
“We’ve emptied the wagons,” Brand said. “There’s only a few things left. Nothing we can use.”
The ground around the wagons was littered with bolts of fabric, packets of spices, as well as bales of dried spidergrass and cords of roped off ironwood. It wasn’t anything they could haul off with them or use on the trip back to Ashoka. “It’s too bad we won’t have time to toss everything we can’t use back in the wagons. It would be easier burning it that way.” He smiled. “We don’t want the Chimeras to get ahold of good spidergrass or ironwood.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Keemo said with a grin. “They’ll be too busy trying to get ahold of us to bother with our supplies. Maybe after we’ve been corpsified, they’ll come back for the wagons and what was in them.”
Rukh laughed and even Farn, so often dour and cheerless, grinned.
Brand looked between the three of them, trying and failing to understand the humor. “I have no idea how you Kummas are so easy-going when you’re about to die.”
Rukh laughed again. “Easy. We were raised to believe we’d die young, so actually doing so doesn’t seem all that frightening.” His smile left him. “Or at least that’s what I tell myself.” His words weren’t just bravado. He meant what he said, but it didn’t mean he was unafraid, but for now, he had control of himself…and his worry. His Martial Masters had trained him well.
Brand glanced back and forth between them once again, appearing perplexed. Eventually, he shrugged. “Kummas are strange,” he noted.
“Different,” Rukh corrected. “We all have our own way of dealing with this.” Just then he noticed Sergeant Folt gesturing for him. “I need to go,” he said, nudging his horse forward. “You two also.” He motioned to his Farn and Keemo.
“Doesn’t the sergeant want all of us?” Brand asked.