Free The Trials of Caste by Joel Babbitt

see if they need adjustment.”  He handed the heavy
shield to Durik, who put his arm in the brace and grasped the handle with his
left hand.  Moving around with it, Durik pantomimed blocking a couple of
blows. 
    Goryon next held up the leather belts that
Jerrig’s father had brought for buckling.  “These will be fine symbols of your
warrior status when I’m done with them.”  Goryon stated with pride.  “And I’ll
put a bronze buckle on yours, Durik.”  As he held them up, he could see that the
pair of kobolds were eager to pass. 
    “Ah, go, see Gorgon and the others.  The third
gong has already sounded.”  Goryon pointed toward the back door of the shop and
the two yearlings quickly passed.
    Inside the rear chamber it was much cooler than in
the forge room.  The cool rock of the floor showed almost black in their heat
vision.  Seated around the table inside the room were several kobolds; his
fellow yearlings as well as several warriors, many of which carried the banner
surrounding the sword-shaped scar on their chests; elite warriors, and from
different warrior groups by their trappings.  Their bodies showed gray in the
black of the cool room, the heat that emanated from them giving each individual
an almost ethereal glow, like a muted sun shining through tightly packed
clouds.  This was how those who lived most of their lives without the sun
marking their days saw things, and indeed, it never occurred to them that some
might think it strange to go without the luxury of ambient light.  For Durik, he
preferred the anonymity of it, as scales lost their color in the cool embrace
of darkness.
    A subtle, soothing scent permeated the air of the
small chamber, subduing the stronger odor of so many warriors.  An unmistakable
yearling stood as they entered, contrasting sharply with the cool black of the
walls around him.
    “Durik!  Keryak!  We were about to start.”  Gorgon
ushered them in.  “Come, have a seat.”  He pointed toward a group of cool
chairs that were lined up against the wall, where four other kobolds already
sat.
    “I see that all of our fellow yearlings are
already present,” Durik said under his breath to Keryak as he stepped forward
toward a seat.  Grasping hands with the closest of his fellow yearlings, Durik
smiled engagingly.  “Troka, did you finally get enough sleep?”
    The tall, lanky kobold laughed, “I did.  And you?”
    “I think I could sleep for another week, too bad
we only have another day before the trials,” Durik answered as he moved to the
next of his fellow yearlings.  “Arbelk, can’t leave that rope alone, I see,” he
said as Arbelk put down a short length of rope he’d been twisting into some
complex knot to grasp hands with Durik.
    As he came to Trallik, Durik received a scowl and
a look of disdain.  “Sit down already!” Trallik snapped.
    “In fine form tonight, I see,” Durik muttered in
response.
    Durik unslung his bag from over his shoulder as he
stopped before one of the empty chairs.  He saw now that indeed all of the
kobolds at the table had the marks of the elite warrior caste: each of them had
the same scar, a sword-shaped brand inside a banner on their chests, and each
wore the crossed shoulder belts of the warrior castes of the gen.  Some of them
had helped train the yearling group during their year of preparation for the
trials, though he couldn’t remember most of their names.
    “And what do you have there?” queried Gorgon.
    Durik hefted the sack onto the table.  “I thought
we could calm our minds with the root of the Wallaya tree,” he proposed as he
laid the sack on the table.
    Gorgon laughed.  “We have been together for some
time, I can see.  I’ve only recently put away a spent bowl of the same.”  He
pointed to a lukewarm bowl on the counter.  “But we can certainly share yours. 
Come, give me your root and after the air clears of the last batch, I’ll set it
in a bowl of water from the pot atop the