The Trials of Caste Read Free Page B

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