A Warrior's Path (The Castes and the OutCastes) (2 page)

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 friend.  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 bac
k 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 cousins.

“Doesn’t the sergeant want all of us?” Brand asked.

Rukh shook his head.  “Just the Kummas this time.  You’ll see why.”

Rukh, Farn, and Keemo formed up in a line along with all the others from their Caste in B Company.  Lieutenant Pume had arrived as well.

“Step away from the wagons!” the lieutenant yelled at several Murans and Rahails who were still pilfering the supplies or frantically lighting torches and tossing them into the wagons, trying to get the ironwood from which they were made to ignite.  Their efforts were unnecessary.  When they saw the Kummas lined up and ready, they immediately understood what was about to happen and scrambled out of the way.

“Fire,” Pume said.

To a man, the Kummas glowed.  An instant later, Fireballs shot from their hands. The wagons didn’t so much as catch fire as simply explode.  Splinters of wood littered the ground as thick, black smoke curled upward, panicking some of the horses.

Rukh watched the wagons burn.  Strange.  It was like watching his hopes for the future
burn to ash and drift away.  Only two months ago, he’d been so sure of his place in the world, and now…this.  He remembered the last time he had been certain of anything.

*****

T
he smell of seared meat, falafel, and samosas carried throughout Glory Stadium, briefly reminding Rukh of his hunger.  He glanced around, taking in a few last impressions before his upcoming fight.  Looming over him from where he stood on the floor of the stadium was the crowd.  Over fifty thousand people, and they droned like a nest of angry bees.  The weather was cool, but the bowl of the Coliseum was an oven, trapping the day’s heat.  The last rays of the twilight sun shone like a beacon into the eyes of those in the western-facing stands.  Shadows crept long over the arena floor and over much of the high, unadorned, white wall that framed the pitch.

This was the moment
Rukh had dreamt of his entire life.  He just never thought it would arrive while he was still so young – only twenty-one.  In fact, his entry into the Tournament had been nothing more than a lark.  He had only wanted to test himself and get an honest assessment of his skills in comparison to those who were counted as Ashoka’s finest warriors.  The men Rukh had faced thus far were far more accomplished than he was.  They had already fought their Trials and their battles.  They had years of experience, if not skill, over him.  Rukh never reckoned he might actually go as far as he had.  He’d merely hoped to win a few matches if he was lucky, gain some experience for the next time, but this result…he could never have imagined it.  The Finals.

He was broken from his reverie by a loud call to silence.

“Two warriors have entered the Coliseum of Ashoka.  Only one will leave a champion.  Only one will exit a legend,” said Fol Nacket, the Magistrate of Caste Cherid, and de facto ruler of the city of Ashoka and her surrounding Oasis.  He sat in the west-facing stands and the sun reflected brightly off his white hair and his handsome, almost pretty face.  Beside him were the other Magistrates – seven all told, with one from each Caste.  Behind the assembled rulers sat close family members of the two combatants: mothers, fathers, and siblings.  Further back were the high members of Caste Kumma, such as the ‘Els – the individual Heads of each House – along with their spouses and children.  And scattered throughout the rest of the stadium, claiming most of the best seats were other Kummas, but people unrelated to the two combatants.  It wasn’t unusual for them to be seated so well.  After all, for this event it was only right for the warrior Caste to have pride of placement even if some believed that precedence wasn’t always earned, but rather assumed.

Rukh chided himself. 
Now wasn’t the time to consider Kumma arrogance.

Magistrate Nacket continued in his deep
, resonant baritone made even louder by the power of his
Jivatma
.  “For two weeks now, these two magnificent combatants have tested their skill, their strength, their courage, and their will against all opponents.  They do so in honor of the greatest warrior, the greatest Kumma to ever grace this fallen world.  Thus, every three years in his name do we hold here in Ashoka – and simultaneously in the cities throughout the rest of the world – the Tournament of Hume!”

While the magistrate was talking, Rukh measured his final opponent, Kinsu Makren, the defending Grand Champion.  The older Kumma was also a Shektan, and three years earlier, a
eighteen year-old Rukh had watched in awe as his kinsman had dismantled one opponent after another with astonishing ease.  In this tournament, if anything, Kinsu had been even more brutally efficient in the destruction of those unlucky enough to come against him.

And now, it fell to Rukh to fight this man.
Not only did Rukh have to overcome his hero-worship, but he also had to settle his nerves.  Anxiety could sometimes act as an asset for a warrior, providing a burst of adrenaline, but more often than not, it simply distracted – like now.  Rukh was a bundle of nervous energy.

He focused on his breathing, trying to will himself to a calm state.

By comparison, Kinsu, who stood thirty feet away, appeared as tranquil and composed as a winter lake.  No ripples to mar his perfection.  Unexpectedly, Kinsu winked at him, grinning impiously and looking like an indulgent older brother.

Rukh hid a scowl.  He knew what Kinsu was doing.  The man was trying to get under his skin
; put him off balance and make him easier to defeat.  He was only doing what Rukh had been taught by the Martial Masters of the House of Fire and Mirrors: take any advantage needed for victory and survival.  For a warrior, those were the only two matters of importance, and in that order.  In fact, Kinsu had actually been one of Rukh’s instructors at the school.  He must have remembered how much Rukh hated being patronized.

Rukh closed his eyes and took a
deep, cleansing breath, letting out his anger and anxiety. 
Focus on something else
.  He made himself pay attention as Magistrate Nacket continued his speech.

The man was in full volley.  “Even now, across the world in far off cities such as Fearless
, Samsoul, and Defiance, even in fabled Mockery, men battle, fighting to win the coveted title of Grand Champion of the Tournament of Hume,” he said in a stentorian roar.  “So, we must know: who was this Hume that we should offer such glory to his name?”  He paused rhetorically as he glanced over the crowd as if he was awaiting an answer.

Before anyone could in
terrupt or respond, he continued.  “Hume Telrest, the greatest son of the lost city of Hammer, was the finest warrior to ever walk the green fields of Arisa.  A Kumma of unsurpassable speed and strength, his skill and daring with the sword was said to be the equal of any other three.  He was implacable in battle, known to have faced death countless times and yet, never to have tasted defeat.  And who are we to say the legends lie, for it is a fact that Hume Telrest faced the Trials with unflinching courage twenty times, an unbelievable feat when no other Kumma in all of history has faced it even nine!”

The crowd cheered, and the magistrate let them, holding up his hands as though the accolade was for him.  He let them go on a moment longer before gesturing once more for silence.

He continued in a more somber tone.  “But despite his accomplishments, Hume was not overly-proud.  He remained a humble man, a servant of his city and, in truth, of all Humanity.  He called himself a simple warrior, but we all know he was so much more.  He was the embodiment of all we know a Kumma strives to be: a man of courage, honor, decency, and humility.  A man who puts the needs of others above of his own.  He fought an unyielding battle, but in the end, not even his indomitable will and valor could save his doomed city, storied Hammer.

“For when the city was a
ttacked by hordes of Chimeras, Hume would slay a hundred, but there were always a thousand more to take their place.  Three Plagues attacked his proud city, and in the end…” Fol bent his head, and from where Rukh stood, in the bowl of the arena, the Magistrate looked to be holding back tears.  Cherids were known for being overly sentimental and emotional.  “…in the end, with the city in flames and his family murdered, with Chimeras running amok in the streets, and the Sorrow Bringer Herself, Suwraith, raging with madness in the skies above, Hume Telrest, the last son of heavenly Hammer, was felled.  But it was not by the savage, scurrilous hand of some nameless Chimera.  No.  His body bore no mark nor any wound.  Rather, Hume Telrest was ended by his broken heart; shattered in spirit just as his city was in truth.”

The crowd remained silent and respectful.  They all knew the legends and myths – everything from the
Days of Hume
to the melancholy song
Woe of Hammer
– but still they enjoyed hearing the stories again. 

“And today, this very evening,” the magistrate intoned, hi
s voice seeming to gain power, “we ourselves will witness history.  Two Kummas, both worthy of the title Grand Champion, shall do battle, armed only with a shoke, neither offering quarter, neither conceding any ground.  It is the final battle of the Tournament.  And there can be only one Champion!”

The crowd roared.

Rukh loosely gripped his shoke, the weapon in question.  It was a slender, wooden sword with a slight curve at its tip.  Used only for training and tournaments, the blade was the color of black walnut with a blue-purple tint and an oily sheen.  Beyond a dull edge, it otherwise perfectly mimicked the single-edged swords favored by Kummas in balance, length, and shape.  When struck, a shoke caused a pain and paralysis that was as true a representation as possible of the damage inflicted by an edged weapon without actually causing permanent injury or risking death.