Born a Monster

404 304 – Salting the Slug

For two days, I just took life casually. There was a book to sign myself out and back into the barracks, and I made liberal use of it.

Actually, it is amazing how much of a three dimensional maze of interlocking bars the artisans could make and attach in a single day. The whole thing was modular, so that it could be re-assembled as needed.

[Food!] Blue demanded.

I placed a bundle of flowers on the level above him, showed him by pictures how to reach them. The snag was a rotating cylinder, which could be held in place from either top or bottom. It was near impossible for a single being to ascend, but easy for a team of them to do. There were several places like that in the maze.

There were places for climbing, open areas, tight areas, and cunning obstacles that I hadn’t planned on.

“Sir, we normally don’t tell them how to bypass the obstacles. One of your specifications was that the challenges be fashioned to develop their thinking and cooperation skills.” Rumorg said. He was a young lad of the Artisan caste, assigned to track their progress (or lack of it), place feed into areas designed for it, and above all to make certain the children didn’t escape the maze.

Blue disagreed, sending me a burst of [Frustration] and [Rage]. The others sent similar emotions, with various levels of [Hunger].

“They’ve all been eating?” I asked Rumorg.

“Above your minimum, but far less than the maximum you set. That said, they seem to always be hungry or sleeping.”

.....

I nodded. “Good. Keep up the good work, and contact me should any of them start speaking or showing other signs of conscious thought.”

There was a banging noise from inside the cage. Blue had tried to leap over the rotating cylinder, and bounced off the ceiling.

Rumorg sighed. “Most efforts are like that. They try to brute force their way past the obstacles.”

I sighed, and sent a final [Insight] message to them before assuring Rumorg that his efforts were appreciated and returning to the barracks.

—

Sergeant Arknosos wasn’t in charge of our training; that task was left to Bronze Sergeant Bitaxes. He was short and broad, even by dwarven standards, his skin made of an ebony stone, his eyes spheres of silver. Also, he seemed perpetually to be in a bad mood, his face locked in an expression between constipation and disapproval.

When he spoke, his voice boomed throughout the main training chamber, easily two town blocks by three, with rising steps against either long wall for observers to sit.

Off to one side, among the obstacle course, were ten covered objects that looked suspiciously like tombstones.

“Ho-ho.” blustered one of my fellows. “It is time to salt the slug.”

“Salt the slug! Salt the slug!” they began chanting. As someone who wouldn’t melt if they were to hurl salt at me, I was more bored than intimidated. They stopped long enough for Bitaxes to call role, and then started up again.

“Wrap that noise up in a blanket!” He boomed. “YES, it is time to salt the slug. That means everyone comes over this way, to where the obstacle course is. The rules, for the slug who doesn’t know them, are simple. The slug stays on the salt path, carrying four tassels. If he clears an obstacle, he may remove the covering from the nearest marker. Each marker has room for only two tassels. As he works his way down the path, the slug may place tassels on the marker. For the first week, these are the only things the school will provide him with. Until the slug finishes, all other trainees shall navigate the obstacle course, and then return to the start to repeat it again. NO MORE DELAYS, GET TO IT!”

Not each of my fellow students navigated each obstacle, but each could manage no less than three, and there was no obstacle that none could pass. Some, such as the climbing wall, were easier for the dwarves than others, such as the swinging chain.

“SLUG! You just bypassed the first obstacle.”

“The salt trail doesn’t pass near the log bridge, Brass Sergeant.” I said.

“Indeed it does not. Let’s see what you don’t get....” He whisked away the leather concealing the tombstone. “Huh. RESPECT. You get no respect, slug! Move along the path!”

I was able to cross the overhead bars, sometimes called monkey bars. The marker, however, was not within reach of the salt.

“Again, correct, slug! Let’s see... FREEDOM! You have no freedom this week, slug!”

After the fire walk was a marker that simply read SLEEP. I put one tassel on it.

The vaulting poles (jumping, not pole vaulting, a different task entirely) preceded FOOD, which I placed a tassel on.

I failed to release the swinging chain at the proper time, falling into mud and losing any chance at BATHING. Those cadets near me gasped and held their noses.

I made it across the long balance beam, but put no tassel on LAUNDRY.

The deep walk (a prolonged walk underneath the surface of the water) led to MEDICINE, which got a dirty tassel.

After the climbing wall was another marker beyond my reach; I would get no MERCY.

I failed the elevated bar bridge, like the long balance beam, if it were made of horizontal hurtles. I would have no FUN.

The sphere rolled off the ramp of the uphill stone push, I would have no JUSTICE.

The armwalk was too difficult for me; I would have no BREAK TIME.

I did, however, make the long jump, only to discover that FRIENDS were out of my arm’s reach.

And the final obstacle, the boxing dummy, operated by my fellows, prevented me from getting any PAY that week.

“HOW DO YOU HAVE A TASSEL LEFT, SLUG?” Bitaxes hollered. “HAND IT OVER!”

I did so.

“You sure do have the brain of a slug. When did I ever say you couldn’t go backward along the path? SLEEP, FOOD, MEDICINE! That’s all you get this week, slug! The rest is unceasing training. Your performance will determine how many tassels you have next week.”

“Boo!” shouted someone, hurling salt at me.

“What rotten choices!” shouted another, also throwing salt.

“Grow stronger!” hollered another. I was seeing a theme with the salt.

And, in this tradition, my training began. Endless running, pushups, situps, stretches. Being issued the dwarven weapons of the pick, the hammer, the maul, the throwing spike, the metal staff, the spiked chain, and again with the pick. Training on these took up my morning.

The afternoon was taken up by spelunking training. Climbing, descending, knots, how to build a bridge using only our chains and spiked grommets (like a spike, but with a loop on the butt end). The dangers inherent to the caves of the world, and resources to keep our eyes open for. The plants and animals, the folk and people, and the monsters that we were likely to encounter.

During the evenings and early night, I was drilled on two topics. The first were protocols, rules of engagement, all the tactics and strategy and lore that was required to make decisions when encountering an unexpected situation. The second was my place in society. I thought of it as a mental obstacle course, training on how not to be just a warrior, but a member of the dwarven Warrior caste.

And then, I was permitted four hours of sleep (which, to my surprise, turned out to be enough for rest, although it wasn’t enough to generate Dream mana) before the weapon cycled and I was run through it all again.

At least food portions weren’t a problem. Because my food was brought in from outside anyway, and at my own cost, I didn’t think the training compound would have any issues with it.

I was never given fewer than two tassels, and sleep and food were always on markers for obstacles that I was good at. Other than that, the markers rotated in and out, and were fond of changing positions. Some were to AVOID LABOR, or AVOID FIREPIT.

That last one is of interest to anyone seeking to become a dwarven warrior. You sit in a pit of hot coals, buried up to the bottom of your rib cage for an hour. It was more Thermal damage than Boil, Boil could negate. I had to get a spell called Friend of the Fire, and six ten minute charges. I had the points for it, it was just annoying and unexpected. And, if I botched the mana conversion, I ended up taking substantial damage from it.

But, never so much that I needed to stop training for the day.

For days when that did happen, when I began below half health, they moved me to a hospital cubicle and enforced Slumber upon me until lunch, after which my days proceeded as normal. Oddly enough, they never did this when I lost consciousness, usually due to vigorous and lifelike weapons training.

I’m supposed to say that I got better at the obstacle course over time, and it is true. But I never managed to pass all the obstacles, not even once. Eight weeks rolled by, this way, before an unhappy Bitaxes pronounced his verdict.

“I guess that since we have a new slug, you’re off the hook, dung beetle.”