Dark Obligations: Book One of the Phantom Badgers (30 page)

“A local person,” Rolf cut in.

“...all right, a local person, and they used catch-poles to kill him and hold his dog for a killing thrust. Lang comes up and scares them away....
why didn’t they kill Lang, too? Four of them at least, they’ve just committed one murder, why not two? Then they could hide the bodies and nobody would be the wiser.”

The two pondered that for a bit. “Maybe because they wouldn’t catch Lang by surprise with Emil dead in the path, or maybe Lang didn’t know them and would be on his guard,” Rolf ventured. “A peddler would know everyone along the river, but Lang might not know that many people. He might not have been alone, either.”

Kroh scowled at the river for a while. “All right, let’s go back to the Fisher Hawk and get our deposit back on the jug and mugs. We’ll ask Becker if Lang was alone, and where the murder took place. Then we’ll go see where it happened. Oh, and stop by the store and find out what Lang does and where he lives.”

“We better get our armor and crossbows if we’re going to go outside the walls.”

Kroh grinned. “Might as well; we could come across somebody carrying a catch-pole.”

He had been intrigued when he had learned of the mixed races of the new arrivals, and even more so when he had heard that the Dwarf had boasted of solving the murder. Others might think it mere bragging, but he knew his Dwarves: a vow was a vow, and the resultant effort ought to be amusing. He picked them up just as they left their cottage, followed them to the trading post, then to the Fisher Hawk, watched the Dwarf scribble away in his absurdly abbreviated language, then off to the Doctor’s, on to the river bank, where they ate their second meal of the day. Back to the Fisher Hawk, swing by the store for more sweets and pastries, back to the cottage, where he almost left them, figuring the Dwarf had run headlong into a blank wall, but no, here they emerged in full armor lugging clumsy crossbows, and off into the woods, to the murder site, no doubt.

Now he sat behind a bush and watched them poke about the trail, as if there would be any sign of the killing after ten days. They were a humorous pair, the belligerent, over-muscled Dwarf being trailed around by the tall half-Orc like an older brother burdened with a younger sibl
ing, both taut with seriousness like children on a grown-up task.

Of course, he didn’t allow the amusement of the pair cloud his vision
to their capabilities; however funny they were in their actions, he didn’t miss the way they wore their weapons and armor with the familiarity of the veteran, or the way they watched everyone around them, habitually facing each other when standing still so each could watch the other’s blind side. Foolish their actions might be, but these were two who knew their way around a fight, small or large.

On a
n impulse, he slipped back up the trail a dozen yards and strolled back down the path, having decided that he would speak with them prior to taking his leave; no doubt it would be amusing. The two stopped their poking about the instant he came into view, the Dwarf fingering his axe and the half-Orc hefting a cocked and loaded crossbow.

“Good day and well-met,” his Pradian was flawless, with only a hint of accent which he knew most people found charming, even elegant. “Indulgin
g in a bit of sleuthing, are we?”

“Maybe.” The Dwarf was unimpre
ssed by vocabulary. “Who’re you?”

“Halabarian Storm’s-Kin, at your service,” his sweeping bow was mockingly overdone. They watched him closely as he straightened, a
n olive-skinned Lanthrell a bit over average height for his race (three inches over six feet), but of a surprising breadth of shoulders for a normally narrow-boned race. He was clad in a simple leather tunic and wool trousers, with a long knife in his belt and a cased bow upon his back; a wrapped harp and oboe flanked the bowcase, and a case holding two flutes of different lengths rode his hip opposite the knife. A gold clasp held his long black hair in a simple pony tail, giving his strong features an open, thoughtful cast. “A wandering musician, poet, and artist of little renown and less ability, I’m afraid.” A deliberate lie: he was a master with five instruments, skilled in six more, and an artist of the first water; his poetry was a matter of taste.

“I frequently winter here in Hohenfels as I find the interplay of lively river, gloom-ridden forest, and doughty village-folk to be both soothing and inspiring in turn. You must be Kroh Blackhand, the mighty and obtuse warrior of whom many have spoken and reviled, and his stolid companion, Rolf Lightseeker. What brings
you to this part of the forest?”

The insults sailed neatly over the Dwarf’s steel-sh
od pate, but the intent did not: the Waybrother scowled, lips moving silently as he struggled with his knowledge of Pradian. The half-Orc was amused by the speech, but obviously awaited the Dwarf’s lead.

When a few awkward seconds passed, Rolf smiled uncertainly and shrugged. “We’re solving a murder.”

“Really? Poor Emil’s, I suppose: it was the talk of the town when I arrived here five days ago. Have you made any progress?”

“Some.” Rolf glanced at Kroh who was still furiously reviewing his Pradian vocabulary. “We know he was killed by at least four men armed with catch-poles, and that Emil knew at least one of the killers well enough to trust him out in the woods. Probably most or all were locals.” Rolf looked around. “They picked a good spot for it.”

Halabarian felt his stomach lurch sickeningly, and suddenly, the two seemed a good deal less humorous: in a few hours they had gone further in solving the killing than Captain Meyer had in ten days. “Really? Catch-poles, you say? Amazing. As to the placement of the act, I might suggest that they did not do as well as you might think: we’re hardly a bowshot from old Trella’s primary winter camp.”

“Trella who?” Kroh was suddenly drawn back into the conversation.

“Just Trella, an old, half-mad hermit woman who lives in these parts. Her family was wiped out in a Goblin raid a decade or so ago, and she was left for dead in the ruins of the farmstead. She recovered her health but never her sanity, wandering the forest ever since. As I said, her winter camp is not far from here, and it is possible that she would be abroad in this area gathering firewood and the like.”

“How do you know all of that?” Suspicion tinged the Waybrother’s voice.

“As I said, I winter here often, and nothing in a forest escapes a Lanthrell.” ‘
Just as nothing on a table escapes a Dwarf save a napkin
,’ he added to himself.

“Would
you show us where this camp is?” Rolf asked hopefully.

“Of course. I suppose I should tell Ca
ptain Meyer about Trella’s camp since he’s not from around here, but he doesn't care for me, and in any case I’m sure someone would have told him already.”

“Meyer’s not a local?” Rolf was a bit surprised at that.

“No, he was hired a couple years ago from west of here, he’s a former Legion veteran who has considerable experience in various towns’ Watches, places that are too small to warrant a detachment of the Brotherhood of the Trident. The town needed someone with more experience than the locals could provide to cope with the growing Militia and the problems with law enforcement. For all his lack of a personality, Meyer is a competent street-watcher and a fine soldier, if not too clever.”

“So, where’s this Trella?” Kroh rumbled, giving up on deciphering the Threll’s earlier remarks.

“Of Trella herself I cannot say, but her winter camp is not far from here, I’ll be glad to show you. I understand that there is a third member to your party, a lovely Lanthrell maiden, if I am informed correctly.” That hit both Badgers like a bee’s sting: the good-natured half-Orc shot him a glance filled with distrust, and Kroh hefted his axe thoughtfully. Halabarian reminded himself he was alone in the forest with two hardened killers whom he had just clearly offended; obviously this Starr Brightgift had no less than two protectors, either of whom could best him in a fair fight.

“This way, then,” the Threll stepped into the trees to end the awkward pause, moving causally, knowing that if he went three steps without a crossbow bolt hitting him the danger had passed. After a moment’s hesitation he heard the two follow, and smiled.

The splitting axe caught the thick section of tree trunk in the center and neatly broke it into two exact halves. Rolf set the halves back upright, and Kroh split each in turn with an economical swing, then rested the axe on his shoulder while the half-Orc stacked the split lengths and wrestled another log into place. “Bastard said plenty ‘a firewood; coulda mentioned it wasn’t split.” The Waybrother grumbled. “And I don’t remember Starr saying to check it before we went to the tavern.”

“I must have missed it, too,” Rolf went along with Kroh despite knowing better. “At least we’ve got a direction to look in, about the murder I mean.”

Kroh split the log section without putting his full
weight into the swing. “Trella? Yeah, it’s something to work on: you saw her winter camp, stuff tossed about, signs of hasty packing, gear left behind. Crazy or not, there’s no way she would last ten years in the woods taking such poor care of her goods. She left in a hurry.”

“She saw the murder, and is afraid.”

“Yep,” Kroh split the two halves using the axe left-handed for variety. “And I bet she knows the killers, same as Emil did.”

“Now all we’ve got to do is find her,” Rolf stowed the split lengths and positioned another log section. “But that’s going to be tough: she’s trying to hide, and knows this area real good. I’m not much of a forester.”

“You don’t need to be: we’ve got a Lanthrell along on this trip. Starr will winkle her out in an hour, just you wait and see.”

“Starr will do
what
to
whom
?” the little Lanthrell inquired, coming around the corner of their cottage.

“Find old Trella for us,” Rolf beamed at her. “We’ve made amazing progress.”

“If you say so,” Starr eyed the mass of unsplit wood. “Who’s Trella?”

“An old hermit-woman who saw the murder, Emil’s murder, and is hiding in the woods. We need you to find her for us, ‘cause neither one of us is very good in the forest.”

“Neither one of you is too good about chores, either,” Starr observed drily. “Anyway, I can’t go running around the forest looking for some mad woman, at least not for the next few days: there isn’t a pallet to be had in this town, so I’ll have to have them made to order. Kroh, I’m going to need some money-better yet, come with me tomorrow and you can negotiate the price yourself.”

“What about the murder
?” Rolf scowled, displeased.

“Emil’ll still be dead tomorrow, and the week after, no doubt,” the short Badger shrugged. “Besides, how do you know this Trella
saw
the killing?”

“Because she ran off and left some of her things.”

“She’s a mad woman, probably talks to rocks and names the squirrels; for all you know she flees and hides every two weeks. Anyway, I’ll give you a hand once our preparations are underway, and I’ve done my bit for the festival.”

“What festival
?” Kroh grumbled.

“The Breham Festival, the winter festival on the first of Schnienteil, which is barely twenty days from now. The village is planning a grand affair, and I’ve pledged Badger assistance in it.”

“Ham-and-what Festival?” Annoyed, Kroh swung the axe one-handed and split a log-section.

“Breham Festival, I
said
. It’s a wonderful day, a day of peace. People exchange small gifts, old feuds and arguments are put to rest, the village is ringed in bonfires and there is dancing, music, and feasting.”

“And puddings:
it wouldn’t be Breham Festival without puddings,” Rolf interjected. “Breham puddings, big as a prime ham.”

“Yes, puddings too. In fact, they’ve a wonderful plan: Friedrich Forst, the local brewer, is donating a pudding to each household in town so that everyone, no matter how poor, will have a proper Breham Festival.”

“That’s a lot of puddings,” Kroh split another block.

“Oh, he’s getting help from other village fathers. Anyway, his generosity has inspired everyone to make this the best Breham Festival ever, and the whole village is pitching in. You two can help with the wood-cutting parties for the bonfires, and I’ll bring in deer and wild boar for the feasting.”

“Good, you can look for Trella while you’re hunting game.” Kroh eyed a fresh log section speculatively. “That’ll kill two bucks with one arrow.”

“Very well,” Starr shook her head good-naturedly.

“So, the Phantom Badgers are interested in the death of the tinker,” the Master Guide did not sound pleased.

“Just the Dwarf and half-Orc;” the Bondsmaster said. “They spent most of the day buying sweets and drinking ale.”

“They have a formidable reputation, as a Company at any rate, but perhaps not so fearsome if the foe is not arrayed before them in full battle order. T
he short Threll is uninterested?”

“So it seems: she spent her time arranging for storage space, just as they were expected to.”

“How goes the search for Trella?”

“Poorly, Master Guide; she knows the forest better than any Knotsman we command.”