Dark Obligations: Book One of the Phantom Badgers (32 page)

“So what’
s a light patrol doing out here?” Kroh mused unwrapping a fresh crossbow string from its waterproof waxed paper.

“Nothing good, I’d bet,” Rolf stepped into the stirrup of his freshly-strung crossbow and cocked it. “Want to take a look?”

“Might as well.” The Waybrother checked the surface of a lead ball before loading it into his crossbow. “I
hate
Goblins, killed dozens, I have.”

“So ha
ve I,” the big half-Orc nodded slowly. “Maybe we’ll get some more today.”

Moving carefully and doing their best to be quiet, the two Badgers followed the tracks through the woods, weapons ready, senses alert. They were at a disadvantage, they knew: the forest was their foe’s natural element, but they also knew from experience that Goblins tended to be careless and undisciplined.

Goblins are also noted for their tendency for ambushes. Somewhat ill-advisedly the
Pa,
or corporal, in charge of the Goblin patrol had put his only archer in a tree where he had an excellent view of the patrol’s back trail, but where he was without supervision. The rest of the patrol, which had heard the Badgers and circled back, crouched in the brush and waited for the signal to attack, scarves wrapped around their mouths and snouts to prevent their exhaled breath from creating a mist in the cold winter air.

Rolf halted the instant he spotted a tree wide enough to hide a Goblin whose lower branches were completely free of snow (the archer had knocked the snow off climbing into position). Kroh instinctively stopped when his companion did; panicking, the archer screeched the battle-alert and leaned around the tree, drawing his bow to full nock. Kroh’s lead bullet slammed into the tree trunk six inches from his head, causing the archer to start in surprise, throwing him off balance just as Rolf’s quarrel caught him in the lower che
st sending him crashing to the ground.

The seven Goblins who burst from the bushes yelling wool-muffed war cries wore thick wool trousers, floppy pointed wool caps, and wool shirts under cord-armor tunics, all decorated with strings of stone and glass beads, skulls of small predators, teeth of larger beasts, and feathers of predatory birds. The six
jugata
, or ordinary foot warriors, had spears, shields, and stout clubs, while the
Pa
had a spear and shield, plus a leather helm and a small axe. All wore
guta
, thigh-length camouflage smocks with elbow-length sleeves and hoods. These
guta
were bleached linen, snow camouflage, although it was a bit early in the year for them.

Hurling his crossbow into the legs of the nearest Goblin, tripping the
jugata
up, Rolf ripped his dirks from their scabbards, knocking a spear point aside with the left one while thrusting in to drive the other dirk’s point through the throat of the next Goblin. Twisting the blade as he ripped it free, the big half-Orc skipped back a pace as the wounded
jugata
flailed madly down the trail, blood jetting in long blue-gray jets from his wound.

Kroh sidestepped a spear thrust and
drove the thick iron cocking-stirrup on the end of his crossbow into his attacker’s snout, the impact of the iron bar crushing the Goblin’s nose and cheekbones, and popping both eyes out of their sockets. Dropping the crossbow, the Waybrother seized the blinded Goblin, holding the stunned, mewling
jugata
in a headlock in front of him as a living shield while he ripped his axe free with his other hand.

Knocking the spear-thrust into his breastplate, whose curved steel surface deflected the point away from his body, Rolf rammed his right-hand dirk into the center of the Goblin’s shield and levered the blade
down, holding the barrier immobile long enough for him to stab the
jugata
twice in the chest. Leaving the dirk in the wounded Goblin’s shield, Rolf skipped back two steps, dropping his other dirk as he brought his axe off his back.

Releasing his dying shield, who had taken a spear point in the chest from an over-eager comrade, Kroh whipped his axe through a blindingly quick series of figure-eight swings, disemboweling one att
acker and smashing the shield of the other. The Goblin promptly dropped his spear and turned to run, but Kroh was quicker than he looked, catching up with his prey after a half-dozen steps and slamming the blade of his axe into the
jugata’s
spine, decapitating him with a second swing for good measure.

The Goblin he had tripped with his thrown crossbow was closest, with the
Pa
just behind; Rolf gauged their charge and swung, catching the lead Goblin’s shield, splitting the wooden boss and nearly severing the arm it was strapped to. The
Pa
bulled into the screeching Goblin, driving him forward; seeing what was coming, Rolf buried his axe into the
jugata’s
chest and let go, diving forward to tackle the Goblin leader before the
Pa
could bring his spear to bear, jerking his boot-knife free as he did so.

The
Pa
was smaller, much lighter, and hampered by his shield, but despite that he was no novice to a fight: dropping his spear even as the Badger cut his legs out from under him, the Goblin clawed a knife free of his belt while flailing at his foe with the rim of his shield and both legs. The two twisted and struggled on the snowy forest floor for several seconds, but Rolf’s superior strength, length of reach, and prowess came to bear: winding up astraddle the
Pa’s
chest, he ended the fight with a savage blow to the Goblin’s temple with the pommel of his knife, and then slit the stunned creature’s throat, flipping the thrashing corpse over to avoid most of the blood. Wiping the blade clean, the big Badger sheathed it and recovered his axe, noting that all seven
jugata
were down and Kroh was nowhere to be seen.

The Waybrother emerged from the bushes dragging the archer’s corpse by a
leg just as Rolf had finished ensuring that all the Goblins were in fact dead and not shamming. “Bastard was hurt bad, but determined,” The Dwarf grinned as he kicked the corpse into the center of the path. “He crawled better’n three hundred yards before I caught up with him. I’ll get the ears and gather the weapons-you check the pockets and pouches.”

The Dwarf finished bundling the spears together and leaned them against a tree. “All the spear heads and most of t
he belt knives are Mannish work, could be captured, but none bear any armory or makers’ markings.”

“Contraband
?”

“Could be. The arrows definitely were: Human smith
-work but too light for a Human archer.” The Waybrother shrugged. “But who can say how many times the ‘heads have changed hands? The Direthrell employ Human smiths and sell arms to anyone who harasses any Human realm, the Dark Star nation-cult does the same. What did you find?”

“Some gold dust and nuggets, probably about a Mark’s worth, some coins adding up to less than a shilling, assorted junk, and this.” Rolf handed a tanned squirrel-pelt to the Dwarf.

“A map?” Kroh eyed the designs branded into the skin side of the pelt. Grabbing up a shield, he laid the pelt on its surface and fastened it in place with a pair of tarnished plated-silver hairpins a Goblin had been wearing as tunic decorations. Slowly rotating the shield, the Dwarf muttered to himself for a bit, finally stabbing a finger at a solid line. “Here, this is the trail we were on; this thing must point the directions, but it seems off.”

“Goblins navigate from the southeast the way Humans do from north,” Rolf shrugged. “Something they believe in about where they came from; their map-compasses have only two other primary directions.”

“Well, I wish the bastards would go back to wherever they came from,” Kroh shifted the shield again. “All right, that fits.” Using his pen, he inked in a north-based compass. “Yeah, I’m still right, this is the trail, fine, this is a stream or river here, what the blazes is this?”

“Forest or grove,” Rolf offered.

“Could work.” Kroh measured with his fingers. “Goblins know about scale, drawing maps to scale, right?”

“Yep.”

“Well, this makes no sense. Anyway, let’s get moving before their buddies show up to see what all the yelling was about. Hang onto the gold and coins for now, we’ll divvy up later.”

Bundled spears in one hand, map-bearing shield in the other, Kroh led the way back to the path, and on towards Hohenfels. After a half-hour’s walk, he suddenly halted and gestured with the spear-bundle towards a rock formation, offering the shield to Rolf. “Look at that: up there near where this trail ends on the map is a three-dot symbol with the center dot largest; just south of it’s a dotted line which means creek. We just crossed a creek, and here’s three boulders, the center one twice the size of the other two.”

“That seems to be the case,” Rolf nodded carefully. “We’re running out of map, then,” he added helpfully.

“That’s the point,” Kroh snapped. “Here’s where we ran into the Goblins,” a tattooed finger jabbed the pelt’s center. “And here we are at the end: pretty dam
n small map, wouldn’t you think?”

“Yes,”
Rolf said, frowning in thought. “And the Purple Spider have always claimed this area, so they wouldn’t need much of a map to get around.”

“That’s right, and why would anyone make a map that’s only what, three miles by four if they held to scale?”

“I don’t know,” Rolf shrugged. “Why?”

“I don’t know, either,” Kroh kicked a
n old branch peevishly. “And I’m getting sick of things that don’t make sense.”

“Do you think these Goblins are tied in
with the killers, the cultists?”

“Maybe.” The Waybrother scowled at the map-pelt. “Although how, I wouldn’t know. What good would
a half-dozen Goblins with a small map
be
to anyone, except to other Goblins, maybe.”

Frustrated, the two set off again.

“... the tents and cordage must be stored both off the ground, and with two or three inches of space between each folded tent or coil of rope to allow air to circulate, preventing mildew from forming; I’ve ordered pallets for this purpose, but they’re in short supply as the fur traders buy up so many, so I’m having some made to order.” Starr prattled on while Halabarian idly strummed his harp. The two were seated on a log not far outside the eastern side of Hohenfels, just inside the cleared ground that surrounded the town’s defensive palisade.

“So you are having a series of small sack-beds made for each tent?” The minstrel adjusted a finely-carved string-post.

“No, silly, a pallet is also a wood framework around three feet by three feet, a box-frame with spaced plank siding,” Starr punched Halabarian’s arm in mock anger.

He smiled and resumed his playing. She was young, no further along in her life than a Human girl of nineteen or twenty, a third younger than himself, but she intrigued him. It was more than beauty, although she was both beautiful and somewhat exotic in Threllian eyes because of her height; rather, it was what she had
become
. She laughed and prattled about from one subject to another like any young maid, but she wore a finely crafted (and, he suspected, enchanted) sword of Threllian make, as well as two daggers. Threll preferred to fight within their forests by means of a combination of superb woodcraft and deadly archery, wearing down their foe’s will and numbers through ambush and sniping, so spears, swords, and other close-quarter weapons were considered weapons of an emergency nature, used only when circumstances demanded. Yet Starr wore her blades with an easy familiarity that spoke of constant practice and more than a little battlefield use.

There were other oddities about her that could only be put to Human and (Eight save us)
Dwarven
companions: she swaggered like a Legionnaire when she moved about town, dressed in trousers and tunic as if that were the most natural garments for a proper young Lanthrell maiden, and spoke in terms that were both direct and, occasionally, rough; it was his duty, Halabarian assured himself, to offer the lass a bit of cultured companionship ere she was lost to civilized people forever. The burdens one assumed for the sake of one’s people, the harpist reminded himself, are the most noble of all.

Snowflakes began to sift out the growing twilight. Halabarian looked up and caught several on his tongue before carefully casing the harp against the wet. Plucking a slender leather tube-case from the recesses of his tunic, he produced a richly carved ivory piccolo and played a few experimental notes. “Seems fine weather for a
terfi
,” he smiled at Starr, referring to a style of lively winter tunes.

Starr laughed, a high, happy noise that sent prickles down Halabarian’s ears. Before she could reply, however, both Threll turned towards the road leading into Hohenfels a hundred paces to the left, their keen ears having caught the clink of metal and the sound of heavy footsteps.

“Two, one tall, one short,” the minstrel murmured. “Moving briskly enough.”

“Rolf and Kroh; they said they were going into the woods today.” Inserting the first two fingers of her left hand into her mouth, Starr produced a whistle of such ear-stabbing volume and pitch that her companion jumped in surprise. Smiling sheepishly, the little Badger clapped her hands sharply three times; in the growing twilight the two figures abruptly changed course and trudged over.