Dark Obligations: Book One of the Phantom Badgers (34 page)

“I’ve struck up a friendship with the Badgers,” the Threll shrugged good-naturedly.
“Fellow outlanders, that sort of thing. Besides, should the matter turn interesting it could make a tale or ballad, gold in my pouch.”

“Ah, yes, I hadn’t thought of it like that. Sometimes I forget not everyone earns their bread by barley and hops. Here she comes; Hansine, these gentlepeople wish to ask you some questions.”

Hansine Frost was blonde and pretty in a fresh-faced, country-girl manner, Halabarian decided, with sky-blue eyes, corn-silk hair worn demurely in a thick coil of braids, ruddy cheeks, and a ripe figure that hinted of developing into considerable bulk in future years. Her shawl, that essential garment of any non-noble woman or girl in the Empire, boasted fine needlework and a longish fringe, signs of a wealthy and indulgent father.

“Yes, sirs?” Her voice was low, almost husky, and her gaze, though lowered as if in modesty, was both clear and frank.

“My comrades and I would like to know what York Lang may have said to you on the day that Emil Helbrit was murdered.”

“Poor York, I heard that he himself is slain,” the girl murmured, toying with a streamer of fringe. “I didn’t see him that day, though; in fact, I haven't seen him for weeks, not since Papa told him not to come around me any longer.”

“Had you known York long?”

“All my life,” the girl shrugged, swinging her shoulders a bit from side to side. “He was nice.”

“Thank you, young lady, and you, Friedrich; sorry to have disturbed you and yours,” Halabarian bowed easily with a fetching smile. “We’ll trouble you no more.”

When the three were well out of earshot of the brewery the Threll stopped and causally retied the laces to his tall, soft boots. “Did either of you find all that rather strange?”

“She knew York all her life, and never changed expression when she mentioned him being dead,” Rolf observed, shaking a gingersnap out of a sack after offering the cookies to his companions. “And she never looked twice at us, and we’re a very odd group.”

“Forst asked you why you were in ‘this mess’,” Kroh rumbled, flicking ash from his cigar. “Kind of strange that he would refer to what is being called a simple trail-murder as a ‘mess’.”

“And never a question about how your investigation was going or what we were about.” Halabarian nodded grimly. “Was I the only one who felt that our appearance was not entirely unexpected?” The other two
shook their heads. “Well, we’ve done what we can here. I’m off for a hot toddy and bed; until the morrow, then.”

“Our friends report that they found Trella dead of the elements and flight,” the Bondsmaster sighed. “What is worse is that the Threll found her first, the little Phantom Badger maid and Halabarian, the singer and harpist wintering here.”

“And we can b
e sure of that?” The Master Guide grunted sourly.

“They know how to read
tracks; worse, they believe the hag was alive when the Threll found her, so I believe we shall have to assume she told them what she knew.”

“And how much could a madwoman tell them?”

“Enough to point them in an unfortunate direction, Master Guide.”

“Perhaps. What were their actions today?”

“Neither Threll was to be seen after mid-morning; the harper went with the other two to the brewery, where they questioned Hansine about the Lang boy. They came away with nothing.”

“Good; it would seem that they have exhausted all possible avenues open to them. A pity the Threll, Halabarian, has chosen to ally himself with them.”

“Claus Becker has befriended them as well, and they have been seen talking to Drewes in the Fisher Hawk. With all due respect, Master Guide, I must urge action: we have two full weeks before our plan matures, and that is a very long time to leave this group wandering about. I recommend that we dispose of the three Badgers and the harper at once.”

“Do you, now? And just what argument do you have to support such a drastic and dangerous plan? Surely the murders of the four will excite massive interest, not only in their own deaths, but the tinker’s and the Langs’ as well?”

“Not just slay them, but hide the bodies: it will be days, perhaps a week before someone notices that they are gone. Such a disappearance will create interest, but those four are the only persons in this area with the breadth of experience and the detachment from local businesses and politics to investigate into our activities. As to why slay them: because Trella knew the forest well so it is very possible that she knew of our cache points, and the location of our central holding place.”

“You wish to undertake such a drastic action based upon the possibility that a madwoman
might
know our secret paces, and
might
have told that to the Threll in coherent form?” The Master Guide’s voice dripped sarcasm.

“More than the possibility, Master Guide,” the Bondsmaster persisted. “This Halabarian took no interest in any Badger activity until he helped find the hag; afterwards he acts as their spokesman at the brewery. I am suggesting that whatever Trella told him convinced him that there was a need to become involved. The same, I might add, applies to the Lanthrell Badger.”

The Master Guide was silent for several minutes. “Well put. If you are correct, we cannot delay, yet if you are wrong, then we place our plan at the gravest risk.”

“Yes, Master Guide. Of course, we could watch, and ambush them should they go into the forest seeking our sites.”

“No: firstly, we will not know what their purpose should be when they leave town, and thus might attack them while they are about unrelated business. Secondly, such an ambush would be against professional warriors with a Threll guide, a very chancy business at best. Should we attack them, it should be within the bounds of
our
craft, not theirs.” The Master Guide consideed for a bit longer. “Very well, we shall strike now, for to wait until they locate one of our sites would not only put the Assembly at risk, but it would put the Badgers on their guard. At this point it is quite possible they do not know whom they face.”

“We shall succee
d, Master Guide. The plan shall bring power and prosperity to the Assembly.”

“Perhaps; in any case, the plan can always be shelved and attempted another time, while the Assembly must never be placed at risk. You will lead the purification of the three Badgers personally; use Knotsmen from the outer Assembly
in case something should go amiss. After you have disposed of those three, take the minstrel alive; we can extract what we need to know from him. Strike after dark tonight.”

“Perhaps we should take the other Threll for that purpose as well,” the Bondsmaster suggested.

The Master Guide shook his head in disgust. “Your lust blinds you: slay her as quickly as the other two. Let no slender waist or bright eyes blind you to the hilt-calluses on her hands.”

“As you command, Master Guide.”

“And advise the First Knotsmaster to be alert at the primary storage place; we cannot afford any mistakes.”

“By your command.”

The Master Guide stared uneasily at the door the Bondsmaster had exited through, the risks and possibilities weighing heavily upon his shoulders.

The three Badgers were gathered in the kitchen area of their cottage, a fire crackling merrily on the hearth and a half-dozen candles brightening the room. Rolf sat at the table teaching Squeak to jump through a hoop while Eek watched his son’s performance from the big half-Orc’s shoulder. Kroh sat across from him, cracking walnuts between thumb and forefinger, carefully stacking the meat on the table and tossing the hulls into the fire where they cracked and popped as they burned.

Starr,
bundled in a blue wool blanket and a long-sleeved wool shirt whose tails reached to her knees, was curled up in a chair next to the fire sleepily nibbling at a buttered bun which Kroh had toasted for her. The little Threll’s freshly-washed hair was slicked back from her face, making her look very young and fragile in the dancing firelight. The three sat in companionable silence, the only noise in the room besides the fire being Squeak’s claws rattling on the table-top and walnuts popping open.

Iron Tusk was dozing by the dry trough in the yard, the bitter frost that coated the ground and sparkled on the tips of her pelt failing to penetrate her thick hide and layers of subdermal fat. She was dreaming of the distant plains where she and her true she-rider had done glorious battle against Goblin wolf-riders. That had been years ago, before her she-rider had gone into a not-natural-small-hill with the others, and not come back out again, although the others had. Iron Tusk had waited outside the not-natural-small-hill for several moon cycles in the hopes of her she-rider emerging, but the she-rider never had; finally her training asserted itself and she returned to the group, crossing many miles to do so. They welcomed her back, and eventually there was the he-rider and new battles, but it was never the same.

The
komad
came to full awareness without exhibiting the slightest sound or movement; her distant ancestors had been low on the food chain, and some of the hunted’s keen sense of danger remained with her, interwoven with the legacy of breeding that made her four feet high at the shoulder and well over six hundred pounds in weight, and years of careful training by Dwarves who knew how to turn a piglet into a fighting beast that had no natural enemies.

By now no dog, cat, or fowl would dare come within the bounds of the area that I
ron Tusk had claimed as her own: the stealthily movement that brought her to her senses came from people, beings of which the
komad
had no fear. Slowly her eyes opened and adjusted to the weak starlight while her notched and torn ears twitched carefully to best track the noise. She was the veteran of a hundred engagements ranging from minor skirmishes with road-bandits to full-scale battles involving magic and the powers of the Void, and she recognized skill and hostile intent in the movements of the men as they closed with the cottage. Moving carefully, she delicately shifted her bulk so her legs were fully beneath her and braced herself for sudden movement.

The Bondsmaster checked the positions of his men and nodded to himself: all was in readiness. They would wait in position until a Badger emerged to use the privy, kill that one silently, and then enter the cottage after a reasonable interval. The two inside would be expecting someone to come in, giving himself and his Knotsmen a few seconds of surprise which should be sufficient to accomplish their mission.

The r
attle of the latch alerted them, and the Bondsmaster could sense the sudden tension in his men as the half-Orc stepped out on the porch, swinging the door shut as he paused to let his eyes adjust. With a smooth precision his Knotsmen darted in to begin their deadly ballet.

The smooth, expertly-practiced dance of death was thrown into confusion as the night was shattered by a bellowed roar and the sound of thundering hooves; even as he began to turn the Bondsmaster was smashed off his feet by what seemed to be a hairy, foul-smelling boulder.

Eek, riding on Rolf’s shoulder, chattered a warning by his ear just as the door closed behind him. Reacting with a veteran’s speed, the tall Badger crouched, the rope of the catch-pole aimed at his head slapping his hairless cheek in passi
ng, missing him. The cultist ‘holders’ aiming at his wrists were quicker to adapt to the Badger’s sudden defensive move, flicking their loops over each hand and jerking the cord tight around the wrist. Before the holder on the left could lever his pole upwards to pin and immobilize Rolf’s arm, however, the cultist had twelve pounds of enraged rock rat land squarely on his face, Eek having leapt from his master’s shoulder to the pole and attacked from there.

Years of survival underground had honed Rolf’s battle-senses to a keen pitch; without wasting a moment, the big half-Orc bore to his right as the cord-pressure on his left arm abruptly vanished when it’s cursing wielder dropped the pole, shaking the catch-pole’s loop free as he bore in, drawing his trapped wrist into his body to pull the holder to him. The cultist on the pole was a veteran as well, however, expertly sidestepping and backing up to keep the pole’s length between them.

Kroh hit the door with his shoulder so hard boards splintered and the latch broke; crashing outside, he sensed rather than saw the catch-pole’s loop swinging down towards his head. Instinctively halting, he ducked his head and flexed his neck muscles, which were thick and rock-hard from decades of axe and pick work. The loop tightened around his throat, but his neck muscles and the thick braids of his beard trapped between his throat and the cord kept his airway open for a couple vital seconds. Grabbing the catch-pole’s shaft with his left hand, the Waybrother slid the haft of his axe over the pole and then angled the butt of the weapon under his bent left elbow. Using all the strength in his broad shoulders and the lever-action of his axe haft, the Dwarf forced the pole downwards, causing the cultist wielding it to hop awkwardly from his perch above the door (where he had stood on wood wedges silently thrust into the gap between door frame and wall).

Throwing his weight forward, gagging and seeing red as the cord tightened, Kroh managed to ram the pole’s butt into the cultist, who was forced back against the cottage’s outer wall. This lasted but a second, but it was all the Waybrother needed: for a moment both ends of th
e pole were more or less braced, and without movement to dissipate the captive’s efforts the pole snapped under the lever-action of the axe haft; the attached cord, now without a rigid support, sagged the vital inch necessary to release the pressure on Kroh's throat.