Dark Obligations: Book One of the Phantom Badgers (5 page)

“Plague?”

The knife-fighter shook her head. “I don’t think so: too neat of a line. I would guess sorcery of some sort. Aha.” She had slit the man’s tunic as she spoke; the chest below was unmarked, but it was the talisman around his neck that she was interested in. “Hand of Chaos; he was a long ways from home,” she observed cutting the pendant free. She wondered what a soldier from the nation-cult that controlled the far northeast coast of Alhenland was doing on this side of the Thunderpeaks. Nothing good, she would bet.

“No loss, then,” Starr echoed her feeling. Pulling the broken shaft from the dead cult-soldier’s throat, she examined the damage before tossing the ruined arrow aside. Using the warrior’s own dagger, she laboriously cut the wickedly barbed ar
row free of his chest. Wiping it clean on the grass, she examined it critically. “It should be all right once I sharpen it.”

“Cover me, and
let’s try to take the next one alive, not that I’m complaining, of course.”

“I’ll try.”

Yataghans in hand, Gabriella moved up to, and circled the pavilion carefully; at this close range she could see that the stone and wood were marked with the signs of extreme age, and that each of the posts had several sets of manacles attached to the inner side. On the floor was a scattering of fly-covered fragments of flesh, bits of cloth, and melted blobs of metal. She could also see that in radiating swathes from between each post out to about twenty feet the upper three inches of the dry prairie grass had been cut away as cleanly as if each stalk had been severed with a ruler and scalpel. In the center of one such swath she found a pair of sturdy boots, an inch of their owner’s legs and a drooping fringe of trouser-leg protruding from the top of each.

Both the prone figures on the far side if the pavilion were of a type with the warrior Starr had killed, including Hand of Chaos insignia; one was missing an arm, and the other his entire left side, these portions having been within the arc of the cut-grass swathes she had noted. Both also had some blistering on their faces on the side of severed areas.

When Starr joined her in response to her wave, she pointed out the evidence. “Spellcaster in the pavilion makes a blunder, dies, there is a wave or pulse of some sort of magical energy, three guards standing by die. The one you shot must have been standing sideways to the pavilion nearly in the shadow of a post.”

“There’s someone under the wagon, not moving,” Starr nodded. “Seven bedrolls, I figure five warriors, the spellweaver and an assistant. Unless the assistant was inside the posts with the spellcaster, we’re short one.”

A few feet past where the cut-grass swathes ended they found a lap desk lying on its side, a spilled ink pot making a bright green puddle against the brown grass. Two open books lay nearby; Starr kicked them shut without looking at the pages. Signs of someone crawling led from the area of the desk to the cart.

Approaching cautiously, they saw that the huddled figure under the cart was that of a young woman in a fine
travelling dress. She lay with her back to them, but it was apparent at she had been dead for some time. Gabriella slipped under the wagon, caught the woman by the hair, and dragged the corpse out into the open.

The w
oman had driven the blade of an ornate dagger up under her breastbone with both hands; her face was a swollen mass of blisters and seared flesh, as was the back of her left hand. Both shoulders and her back bore tattooing that included symbols of the Hand of Chaos, they discovered when they cut her dress away.

“The assistant,” Starr guessed. “That leaves one warrior.”

Gabriella nodded from her perch on the driver’s seat of the cart as she scanned the surrounding area. “The woman hasn’t been dead for much better than a day,” she observed. “If the last guard wasn’t in the ‘pavilion’ with the spellcaster, than he or she must have grabbed a horse and fled.”

“No, there’s six saddles stacked here,” Starr called from the back of the cart. “Six bridles, too; figure one for a cart driver and that’s the lot. Unless the warrior rode bareback.”

“Probably not,” the knife-fighter admitted. “No sign of him that I can see. Why don’t you circle for tracks while I start inventorying the cart. The others ought to be here soon.”

The rest of the Badger force arrived before Gabriella or Starr had finished their respective tasks. Durek reined in his war pig next to the cart while the rest of the Badgers fanned out in a defensive perimeter. When the dark Badger had finished her explanation and suppositions, the Captain nodded. “Good work. Bridget, inspect the bodies and that structure; Arian, give Gabriella a hand sorting the cart’s goods, see if anything is contaminated or drugged, we’ll take what food and grain such is useable. This will be a windfall for us, supply-wise. Starr, what did you find?”

The short
Lanthrell shrugged. “It looks as if the last warrior set off after the mounts not long after they bolted. Where he ended up is anyone’s guess.”

“Fine job you two ha
ve done here,” Durek observed. “This’ll be part of a larger caravan, the rest waiting back in the mountains, I would guess. I wonder what they were trying to do in that thing.” He jerked a thumb towards the pavilion.

“Nothing good, that’s certain,”
Bridget advised as she walked up. “The scouts were correct in their estimates: the spellcaster inside the structure either released something or fumbled at a critical stage, and in either case the effects are plain to see. There is no lingering threat to us, magically speaking, and no one here was any great loss.”

The Captain glowered at the structure
. “I’d like some answers about what they hoped to achieve.” He thumped his saddle in frustration. “Damn it all, I hate mysteries, especially out here. Still, we can’t brood too long on it, not with night coming and a hard day ahead. Bridget, you and Arian have a look at the written material and then burn all of it. We’ll take as much of their food and grain as we can carry back to our camp with us; it’ll help in the days ahead, especially if we run into snow on the way back.”

“Now there’s a happy thought,” the advocate observed, a wiry grin tugging at her lips. “Bad weather and corpses, that’s what the Wastes never lack.”

Starr had first watch that night, perched on the riverbank at a particularly good vantage point. As was his custom,
Kroh stood it with her; as his watch followed hers, she often returned the favor. She sat on a rock (used by those amongst the Badgers too short to sit on the ground at the guard point and have a clear view) and watched the plains, which on this evening were bathed in sharp silver light by a near-full moon. Kroh sat on the ground nearby, idly rooting in the dirt with a stick.

The little
Threll was feeling homesick out on the treeless Waste, and not too confident about an extended foray underground. Glancing at her companion, she wondered if he had ever felt thus.

“Hardly a good omen today, those dead people,” she
ventured. “Reminds you of how it could go with us, out here.”

The Dwarf grunted, rocking a small stone free of the sod. “Not really: we don’t muck around with enchanted places like that one. Bad business, magic.” He
critically examined the rock he had unearthed, carefully brushing the dirt from it. “‘Course, you could say it was a good omen: any time you find a bunch of your enemies dead and unlooted, well, that’s a fine thing.”

The young Lanthrell pondered this for a bit. “I suppose.” She waited for
Kroh to continue the conversation, but he was intently engaged in peeling the bark off his digging-stick. He wasn’t too talkative under most conditions, although he would carry his end once the conversation got started.

“I suppose there’ll be fighting once we’re inside Grad-whatever,” she observed mournfully. “Maybe even a big battle.”

“Definitely a big battle, maybe more than one, and plenty of little ones,” Kroh agreed with enthusiasm. “
Gradrek Heleth
won’t be no Market Day stroll, let me tell you. I did a foray there once, back before I joined the Badgers, of course. Plenty there to see and kill.”

That was
definitely not what she wanted to hear. “That’s what I was concerned about, a big fight. The set-to with the Undead was my first real battle, you know, up close and personal. I’m an archer, not a swordswoman, I don’t like melee. Plus this sword isn’t right for me, too long: it’s my father’s, and he insisted I take it.”

“Not a lot of need for a bow in the caverns, although it won’t be completely useless. There’s still s
ome Dwarven weapons left in
Gradrek Heleth
, so maybe we can find you a better one if you’re not afraid of honest steel, rather than that crystal stuff you people work. As for the one you’ve got, it’s all in the arm. I’ll work with you on the rest of the trip, get you ready for corridor fighting. Fought in dozens of corridor fights, I have, nothing to it.” He thumped her knee. “Don’t worry, little one: I’ll protect you until you’ve got enough fighting under your belt to stand alone.”

“Thank you.” She meant it. Many thought their friendship odd,
Threll and Dwarves as peoples having had very little contact with each other due to their mutually exclusive living conditions, but she had grown very fond of the gnarled mass of muscle. She felt that under his basic Dwarven absurdities, fighting rages, and battle-lust there dwelt a truly good soul, and she was proud to call him friend.

“I suppose it will all work out for the best,” she observed, feeling much better.

“And if it doesn't, I’ll kill everything in our way until it does,” Kroh rumbled as he bound the rock to his now-bare digging stick with strips of bark. “I’m good at that.”

The a
rrival at their entrance to
Gradrek Heleth
was anticlimactic; indeed, few knew they had arrived until Durek gave the order to halt. They had turned east and entered the foothills late in the afternoon the day before and had been steadily climbing ever since, making very good time on an old, frost-battered gravel road complete with Dwarven mile markers. Three hours and nine miles ago they had left the road, ascended a shallow ravine, and proceeded to struggle up one slope after another until Durek gave the order to halt and pronounced their arrival. To the eyes of those Badgers who had never made the trip before the deepening twilight held no sign of an entrance to an abandoned Dwarven city, but they offered no argument, being glad that the day’s travels were at an end.

Durek
dispatched Gabriella and Star to scout the way to the entrance as Bridget oversaw the distribution of a cold meal and Janna walked the camp’s perimeter, choosing guard posts and compiling the night’s sentry roster. The Badgers set up camp with a weary precision born of long experience.

By the time the carts were man-handled into position, the mounts cared for, the scouts returned and the excess gear stacked it was fully dark. The night air was chilly, and since there was to be no fire (although one would be lit in the morning for a hot breakfast
before the Badgers entered
Gradrek Heleth
), those Badgers not assigned to first watch hastily washed away the worst of the trail grime with water warmed by lying in a leather flask against their mount’s bodies all day, wolfed down a meal of hard trail biscuits, dried meat and raw potatoes, and rolled into their blankets.

Durek
briefed Bridget, Janna, Gottri, and Kurt as to the morning’s events, and turned in himself, glad that the planning was coming to an end and the
doing
would soon start.

Lying atop his saddle blanket on a cart tailgate, his blankets wrapped in a fully-encasing cocoon, Arian Thyben was sleeping as comfortably as could be expected in the field when someone kicked the bottom of his feet, jerking him instantly awake; from the soft cursing to his left, he knew that Trellan had been awakened as well. A tap to the foot was to wake a Badger for sentry duty or at dawn; a slap anywhere else was a call to arms.

Squirming deeper into his blankets, the former cult-hunter sighed and wished for another hour of sleep. The thought seeped in
through the sleep-residue that today would not be another thirty miles spent in the saddle, which was very good news; on the other hand, it meant that they would be entering
Gradrek Heleth
, which was not. Initially they had planned to rest for a full day before going underground, but the increasingly cold weather had caused Durek to change the schedule.

Groaning in anticipated suffering, the monk sat up and wriggled free of his musty blankets, the warm me
tal of his broadsword (which he had slept with) serving to remind him of the coming day’s risks. His breath belched out in a white fog before him, and frost shone on his saddlebags and shield, stacked on the ground at the head of his ‘bed’. Starlight and a partial moon provided the only light at the moment, although the peaks above them were beginning to gray with dawn’s first hint. Soft mutterings, the occasional hissed curse, and the sounds of people moving about gave their little clearing a sense of life and familiarity to the mercenary. Kurt had had the last watch so the place to his right was empty; shuddering at the touch of the cold mountain air, Arian stood on his blankets to stretch and twist to get the kinks out, the sharp, clean morning air wiping away the last traces of sleep.

He had slept in an old undertunic and breeches, with soft camp shoes on his feet as it would not do to fight barefooted should the ca
mp be attacked in the night. He had laid out his clothes, boots, and washing gear in a hide sack the night before to keep the frost off; sack in one hand, sheathed sword in the other, he made his way to the little stream that ran a few yards from the meadow they had camped in, cursing softly when frost covered grass found the bare skin between the end of his breeches and the tops of his shoes. Janna had designated wash areas for males and females and latrine placement the night before; after years in the field, the Badgers had refined night camps into a highly efficient undertaking.

Morning ablutions performed with water from a mountain stream on a frosty fall morning are done with speed and a keen eye to priorities;
Arian skipped shaving, contenting himself with a hasty wash and a thorough scrub of his teeth. As usual, climbing into cold clothing and stiff boots on a chilly morning produced an experience that left him with a vague desire to sign a confession just to put an end to it.

Sparks were jumping out of the deep
firepit and the aroma of food cooking brought to mind the fact that his last meal had been many hours in the past. His padded undertunic and stout wool trousers were absorbing and retaining his body heat nicely, making the graying day much easier to face. He was just turning to go check on his horse when Janna loomed out of nowhere in full battle gear, cheerfully punching him on the shoulder

“Go draw four day’s rations at the first cart, and stow the gear you’re leaving behind where
Bridget says. Food, bedrolls, and full battle array, less your crossbow since you carry medical supplies. Durek says to take your smallest water container as water will be easy to find once we’re inside. Breakfast’ll be ready in half an hour or so, all you can eat. Briefing afterwards, and then we move.”

“Full belly before battle in the best of military traditions,”
Arian grinned at her. The scarred woman’s green eyes fairly glowed in the darkness at the prospect of action. “You’ve been here before: what’re the odds we’ll get stuck into it near our entrance?”

“Not too likely as
we come through in a pretty isolated spot, although you never can tell. In the past raids, though, our fighting was always inside the city proper, usually on ramps or stairways.” The Silver Eagle tossed him a casual salute and moved off to repeat her instructions.

Shaking out two of his blankets,
Arian put his last two pairs of clean socks and a change of smallclothes in their center, following it with a oilskin bag containing his soap, tooth powder, tooth brush, foot powder, and his cleanest towel. Rolling the blankets into a long roll he bound it with four leather cords spaced at even intervals and then tied the two ends together, making a blanket roll that would ride over his left shoulder. He set out his mail tunic, steel helm, iron-bound round shield, a ration bag, a wood canteen, and his Healer’s kit to be donned later, packing away the rest of his gear and lugging it over to the indicated cart, falling in behind Kroh to receive rations.

When it came his turn he stepped up to
Bridget, who laid out his rations on a blanket-covered chest: two hard sausages wrapped in wax paper, each as long as his forearm and three inches thick, a sealed pouch of waxed paper containing dried fruit, twenty-eight hard trail biscuits, a pound of hard cheese, a waxed paper pouch of oatmeal, and paper twists containing salt, brown sugar, and tea. In all, it was ample for four days. Of course, it might have to last a good deal longer.

“Put your gear in the back of the second cart,” the serjeant advised him, choking back a yawn. “Damn, I hate mornings.” The monk stowed his food in his ration bag and delivered his gear to the indicated cart, stacking it neatly on top of the other sacks and saddlebags. There was plenty of room: grain had made up the largest part of the cart’s cargo on the way up here
as horses couldn’t travel thirty miles a day on mere grazing.

Someone whistled softly to signal that breakfast was ready;
Arian drew his utensils and bowl from the pouch on the outside of his ration bag and headed to the fire, stomach rumbling. When he reached the fire Gabriella dumped a heaping ladleful of hot oatmeal into his shallow earthenware bowl, followed it with a couple thick strips of fried salt pork, and covered the whole with a layer of crusty hot dough made from flour and crushed trail biscuits. Kurt poured his wooden mug full of tea and gave him five shakes of the honey pot at the monk’s request.

Choosing a place on the tongue of a cart next to Trellan,
Arian said grace and then stirred his tea vigorously before digging in to the mess in his bowl. He would have sent such a concoction back with a blistering refusal in any inn worthy of the name, but after days of a single hurried hot meal at the middle of a hard day’s ride, preceded and followed by cold rations, it seemed quite a feast.

“Want my pork
?” Trellan asked, holding the stiff strips up on his fork.

“Yes, thank you,”
Arian held his bowl so the sailor could drop them in. “That’s right, you never eat salt pork, and I’ve always meant to ask why.”

The Navian bobbed his head from side to side as he dealt with a mouthful of dough. “No matter how you clean the barrels and prepare
the brine, on a long voyage its green and foul by the time you’re on the last leg. Cook’ll fry it, bake it, boil it in saltwater, but nothing kills that taste, nothing at all. I’ll never eat salt pork if there’s anything else available.”

Arian
shook his head. “I’d never stand the life of a sailor, I’m afraid. Even our cold rations are better.”

“There’s that,” Trellan nodded. “You don’t eat
good or sleep dry aboard a ship on the whole, that’s for certain.”

“Then why do so many choose that life? It is as dangerous as any profession, and far harder in terms of living conditions than nearly any.”

“The sea is a special place,” Trellan stirred his oatmeal absently. “It’ll kill you given the chance, or make you rich; coming back to port’s like being born again, and going out to sea is like riding out to do battle.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s something you have to experience.”

The monk nodded. “That I understand, although it would take a bolder man than I to try it.”

“Now that’s a strange attitude from a man who spent years hunting cults; a sailor can smell a storm coming and set the sails accordingly, but an assassin’s blade can come out of anywhere”

“Ah, but cults are a simpler thing than you might imagine. Once you learn what they are about, it is far easier to find them than you would expect. The Void draws the petty—
minded, the grudge-bearers, and the wanton, none of whom are particularly adept at hiding their actions. As for assassins, they are usually puffed-up bully boys who are about as subtle as a brick. Only the Direthrell have professional killers, and they hardly bother with the hunters of cults.”

Both men refilled their bowls at the cook
fire in the sure knowledge that leaner days lay ahead. The little meadow was growing lighter as they finished their meal, the darkness fading to a washed out grayness that thinned to near-normal light by the time the utensils and bowls were washed and stowed.

Although the frost was beginning to melt on the leaves and undisturbed grass in the clearing,
Arian’s chainmail tunic was still cold enough to produce a series of gasps and muffled curses as he crawled into the heavy, cold garment. Settling its weight evenly, he buckled the wrist straps and the waist-cinch that held the flowing mail tight against his body so that the violent actions of combat wouldn’t cause the mail to shift, throwing him off balance. His wide leather belt went over the mail, which hung just past his groin, the belt supporting his sword, dagger, belt pouch (which hung below his belt over the dagger scabbard), and medical kit (on the back of his belt). His canteen and ration bag he tied to the back of his blanket roll, which he stacked next to the fire with his shield and helm.

He lent a hand getting the pack saddles onto the two war pig mounts, an effort which took the combined strength of se
ven Badgers. The war pigs, or
komad
as the Dwarves called them, stood three feet tall at the shoulder and weighed an average of five hundred pounds, huge, fearless beasts whose bristle-covered hide and subsurface fat was nearly as tough as chainmail. Raised by the Dwarves as war mounts, the
komad
were bred for size, toughness, courage, and intelligence, and finely trained both for riding and pack animals, above ground or below, in war or peace. These two animals, a massive, scarred female named Iron Tusk and a smaller male named Brown Axe, were prime examples of the breed, having served the Badgers loyally for many years. The struggle today was no failure of training, the obnoxious beasts were simply in the mood for a fight and spoiling for trouble. Iron Tusk in particular was an evil-minded creature, having attacked every Badger save her riders and Janna (Iron Tusk was intelligent even for a
komad
) and bullied every other beast owned by the Badgers over the years of her service.

When the pack
saddles were in place, both
komad
placidly stood and allowed themselves to be loaded, the morning’s entertainment having been satisfactorily concluded in their eyes. While the goods were being loaded Durek gave each animal a bucket of ale brought for this very purpose, a treat which the creatures clearly enjoyed. The load strapped and tied onto each of the saddles was a heavy one: each beast carried seventy pounds of acorns (its rations for twelve days), five day’s rations for the raiders, a small brazier, and twenty pounds of charcoal. Additionally, split between the two were bundles of candles (both ordinary tallow candles for light, and marked wax time-candles to measure sentry-watches), grapnels and lengths of light chain, some tools, a number of coiled ropes, bundles of empty sacks, two pots, two skillets, and a box of additional medical supplies. Each animal was loaded to its fullest capacity, but travel within the Dwarven Hold would be easy for the most part, and their loads would steadily lighten as rations were consumed.