by RW Krpoun
Arian acknowledged the compliment with an airy bow and continued with his briefing. Maxmillian, weighed down with the critical role he was to perform beginning tomorrow, drifted away from the monk's voice, his thoughts both grim and foreboding. He didn't realize that the briefing was over until he looked up from the snake-wrapped pommel of his disguise sword and realized that most of the others had wandered off to their bedrolls. It made him think of the times as a child when he had drifted off to sleep amidst the comforting sound of adult voices, only to wake later in a quiet and somewhat ominous room.
He started as Arian stepped out of the night, apparently returning from checking their mounts and pack horse. Seeing him, the monk grinned tiredly and clapped the scholar on the shoulder. "Nervous, historian? I know the feeling: many's the time I pretended to be what I was not, hunting cults." He bent to stir the dying fire, shoving the coals into a larger mound to prolong their lives.
Finished he turned to Maxmillian, absently rubbing his unshaven jaw with the hand that held the blackened stick. "Fix in your mind the purpose you seek to achieve," he advised. "You make history in the next days, scholar, not read of it. Send the Felher raging into the Direthrell's environs and you may intensify a war that has been simmering along for generations. If we gain the Torc we may put an end to a horror that's been a burden for far too long on this long-suffering world, or at least make a damned good try at it. Fix in your mind the man you wish to impersonate; create him from the day he was born and work him through, not day by day, but event by event. Who is he, this Tradesmaster? How does he treat his woman, what food does he prefer? Is he a cunning plotter who lurks in the shadows or is he a bold adventurer who leaps into the heart of things? Fix him in your mind, Maxmillian; fix him there and then make him breath and talk. He can be someone you've known, someone you've read about, or something born of your imaginations, but make him real. Be him for a few hours, not Maxmillian. If you do that, the Felher will give us what we want. Can you do it?"
Maxmillian levered himself upright with a grunt. "I was married for almost twenty years. I can act a role."
Arian laughed and threw his stick on the fire. "Well enough, then. Rest; you're exempt from guard this night and the next, until we finish."
The fear and tension were an exquisite feeling, worse than anything he had felt at the Orc fort or fighting the caravan, Maxmillian discovered. It was easier to face death than the unknown, and in that concept lay something significant, but what he could not say. He sat on a boulder in the shade of a towering cliff-face, Henri nearby and his two 'guards' a dozen yards away. They had arrived in the area an hour before and, according to the protocols they had captured from the Serpent, announced their desire to trade by planting a ribbon-bedecked spear at the top of a specific hill by a certain lighting-blasted tree. They had retired to the specified rock pile, and soon enough saw the reply: a green flag waved twice from a tree line. This signaled acceptance, so they had proceeded to this meeting point and now awaited the rat-men.
Much of how this would go relied upon his handling of the matter as the Felher, according to Arian, held with no protocol or fancy negotiations beyond basic haggling. They kept all contacts to the absolute minimum, but whether they did so from distaste for other races, secretiveness on their part, or some unfathomable more of their own was unknown.
Not for the first time he wondered at their disguises, as he had always expected that cultists in open regalia would be of grim and fearsome visage, virtually dripping with dire portents and insignia, but at a distance he wouldn't have seen anything unusual about how the four of them were dressed. Aside from the snake motif applied to weapons, buckles, and helms, there was only a blue-green stripe across each ‘cultists’ breast and a rather gaudy snake pendant that he himself wore. Henri wore a serpent-headed torc, apparently to signify his position, and that was all; Arian assured him that it was all authentic, but somehow it didn't feel right. Certainly it didn’t make them look cult-ish, the scholar felt.
Movement caught his eye in the brush before him and he stood. The Felher, Arian had told him, did not stand on much ceremony or rhetoric, just keep it simple and to the point. He tried to take a few deep breaths without looking nervous, and covertly wiped his sweating palms on his breeches. Waiting had been terrible, but actually doing it just made it worse.
He was helped by their appearance, he discovered: he had seen drawings, of course, but somehow they did not capture the true nature to even a mild degree. The three Felher who stepped out of the brush and shambled towards the ‘cultists’ were a shock akin to a bucket of cold water, driving the fear and anxiety from him in a single painful gasp. They were shorter than a man, not much above five feet tall, stooped and twisted, with legs too short for their size and oddly jointed to boot, seeming to bend at the side when they walked. Their bodies were covered with gray-brown fur; their arms were hairless, with coarse gray skin that was covered with a swirl of baroque tattoos. It was their faces that struck him most strongly, being a nightmare cross between Goblin and rodent, all warty skin and bat ears, Goblin-snout and ferret's teeth, dominated by eyes that were cunning yellow orbs that, to Maxmillian, seemed filled with pure hatred for those born of Nature.
The Felher in the lead wore a loose robe decorated with bits of bone and mummified flesh that Maxmillian studiously avoided identifying, a stout staff in one paw and a necklace of milky crystal balls around its neck. The other two wore fine mail shirts that the scholar guessed had once belonged to Direthrell, and odd leather wrappings that served them as trousers. The war adzes and long push-daggers that Arian had mentioned hung at their belts, along with short swords. Without a doubt, they were three of the most repulsive creatures that he had ever seen, Orcs and Direbreed included.
When they drew close Maxmillian reached into the pack at his feet and drew out a leather-wrapped bundle. Tossing it casually to the Felher leader, he thumped his chest and gave a hissing whistle. "Marex, Tradesmaster to the Third Green Den of the Outer Circle greets you."
The Felher plucked the bundle out of the air with a surprising deftness. Letting the scrap of leather that bound it fall away, it slit the wax paper covering the block of andern with a horny thumbnail and gave a grunt of surprise at the evil crimson color that was revealed.
"I believe in cutting to the heart of a matter," Maxmillian boomed, bluff and hearty. "I need to discuss matters of the utmost importance and secrecy with one who speaks with the voice of your Weehoc with minimum delay. That is the proof of my intent and seriousness."
The Felher leader fixed him with an unblinking stare for several slow heartbeats, and then nodded. It stared for several seconds more, its staff leaning against its rounded shoulder while it fingered the necklace of globes. When it spoke, the humanness of its voice made Maxmillian start. "Tomorrow at dawn, here." The three turned and returned to the brush.
Henri's sigh of relief after the Felher's departure mirrored Maxmillian's own feelings.
The sun was just creeping over the horizon as the Badgers moved into position, their spirits buoyed a little by a warm camp and hot breakfast (with the Felher accepting them as genuine, there was no point in hiding their camp), and Elonia's Sight-based prediction that they had seriously sparked the Felher's interest.
Twenty minutes after they had taken up their places the Felher made their appearance. There were the three as before and a fourth individual who was dressed in a plain dark robe of good weave decorated across the torso with flourishes of embroidery that were nearly the same color as the robe itself. There was white in the hair around the muzzle and ears of this newcomer, an indication of age, Maxmillian guessed.
"Call me Leader," the new Felher hissed in a thick-tongued voice. "I speak for Weehoc. Say what you will."
"I am Marex, Tradesmaster for the Third Green Den of the Outer Circle, Servants of the Golden Serpent," Maxmillian wavered at first, but caught the threads of his voice and pulled them together, feeling his role fill him. "What I am here to disc
uss holds great rewards for both your Weehoc and our Den." He paused, but the Leader's gaze gave nothing away. Mentally shrugging, he pressed onwards. "We offer you a proposal of great promise: we are going into the Inner Keep of the fortress Alantarn, and we will be able to place a limited number of Gate egrans for you. We wish for you to raid through them at such a time that we both prosper at the Direthrell's expense."
Leader studied him for a moment, and then motioned for him to continue.
"To place these egran, we will require a certain number of items from you." Maxmillian pulled a piece of parchment from his pouch. "Of the extraordinary, we need six Orbs of Destruction, a Rod of Obstruction, and an entire Gate, including the egrai, egran, and all materials needed to make it active, with the scroll work done in Pradian. Of the ordinary we need two dozen of your darts, a few hand weapons, and a helm or two; these will be to place the responsibility of our actions on your shoulders."
Leader folded its hands in front of its belly, a yellowed fang marching over knuckles and under fingers his only sign of life. After several minutes the Felher lifted the tooth and seemed to study it; Maxmillian noted that it was covered with fine etchings too small to be identified at a distance of three feet. Finally the Felher looked at the Badger. "What do you seek?"
"Loot from the Direthrell vaults, the rescue of hostages for ransom, and the weakening of the Direthrell nation known as Arbmante who grow too strong for our taste."
The Felher studied the fang for a minute more, then looked up. "We need more."
The scholar nodded. "Very well; we will give you maps of the fortress; we believe they may be better than those you already have. Additionally, we will give you three pounds each of ocher and puce andern to add to the pound of crimson you have already received."
The pause was only a minute or so but Maxmillian found that it helped steady his nerves. The Felher were interested; as the Badgers had guessed, it was too good of an offer to pass up.
"You will place the egran where we say?"
"Within reason, yes. They would have to be in areas easily gained by outsiders."
"Maps, double the andern you said, place five egran."
Maxmillian shook his head. "Maps, two pounds of brown andern additionally, and we place two egran."
The fang did several circuits. "What andern do you have?"
"All but black," Maxmillian smiled, warming to the role. "Our investment is immediate and our profit is in the future; you gain profit at both ends."
"Maps; two pounds each of indigo, crimson, and gray; three pounds each of brown, puce, ocher; and place three egran."
"Let us agree on the maps and three egran for simplicity; one pound each of the higher andern, counting the pound of crimson you already received, and three pounds each of the lower andern."
"As you say, but the crimson given is not counted."
"Agreed."
"Agreed. We bring Orbs, Rod, and Gates tomorrow at dawn, also war gear; you bring maps and andern. We agree on how to start raid." Without further word or gesture Leader turned and moved away, followed by his three associates.
"Abrupt little thugs, aren't they?" Henri mopped sweat off his high forehead despite the cool day. "I've haggled longer over a loaf of bread."
"Arian wasn't wrong when he said they don't stand on protocol," Maxmillian nodded, sitting down on a handy boulder as his knees turned to water. "Either we're getting robbed, or they want to hit Alantarn very badly and are just getting what profit out of us that they can." He, too, mopped his brow as Dmitri and Rolf stepped up.
"Good negotiations; they'll think they took us pretty good, but it's less than I thought we would have to pay. The more andern we have when we enter Alantarn, the better." Dmitri carefully eyed the direction in which the Felher disappeared. “Now it’s back to camp until tomorrow.”
Dawn once again found the Badgers in place, a blanket bearing a neat stack of wrapped bricks and the rolls of maps. The Felher arrived even as Rolf was positioning the map rolls, a sure sign that they were eager. Without comment Leader took up position while the two warrior-Felher laid out a sheet of leather upon which they arranged six dark glass balls the size of sling bullets, a short baton of carved wood, one bulky cloth bundle and three slimmer ones. On the grass were dumped three bundles of darts, four adzes, three knives, two wicker helms, and a shield made of thick leather stretched over a wood frame. All of the latter items showed signs of wear, an attractive condition considering their intended use.
"Would you care to inspect?" Maxmillian skipped greeting and proceeded to business.
Leader made a short gesture to the younger robe-clad Felher, who carefully inspected each brick and map. Henri moved forward and examined each of the Felher's items with equal care.
When both inspections where through, Maxmillian produced a large-scale map of the Inner Keep. "Where do you suggest we open the egran?"
Leader studied the map, the fang darting busily between its fingers. Finally its clawed forefinger tapped the map three times. "Here, near the main barracks, facing north, here at the wall to the Site, and again twenty yards further along the same wall, both facing the wall and twenty feet back."
Maxmillian marked the points and jotted notes with a charcoal pencil. "Very well. Now, as to timing: beginning eighteen days from today be ready for one hour before and one hour after midnight each night. We will be in a position to open them by then, although on which day the opportunity will appear is uncertain. Expect to stand ready each midnight for a week; we'll do it as soon as we can, but our timing will depend upon the circumstances we find ourselves in."
"Agreed." Leader motioned; the two warriors gathered the bricks as the other Felher took the maps, and the three departed. Leader tossed a small pouch to Maxmillian. "Tie this to spear when you come to trade again, no other." He marched off without a backward glance.
The pouch contained several yards of oddly-patterned ribbon wound around a short stick.
The Badgers dared not even speak about their good fortune until their first meal break, five hours and fourteen miles out from the meeting place. They gathered on a low hilltop, the Thunderpeaks once again a wall to the west, the Blasted Plains a sea of fall-browned grass in the other three directions.
"I can't believe it went so easily," Maxmillian marveled. "Just like that," he snapped his fingers, "and we achieved all we needed."
"Your powers of persuasion are impressive," Elonia nodded. "Honed, no doubt, in your relentless pursuit of Art."
"It was the andern that really did it," Arian pointed out with curious glance at Elonia. "Our disguises were authentic, but hardly compelling; the quantity of Void-stuff we gave them both convinced them of our dark origins and above all our seriousness."
"And acted as a bond," Henri pointed out. "With the amounts were gave them, even if it was a trick and they lose a half-dozen Tak-level Pacs they'll still show a profit. As we're telling the truth, at least insofar as our general purpose, they'll show considerable gain."
"How will they get their troops back out once the raid is over?" Maxmillian asked. "Won't the Direthrell try to locate and counterattack the Gates we put up?"
"Once they commit the better troops, they'll have the support of wizard-Felher, called Clefts; no doubt these will carry additional egran to allow them to withdraw when the time is right."
Rolf shook his head. "It seems that no fortress could withstand this Gate magic, yet it resolves few sieges that I've heard about. Why is that?"
"Firstly, Gate magic is very easily detected, and just as easily pinpointed. Virtually every major fortress has an Achgabon, a central strongpoint where specially trained Watchers remain alert for such disturbances as a Gate opening. They watch day and night so that even as the Gate opens the alarm is raised. Gates are not cheap, and the biggest one you could create under field circumstances is no larger than an ordinary door, so your troops would have to pass through in single file even as the garrison responds. The egran construct is fragile as w
ell: a single sword-stroke to its frame will ruin it. A third hindrance is that a Gate may only be opened outdoors or in a very large room, for complex arcane reasons; this limits their effectiveness."
"Can't you bar the creation of Gates?" Maxmillian asked.
"Yes. They cannot be opened in any place that has too many permanent enchantments-for example, the runes used to move air and water in Dwarven cities prevent Gate use. A lot of fortresses and key points in cities are warded against Gate use, but Alantarn cannot employ those wards as they would impact upon the anverax. "
"How did the Felher raid Alantarn in the past without someone to get egran into the fortress for them?" Rolf asked.
"The old-fashioned way: creep in as close as they could get, then start fighting. No doubt they sent small groups to get as close to the outer walls and opened egran there, too."
Rolf grinned. "Another of Arian's long, complicated plans comes to fruit. Monk, you're a genius."
"Save your compliments until we're out of Alantarn with the Torc," Arian's face betrayed both embarrassment and pride.
"And that won't happen until we rejoin the main body. Mount up." Dmitri snapped out the bandanna he had used as a tablecloth to rid it of crumbs and stuffed it back into his pouch.
Grumbling good-naturedly the Badgers complied.
Chapter Thirteen
The eighteenth of Hoffnugteil (the tenth month of the Imperial Calendar) was a cool, gray-skied day whose dawn saw the reunited Badger-Den force ten day’s ride north of the Felher meeting and about five south of Alantarn. For the Badgers it meant another thirty miles of hard riding with not a great deal to look at, something that had gotten old very early in the journey, and the sure knowledge that the sunset would find them thirty miles closer to where none of them really wanted to be.
Maxmillian leaned out of his saddle to pick up something caught in a bush, misjudged the angle, and toppled to the ground with a rattle of chainmail links. Expertly kicking his foot clear of the stirrup to avoid being dragged, the scholar rolled to his feet and brushed himself off, checking to ensure that he had not lost anything, ignoring Roger’s laughter. Finished, he freed the item of his curiosity from the shrub and remounted his horse, urging it to a trot to catch up with Roger, Elonia, and Dmitri.