Dark Key: Book Two of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  Despite the cold wind that had followed them all day, Maxmillian took a walk about the farmyard to pursue his own thoughts. After two brisk laps, the scholar paused by the farmer's store of firewood, neat shoulder-height stacks that filled a quarter of the yard, and sheltered from the wind, he stood lost in thought. For the most part, this operation was over; they would go back to pick up his staff, and make the long, cold return trip to the Empire. Most of the active research was done; what was left was color and cataloguing, and the final assembling of the information into the books themselves. The thought of it rang hollow now, the tinny wrapping on a much more substantial reality.

  In his coat pocket he felt his Badger insignia, mounted on a sturdy leather bracer. They were travelling incognito, and in any case his membership would remain secret until the staff was dismissed. Secret or not, though, he was no longer just in their company, he was in their Company. He was a Phantom Badger now, for true. It was hard to grasp, hard to get a grip on; secret or not, he belonged. It was like being married, he decided after careful pondering it, only better. In a few months they had changed him in more ways than twenty years of marriage had. His clothes fit poorly and for the first time in his life muscle broadened his shoulders and rounded his limbs. A scar snaked across his left forearm, and a galaxy of calluses marked the wear of shield-strap, sword-hilt, and crossbow's string. He could ride hard all day, sleep wet, and fight well. For better or worse, he was a Phantom Badger. He liked the ring of that: for better or worse.

  They had held an awards meeting not long before they reached the Wall; Durek had decreed that a Alantarn rated a gold battle stud, Maxmillian's second, and that in public it would be referred to as a battle on the edge of the Thunderpeaks with Cave Goblins. Janna and Arian had each received the Ruby Claw for saving a Badger's life in battle at the risk of their own, Janna having saved Durek, and Arian, Roger. The fact that Roger hadn't lived did not alter the perception of the action, Maxmillian was glad to learn.

  Maxmillian himself had been recommended for an Emerald Claw by Bridget for heroism in battle for his attack on the Anlarc, with a second by Elonia; after considerable debate it had been reduced to a mention in the Roll of Honor, but the thought of it warmed him still. The Roll mention was a significant award in itself, and to even be considered for a higher award was a sizable honor. A further distinction was that he was promoted to Full Badger months before he normally would have been eligible, a greater honor than the University had ever awarded him. Maxmillian had already obtained one of the little gold skulls used to mark his new honor and carefully positioned it on his bracer.

  Durek had received an Opal Claw for leadership in this campaign (his second), and Bridget had earned a Honor Roll entry for her capture of the cart and the quick thinking in bringing Felher corpses to their exit area. It was her third such award, and in that she was a Founding Badger it was a clear affirmation of the integrity of the system: a Roll mention might be a lesser award, but it was by no means a common one.

  Janna had been promoted to serjeant to replace Dmitri, her excellence in action having overcome the prejudice to her fanaticism, and both Arian and Kroh elevated to Senior Badgers as recognition of their expertise. Maxmillian had been saddened by these actions, as it did everyone, as it brought home all too well the reason for the vacancies. He had not been particularly close to either Roger or the Serjeant, but he had held Dmitri in a regard that easily crossed the boundary into awe. The burly Kerbian had held together the polyglot force at the Orc fort and had seemed to be invincible in every combat save the last. Maxmillian felt the loss keenly, and was grateful that Durek had promoted Janna, who was easily as potent a personality, to replace Dmitri.

  Onyx Fangs were awarded to Starr and Maximillian for the wounds received in the fight with the Eyade, while Durek, Dimitri, and Roger received Fangs for wounds received in Alantarn.

  After the awards had been dealt with the Badgers had turned to the matter of the enchanted items they had acquired. Soonest distributed, soonest benefited, Henri had pointed out, and so they had dealt with it long before any of the band felt ready. Such distribution was a matter presided over by Durek with expert advice from his officers and spellcasters.

  The Torc, of course, the books, chalice, the dozen dark glass balls, the bundle of carved rods, and the funny-looking board in the wyvern-hide case had been asigned to the Company stores, as were the remaining Storms and Orbs of Destruction. Maxmillian, acting in his role of Historian, had determined that the chalice-cup was able to heat or cool its contents exactly, the glass balls (Orbs of Warding) created walls of fire, the rods created bridges, and that the cased board appeared to be nothing so much as a trunk lid. The latter, when placed on a hard, flat surface would open up to reveal a book-rack that could be rotated to expose other racks; the case could house up to a hundred volumes and still weigh no more than the board and case. As a historian this last thrilled him to no end, although he was painfully aware that the volumes it housed and protected would be the tomes they had acquired along the way for the benefit of the spellcasters, but the principal was the thing.

  Durek and Kroh had each received an enchanted hand-axe, and of the three enchanted swords taken one, a sabre, went to Henri, and another, a broadsword, went to Arian. The third had proven to be Void-blessed and was carefully packed away; it would be quietly destroyed in a temple to one of the Eight once they were back in the Empire.

  Maxmillian had been pleased to receive the griffin-hilted sword that Arian had inherited from the late Marquis; he had decided to retire his grandfather's sword as a family heirloom. He was stunned when it was decided to present him with the enchanted war hammer as well; he had accepted it in a daze, and still could not believe it. Kroh had promised to teach him the art of hammer-wielding and assured him that it was a simple weapon to master.

  The quiver of enchanted arrows had been divided between Starr and Janna, and the sword belt, which Maxmillian understood warded its wearer in battle to the same degree as a mail shirt, had gone to Elonia. The latter, the historian felt, was a particularly apt choice, as it unnerved him that the Seer chose to fight without metal armor.

  That all enchanted items were Company property on loan rather than private property (with the exception of Bridget's set which was Temple property, Starr’s Snow Leopard which had been captured on an independent operation, and Kroh's axe which belonged to the Guardians of the Way) was driven home rather brutally when the subject of Moonblade's ownership came up. Roger was dead and so the sword reverted back to the Company armory. The great sword was offered first to Janna by right of seniority, but the Silver Eagle declined; her own enchanted bastard sword suited her and she saw no need to change. Maxmillian, who had learned of her clash with Roger over the original assignment of the blade, secretly wondered if there was a trace of old bitterness coloring her decision.

  In any case the weapon was next offered to Rolf, who agonized over the decision for a day before accepting it. Starr had told Maxmillian that the largest part of Rolf's decision in giving up his master-crafted axe for an enchanted sword revolved around his hero-worship of Kroh. Kroh carried an axe, and for Rolf to stop carrying one bothered the half-Orc. Starr had solved her friend's dilemma by encouraging Kroh, who was oblivious to the reason for Rolf's hesitation, to tell Rolf that Moonblade was better weapon than Rolf's axe, a simple task as Kroh, like Rolf, would do just about anything Starr asked him to do, and in any case the Dwarf knew it to be a fact.

  It was with a conscious effort that Maxmillian restrained himself from going back to his bedroll and drooling over his hammer. Of this detachment, the Company’s elite, only Elonia and Bridget still bore only ordinary steel, but none of the others acted as if bearing an enchanted weapon amounted to anything at all. He wondered if he was the only one who had to do his gloating and weapon-brandishing in private.

  What the hammer really represented was that it made him part of the Badgers, their full acceptance, he realized: he had proven himself t
o them. It was a sobering thought as Maxmillian had grown up in his grandfather's and great-grandfather's shadows, and early in life had lost all hopes of ever stepping out into the light of his own accomplishments. But now he paused and stared up at the black sky from which a blurry star peered back here and there. He rubbed the hilt of his great-grandfather's sword and considered that if they met on the other side of death, Maxmillian I might see him as something approaching an equal.

  "Perhaps," he muttered. "Just perhaps."

  Unsettled by the thought, he resumed his pacing.

  Elonia perched on the mossy edge of a granary's tiled roof, the pressure of a single heel pressed delicately against the brick side of the round structure holding her gracefully in place, sure and safe as if she was standing on solid ground. Her thoughts and feelings, by contrast, were far less grounded and stable. It was over: a century and more of desire spent in an evening's revenge, a tally brooded over for decades reckoned and gone, a plan worked toward over a span of years, implemented and accomplished in a few hours.

  It had gone nigh perfect; only the deaths of Dmitri and Roger marred its perfection. The dispassionate side of her, once the greatest part of personality, coolly observed that they had died to serve their Company, and had in any case fallen because of a fluke of battle, not because of any inherent flaw in her plan or in any way because of her vengeance. Her revenge was complete long before either fell; she was in no way responsible. The Badgers had entered Alantarn for the Torc, and they had recovered it. And the Torc was as they had hoped for, a potent magical weapon that would give them a hope of defeating the White Necromancer.

  But there was a new part of her, a weaker, softer part that ached over the loss of the two. Roger had been a brave man, and a good one despite his moods; Dmitri had commanded her respect and even admiration, and she owed him a debt for his leadership at the Orc fort: he had brought them through against incredible odds, a fact she was painfully aware of. She wished that her memories could be unsullied by the bitter truth of her deceptions.

  A sardonic smile ghosted across her features like a thin mist across the moon. "You sound like a whore in love," she muttered to herself. "Spy, assassin, and betrayer are your past, no changing of it."

  It was over, though, and that was what had torn the course of her life apart and set her emotions at war: her cause was accomplished, and she still lived; it left a blankness where her life was. This must be what a parent feels when a grown child dies, she mused. A child you were not particularly fond of, but was yours none the less. Perhaps this is how Maxmillian felt when that shrew of a wife died on him.

  It was hard to deal with: it was over. The Hold-Mistress and her father were dead, and her mother's remains were rescued. Alantarn still stood and there were Void-followers aplenty, but that was an abstract enmity, one that she could batter against her whole life and not destroy. For decades she had been motivated by goals that were theoretically attainable which made for a stronger support. But what did you do when that support vanishes?

  There was a sense of letting go of a burden she had carried all her days, but it had been a familiar, if unloved, burden, and its absence confused her. She had a great deal of life left; reckoning was inexact for half-breeds, but she figured her age as a Human woman in her mid-thirties; there were decades, perhaps a full century to be disposed of.

  Below her a shadow moved; another smile, this one gentler, danced across her lips: Maximillian trudged by, head down, muttering to himself, one hand illustrating points with short, sharp jabs. The scholar moved past, lost in his musings, completely obvious to the Seer hidden in the shadows twenty feet overhead.

  Elonia shook her head. Too much, too soon; too many changes. She had felt it before, and it was getting worse: she was losing the cold, calculating edge that had taken her to an audience with the Hold Mistress of Alantarn. Maxmillian and the other Badgers were forcing their way deeper into her than was wise or good by her old way of thinking. By her old ways, she would part with them as soon as they returned to the Empire; parted with, and then forgotten them. But those habits were hard pressed these days by another side that had been growing for some time, a side that was warmer, more caring, and much more reckless.

  She didn't want to leave the Badgers, she admitted reluctantly: she wanted to see Rolf grin that little-boy grin at her again, wanted to see Maxmillian blush blood-red, to see what kind of lunacy Kroh would spout next. They were friends, she realized; they were even some sort of family. It was even more unsettling than the emptiness brought on by her success.

  Around in circles again-that was the truth of it. Torn in a half-dozen directions, with little experience to guide her in a situation such as this, she batted at the questions like a cat suddenly surrounded by mice. Perhaps it was time to let the assassin and spy in her die, the Avenger, the way Skink, Cat's Paw, and all the others whose names she had worn had died, and really become Elonia. But after all these years who exactly was Elonia? Or perhaps it was time to drive herself more firmly back to the way she had been, before the final revenge.

  Time passed slowly in the cold night. Time, and thoughts. Finally, the Seer stirred herself; with a neat gesture, she kicked out her leg and dropped from her perch, gracefully tucking and rolling to break the fall. Dusting off her coat afterwards, she turned her steps towards the barn. It was time to let the Avenger die with the revenge, she decided; she would be a Phantom Badger for a while, to repay her debts, and perhaps to learn more about who Elonia was.

  And to put old ghosts to rest.

  Durek settled himself on a carved bench that circled a sturdy elm and drew hard on his pipe. The night was bitterly cold but his need for solitude was greater. The last days had been too full of physical pain and exertion, danger and risk, to allow for much in the way of measuring up. Bridget and Arian had Healed the party's wounds as time and energy allowed. Healed the physical wounds, that is; there were emotional wounds aplenty in their ranks, wounds that only time could heal.

  Dmitri had died seconds after going through the Gate, as Bridget had been powerless to offset such massive damage. Roger's wounds were less severe, and both Healers swore he could have recovered even given the necessity of immediate travel. They had amputated his leg, true enough, but the infection that had made it necessary left with the leg, and the other wounds showed considerable promise of recovery.

  Durek secretly wondered if Roger had seen his dark-haired standard-bearer waiting for him at some shadowy door, and simply let go of this world's pain. Wondered, and hoped. Roger had been recruited in the first draft of new Badgers after the Founding, over eight years past. He had never been the sort to involve himself in Company affairs much, being content to fight hard and leave the details to others. But after eight years he had left a mark on the people he served with, and Durek found the prospect of soldiering on without him to be daunting.

  Dmitri had been a relative newcomer compared to Roger, with barely three years’ service, but the big Kerbian's prowess and willingness to be part of the inner workings of the Company had made his contributions greater than most. Dmitri, though junior in rank to Bridget, had nevertheless been Durek's strong right arm in the field, and in an odd way he had looked upon the warrior as kind of a son.

  Beyond those two the Badgers had suffered no lasting harm; new scars on all, some pain and hardship, but no real harm done. All their equipment and mounts were waiting for them where they had left them, and save the wrenching agony of burying two good comrades five days out from Alantarn and dodging a couple Eyade scouting patrols, the return from the Plain had been nothing more than an exercise in discomfort.

  Johann, Roger, Dmitri lost; against that was weighed more gold and loot than they had captured in a long time, a Darkhost broken, a Gold Serpent cult gutted, scores of followers of the Dark One dead, damage done to Alantarn, and a war between the Felher and Direthrell heated up. He fumbled in his pouch; even in the chilly starlight it gleamed richly: the Torc, of course. A potent relic wrest
ed from the followers of evil, a chance for the Badgers to confront their deadliest threat with a hope of victory.

  The Captain ran a finger over the etched gold, feeling the craftsmanship that was as much a part of the thing as the metal itself. To the spellcasters it was an item of power, a weapon, a magical lever. To him it was a key out of a trap the White Necromancer was weaving about his beloved Company, a key that would, with luck, let them escape to safety. That was what his friends had died for, he reminded himself: for the continued existence of the Company, their own little haphazard clan. Each had come on this mission with the risks, and the reward, in mind. Thank the Eight that they had not failed.

  With a sigh the Captain levered himself to his feet and headed back to the barn and his bedroll. He needed rest if he was going to lead his Company home. They had the key now, and the way was open to them. The way their friends had opened for them with their courage and their lives.

  Imperial Calendar:

  Achemteil: 1st month.

  Chiffteil: 2nd month.

  Marlt: 3rd month.

  Kammteil: 4th month.

  Natterteil: 5th month.

  Gleichteil: 6th month.

  Summteil: 7th month.

  Bannteil: 8th month.

  Zahmteil: 9th month.

  Hoffnungteil: 10th month.

  Frosteil: 11th month.

  Schnienteil: 12th month.

  Glossary of Terms

  Abedo Vardo: Gate Magic

  Achgabon: That place in a fortress or city where magical wards are supervised.

  Albar: A unit in Direthrell service, made up of four troops, 600+ warriors.

  Alhenland: The northern continent.

  Amadan: A ‘Wanderer’s belt, worn by Threll from the Larnax Forest. See also Patik, Matzil.

  Ampara Oseta: Clerical magic.

  Amplis Novo: The art and arts of Seers, those who delve into the future, the past, and the geographically-removed present.