Dark Tide: Book Five of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  The wizard reached the end of the trench, which was discretely tucked away behind some decorative hedge-work, and eased out onto the grass, pausing to catching his breath and arrange his clothing and accouterments before slipping around to the nearest opening in the shrubbery. He and Jothan were about twenty feet from the palace itself when they took up what the Lieutenant decided would be the best place to wait. Horns and small bells were sounding in the surrounding city, not the Hand’s alarm bells or those of the Fire Watch; Axel guessed that it was the resistance being called to arms. Stroking his staff, he ordered his thoughts and steadied his breathing.

  He jumped as loud, brassy horns inexpertly blown suddenly wailed from several points nearby, followed seconds later by the tolling of a great bell in the distance which was quickly taken up by several others around the city, including one which was close enough to his position to rattle his teeth: clearly, the attack was underway.

  “Get the door,” he said to Jothan, who darted across the flagstones towards the portal, pulling a pry bar from his belt as he ran. The Lieutenant limped out more slowly as a roar of shouting could be heard in the direction of the Company, and fire arrows streaked out from the Scout Section’s position to illuminate a Hand patrol. Another section charged up the flagstones from the north, having spotted or heard Jothan prying open the doorway. Axel leaned back against a statue of some sort to disguise his outline and gestured with his staff, speaking calmly and carefully; three Hand soldiers fell, coated in hoarfrost. The wizard slew four more with the second spell, and the three survivors wisely turned and fled.

  The Company was nearing the Scout Section’s position, moving at a steady trot, equipment and armor rattling in counterpoint to their steps as Axel made his way to the door Jothan had just forced open. “Go inside and scout around, but be careful and stick close,” he advised the interpreter, who nodded and darted into the shadowy corridor. The wizard remained outside, watching and waiting, staff ready.

  He felt the spell like a single strand of spider-web brushing across his face and turned to face its source; a second later a young woman in rumpled robes stepped out from behind a line of hedges and raised her hands. She had been using a simple spell to locate any spellcasters in the area which had also alerted him to her presence, but Axel didn’t think less of her for it. He brought his staff up to shoulder height and chanted a quick phrase.

  The Markan-Zern gestured swiftly to raise protective wards and the killing cold swirled around her, although it slew the four Hand soldiers behind her and blackened the limbs of the hedge. An instant later Axel’s newly-raised wards shook from deflecting a bolt of fire that set the door frame behind him ablaze. The Badger nodded approvingly and replied with a more subtle killing-spell, which was countered and responded to in kind.

  The wizardly battle was only partially visible to the naked eye, and that part the least important, mere side-effects of deflected or failed spells. Enchantments were muttered or whispered, and gestures were curtly described as power surged back and forth between the two like the contents of a half-full barrel tumbling end-over-end down a steep slope. The two were very nearly matched in knowledge, and while the woman was far his superior in her ability to control raw force, the focus and storage capacity of his enchanted stave equaled out Axel’s deficiency in that area. In the space of four heartbeats the two exchanged a dozen assaults and defenses, spending power prodigiously as they sought an exploitable weakness or shortcoming.

  Subtly altering his wards Axel blinked away sweat that stung his eyes, the perspiration raised by the strain of the seconds-long battle rather than the cold fall air. He was struggling to keep up his wards and still strike at his foe, feeling his reserves of energy fading with each heartbeat as he and the Hand priestess pounded away at each other. He could tell she was operating at the very peak of her skill, and dimly wondered which of them would make a mistake or run out of strength first.

  A flicker of light reflecting off metal caught his eye as the flames behind him bit into the ornately carved wood of the door frame; it was a javelin lying propped across the frost-covered torso of its deceased owner, one of the Markan’s dead bodyguards. Shifting his wards slightly, Axel reached out a mental hand and seized the weapon; while he could lift over twenty pounds in such a manner he had none of the dexterity of a natural hand. But he could move items, and move this he did: with a slight twitch to adjust the angle of the point, he pulled the javelin into the woman’s unarmored side with as much force as he could muster, releasing the weapon a spilt-second after it struck.

  It was hardly a fatal wound, or even a serious one: the javelin’s point sliced through the priestess’ wool robe and the shift beneath and tore a long gash across her ribs, painful and bloody, but by no means life-threatening.

  Except that the sudden shock of being struck and wounded broke her concentration, and for a single heartbeat her wards faltered. Expecting this, Axel thrust home with as potent a killing-cant as he possessed even as he released the javelin, the spell bursting through the flickering wards of his startled foe and snuffing out her life even as she rallied from her shock.

  As the woman’s ice-coated corpse toppled to the ground the first of Scout Section raced up; the Lieutenant leaned on his staff, gulping in deep breaths of cold air, and waved them on into the building; Milo paused to beat out the flames on the door frame with a strip of blanket, and then followed his section into the building. Durek came up a moment later as Blue Platoon began filing through the doorway. “Are you all right?”

  Axel nodded. “Got stuck into a tough one. Picken, over here. Go search that woman’s body, she’s a spellcaster.” He turned back to the Captain. “How are we doing?”

  “Too soon to tell.”

  The alarm bells tumbled Markan-Ra of the Sixth Orbit Teruah Celot from her bed, the stocky, scarred woman diving into her clothes more by force of long habit than by any conscious thought. She was half dressed before she was able to piece together what day it was, or at least what day it had been before she had fallen asleep. She had been up late the evening before and had smoked no small quantity of pulvas before going to bed, leaving her thick-skulled and groggy. Jerking her tunic into place, she sat back down onto her bed to pull on her boots, wondering dully why she was even bothering: as the garrison commander she was not required to respond to a sounding of the alarms unless the duty officer sent word that she was needed.

  Standing, she stomped her feet a few times to settle the boots, and poured herself a tot of Navian gin which she tossed off to clear her mouth of the dead-rat taste. Deciding that since she was up she might as well make a formal appearance, she stepped over to her arms rack and began to climb into her mail shirt, the gin helping clear some of the pulvas fumes from her head.

  She was strapping the under-belt that cinched the mail tight around her waist so it would not shift and throw her off balance in a fight when a quick double-rap at the door announced her senior aide. “Enter,” she shouted as she fumbled clumsily at the last knot, her fingers still feeling numb and distant from last night’s smoking.

  Her senior aide, a Markan-Ra of the Second Orbit named Desmond, leaned into the room. “Ma’am, we’re got some sort of uprising going on. The reports are very sketchy at the moment, but from the looks of things they’re assaulting the palace grounds and the Sacred Band’s barracks.”

  “What about the walls?” Each Holding had one Band on duty at all times, one Band being assigned to the walls, one to patrolling and the security of the two lesser complexes, and one to guarding the palace. A second Band from each Holding (each Holding had four Bands of around five hundred troops each) was to be ready to respond on five minute’s notice.

  “All posts have showed the correct lantern-codes indicating no problems.”

  “Good. What time is it, anyway? And how strong is the attack on the palace?”

  “Nearly dawn, ma’am, and the enemy has penetrated the south end of the complex. Reports are very sketchy, but I wouldn
’t think whatever peasant rabble the locals can field will amount to much.”

  “True, still, an alert with a bit of fighting will be good practice. Order the full alert to be rung, get a patrol to the south end of the complex and another to the Sacred Band commander to see what is going on, and get me some breakfast, send it to the council room. Oh, and get the intelligence officer there, too: I want to know why we had no warning about this, especially since just the other day he was bragging about how well he had the local bandits infiltrated.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Desmond ducked back out of sight.

  Celot strapped on her sword belt, glad to see that her fingers were loosening back up, and tossed off another tot of gin before grabbing her helm and heading for the council room she used as a central command post.

  Duna eased down the corridor, axe balanced in her hand. A young woman in a short sleeping shift suddenly burst from a side passage and raced down the hall away from the dark Badger, the tattoos of a Markan standing out clearly on her left arm. Duna cast and was gratified to see the axe blade bite into the back of the girl’s skull, dropping the young priestess in her tracks. Of course, she had been aiming between the shoulders, but at least she had hit; after weeks of regular practice the Badger was deadly against targets but just as she had found with archery the accurate use of a throwing axe in combat was an entirely different proposition.

  She trotted forward and recovered her axe, her advance covered by Milo and Jepson Plumer; the Badgers were entirely in the palace complex now, advancing at a slow walk through the maze of rooms, courtyards, hallways, and passages, killing anyone they came across who appeared to be with the Hand (and a few slaves and servants as well, something to be expected when fighting in confused conditions at close quarters), and grabbing what loot came to hand, operating in section strength. It was easy and bloody work so far: nearly everyone they ran into was support types just roused from bed, unarmed and still in their night clothes. True to their orders, the mercenaries offered no quarter and took no prisoners, although they sent what slaves they found (and who managed to identify themselves in time) back outside with orders to head into the city proper. There had been several clashes with Hand patrols, but so far the main response force had not shown up, nor had any of the support staff been armed.

  Wiping the blade of the axe clean on the dying woman’s shift, Duna twisted a gold ring set with some sort of gems from the priestess’ hand and dropped in into her pack as she took up position behind a stone tub holding a small tree and waited, axe ready, while Milo advanced past her position, the corridor dimly illuminated by several small night-lamps. So far, everything was going according to plan.

  The council room was a-buzz with couriers coming and going, staff officers holding low-toned, intense conversations, and clerks busily noting down information just as it was on every other drill. Celot made her was to the chair she normally held court from and sent a junior aide to fetch her a glass of red wine and to hurry along her breakfast. Slumping in the chair, she tuned out the background noise and faded away into a near-doze.

  The arrival of a tray of sausages still sizzling on their platter and a pile of freshly-scrambled eggs brought her back to life; she had just forked in a mouthful when Markan Beryil, her operations officer, bustled up, fear in his eyes. “Commander, we’ve serious problems.”

  “Serious problems from a bunch of street-rats?” Celot asked after washing down the mouthful with wine. “I hardly think so.”

  “We’re not facing street rats, ma’am,” Beryil shook his head irritably, a squat, dark-skinned man who had been badly wounded in the Great Fallow during the Battle of Apartia, and who had distinguished himself in the storming of the city. “The palace is under attack on two sides by professional, well-armed troops, one group of which is either near, or inside the area which houses our communications devices.’

  The commander sat up straight at that. “What do you mean, in or near?”

  “The position is or soon may be over-run,” Beryil explained. “I need your permission to release the reserve companies to counter-strike.”

  “Of course.” She waited while he passed on the order to a staff officer. “Send for at least a company of the Sacred Band as well.”

  “Ah, there is more bad news: the Sacred Band’s barracks are at least partially over-run by Dwarves, and our heroic comrades are hard-pressed.”

  “Dwarves? Where in the Void did Dwarves come from?”

  “From beneath us is the only guess I can make, they must have tunneled in somehow.”

  “How badly are the Colo pressed?”

  “It is hard to tell, the first patrol was ambushed and wiped out as they tried to make contact; the second has just returned with the news that the Band commander reports a third of his force dead and all hands hotly engaged. The Section-Leader saw the Dwarves with his own eyes, and lost half his section to crossbow fire.”

  “Blast.” Celot shook her head groggily.

  “It grows worse, I’m afraid. The wall-posts are secure and unengaged, but they report heavy fighting in all three Holding barracks areas, and signs of rebellion in the street. Apparently the resistance is going to join in the struggle.”

  She forced her thoughts to quicken. “Recall all patrols and guards within the complex to our central area, we must reconstitute a reserve until the Sacred Band and Holdings can recover and rally to our aid. Have you sounded the horns to summon the support personnel to response force duty?”

  “Yes, and we’re issuing arms as we speak, but I have no information as to numbers at this moment.”

  “Good. Put my aide Desmond in command of the unit, with the authority to pull leaders in from the staff as needed; I’ll have that in writing and sealed in just a moment. As soon as it is light enough to see that the exterior is clear, we’ll strip the Band off the wall and use them to clear the palace.”

  “I’ll begin the plans.”

  “Where does that door lead?” Philip asked Tonya, mopping at the sweat leaking out from beneath the padded lining of his steel cap as members of Silver Platoon darted further down the hall. Things were heating up as the Badgers advanced deeper into the palace and the ruddy dawn light washed through the windows. They were still killing Hand support personnel in numbers but the element of surprise was gone and the staffers were both dressed and armed, albeit poorly, mostly daggers, short swords, and improvised clubs. Ad hoc groups of clerks and staff officers were appearing as well, fully armed and armored, and obviously ordered to delay the invaders until regular troops could respond.

  “Outside,” the tall Corporal said as she reloaded her crossbow.

  “It wasn’t open a minute ago,” Philip observed, hefting his broadsword. “Let’s take a look.”

  “Probably one of our people left it open after checking it out, this place is a rat’s nest of side doors and odd passages,” Tonya pointed out, but moved to follow her lover. The palace was indeed a maze to those not familiar with its environs, vastly slowing the Badgers’ progress.

  After a quick glance to either side, Philip darted out the door and found himself in a tiny atrium of raked gravel and miniature trees, with carved stone benches at each compass point. There were no lamps in the area, and the thin dawn’s light wasn’t up to piercing the deep shadows. Two doors led off the garden, both still closed; Philip eased along the edge of the atrium, keeping his back to the wall and his shield up and ready.

  The scuff of gravel shifting under pressure warned him before he saw the black shape rising from behind the nearest bench; instinctively slapping the flashing blade aside with his shield, he thrust hard and felt the point of his broadsword glance off the slanted surface of a buckler. A second exchange mirrored the first, blow and parry for each side, and then the solid tunk of a crossbow’s release from the direction of the doorway was matched with a shriek from Philip’s attacker. The ex-thief-taker took advantage of the bolt’s impact to go in under his opponent’s buckler and chop the man’s left leg ou
t from beneath him, finishing the fight and the man’s life with a thrust to the throat.

  When the body stopped convulsing and lay still, Philip dragged the corpse into a better-lit area of the garden and swiftly sorted through the man’s pouch. “This is interesting,” he called over his shoulder to Tonya, who had reloaded her crossbow.

  “What?” she asked without much interest. “And by the way, is my quarrel useable?”

  “Ah, let me see...no, afraid not.”

  “Damn, I’m starting to run low.”

  “Anyway, what’s interesting is this one’s in full war harness, but he’s not from the Thirty-Seventh.” The Band guarding the palace had been drawn from the Thirty-Seventh Holding.

  “So?”

  “So he’s a bodyguard, a permanent bodyguard, not an infantryman on a detail.”

  “All right, so he’s a bodyguard, so what?’

  Philip picked his sword up off the gravel and eyed the shadows around him. “So where’s the body he was supposed to be guarding?”

  Tonya raised her crossbow to the ready position. “I see your point. Check the doors.”

  “Good idea.” Keeping his back to the wall, the wiry Corporal eased around the garden and tested first one, and then the other. “Locked, both of them.”

  “Ah.” Tonya leaned back into the doorway. “Silver Platoon, lantern up! To me, to me, to me.”

  Again, the whisper of shifting gravel gave Philip the warning he needed, although this second attack was more clumsy than the first: a figure rolled out from beneath the shadowy recesses beneath a bench and sprang at the Badger Corporal, a knife-blade flashing in the weak light. Philip dropped to one knee, blocking the short blade with an upward strike with his shield as he leaned into a forward thrust, the point of his sword grating across a rib before slipping between the bone and its adjoining mate. The Corporal was surprised that his attacker had no armor, but kept his focus and levered his blade in deeper before wrenching it free from the screaming man.