Dark Tide: Book Five of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  “Why would loot be stockpiled at this base?” Kroh rumbled. “They ought to Gate it on out.”

  “They do, but remember that a Gate’s ‘open’ time is finite, its size is never larger than a doorway, and literally tons of supplies must be moved through the portals. It takes tons of supplies per day to maintain a single Bohca in the field, and both the Bohcas and the staging bases will be trying to build and maintain a reserve of supplies. Loot and slaves will be passed through to the east in the spare minutes that are available after the supplies have been moved, so except for the perishables and extreme value objects we can count on a steady backlog of valuables to build up at each of these bases. Enchanted items are unlikely, but precious metals, works of art, and good old coin of the realm ought to be fairly common.”

  “The raid on the base will be mounted in conjunction with the resumption of the campaigning season,” Durek announced. “The Bohcas taking the field will increase the operations at the base to a frantic level; the more support activity, the more confusion resulting from our attack. Naturally, we will conduct more detailed planning once we have the Orbs in hand, but if we can obtain the necessary support gear I plan to mount just such a raid for the furtherance of the Light’s victory, the enhancement of our reputation, and loot. After this war ends we will be on much leaner pickings.”

  “I am just hoping there would be an afterwards,” Henri observed.

  When Bohca Tatbik crossed the Wall and advanced west, its goals were Apartia and ultimately Sagenhoft, and thus its penetration resembled a knife-wound, a narrow gash across the rolling plains of the central Realms. Take both cities and control the Royal Highway, the Hand commanders knew, and the Realms would be split in half and vulnerable. As the Bohca advanced it dropped off security elements to hold open the road behind it and support units tasked with maintaining the road and providing support to the columns of wagons bearing supplies west and loot east, such as veterinary services and wagon repair crews. Outnumbered, the Realmsmen and their allies were forced to concentrate every professional soldier in the armies facing the Hand Bohcas leaving the Hand supply lines unmolested save by irregulars.

  At first the irregulars were simply patriots and vengeance-seekers, poorly armed and poorly trained, but as time went on they gained experience and arms, and veterans were sent from the armies to train and lead them, followed later by several mercenary companies who gave the guerrillas some substance and expert examples. Faced with rising opposition the Hand was forced to deploy more and more troops to holding the roads open, and the actions along the narrow ribbon of land that the Hand held intensified.

  There were no large battles, no decisive engagements, but rather an endless series of ambushes and small-unit clashes, a few dozen Goblins or Eyade tangling with a score of irregulars, a few dray-beasts killed by sniper fire, a straggling wagon pillaged and wrecked, sentries found with their throats cut. In reply villages were burned and their inhabitants enslaved or butchered to serve as an example for those who opposed the Hand’s rule. It was a brutal, no-quarter war between the bestial Eyade and the Goblin allies on one side and irregulars who had seen their homes burned and their families slaughtered on the other.

  By Marlt, the third month of the Imperial calendar, the Hand had a Lardina of Goblin foot from the Brazen Shields Keiba, four Eyade Ket (two from Bohca Ileri assigned after the fall of Apartia, and two shifted south from Bohca Neft in mid-winter) and sixty independent Kia struggling to hold open the roads supplying the drive on Sagenhoft, opposed by eight Invoquar of varying size and quality, and several mercenary units. Between thirty to forty groups of bandits and brigands roved the length of the supply lines stealing from and skirmishing with both sides.

  The Ilthanian village of Blanketon was thirty-five miles east-southeast of Apartia on the edge of the eastward road network, a small community of two hundred souls who before the war had made their living cording and weaving wool from the flocks of sheep they tended in the surrounding hills. Ten miles to the east the larger town of Zephyr served as a base for an independent Eyade Kia assigned to road duty, and as quarters for a wagon-repair yard and fodder storage. After the armies moved west Blanketon had been pillaged and then ignored by the Hand administration, who were concerned only with keeping traffic on the roads rolling; but as the weeks of summer passed others found the place to be suitable and slowly the little township filled with deserters, refugees, and black-marketeers.

  On the fifth of Marlt about twenty of the original structures still stood in the township with a fair-sized shanty town sprung up around the burnt-out remains of the houses and barns destroyed by carelessness or malicious caprice. Bundled figures could be seen moving around the filthy streets in the cold thin light of a winter morning but no sentries were posted, although armed guards secured individual buildings. Henri, Rolf, Elonia, Maxmillian, and Philip sat on their horses on a low rise studying the town; Kroh, Starr, and a section of Badgers waited in a camp several miles further south. None wore insignia of any sort, and Rolf had left Moonblade with Kroh, carrying his dirks and his captured renac. All wore equipment and clothing taken from a variety of sources, including captured Hand gear and could have passed as any of the small groups of well-armed individuals dredging wealth on the fringes of the war.

  “Sordid little dump, isn’t it?” Henri observed, his breath puffing out in the cold air. “Starr’s checked it carefully, so at least we know the Hand hasn’t cleaned it up yet.”

  “With all the trouble they’re having on the road I doubt they’ve the time or inclination,” Elonia said. “The irregulars are learning their trade well.”

  “True.” The wizard sighed and shook his head. “Well, no point sitting around in the cold, let’s get this over with. Watch yourselves and show nothing that would appear to be weakness.”

  “I wish Kroh was here,” Rolf said mournfully as the group started down the rise into the town.

  “So do I,” Henri nodded. “He’d be perfect here, but a Dwarf would attract attention and we might be here for several days so we can’t take the chance of a Markan-Fet taking an interest in what a Dwarf’s doing in a deserter-camp.”

  Blanketon stunk from carelessly-positioned latrines, too many beasts in uncleaned corrals, and smoke from fires burning wood, coal, dung, and straw. The Badgers guided their mounts across the snow-filled defensive ditch and rode slowly through the tangled shanties, conscious of the eyes upon them. A few ragged children raced away from their path as shadowy figures watched them from the doors of the rude huts; horses and draft beasts stood in filthy corrals that had once confined sheep, and wagons and carts of every description stood in the shelter of the open-sided shearing sheds. Some were loaded with cargo, while more goods were stacked in crates, barrels, hogsheads, and tuns here and there, protected by crude pole-sheds or canvas tents, and carefully guarded by well-armed men and women of every race and nation that had fought in the war.

  “Deserters from both sides,” Maxmillian muttered to Elonia, nodded to a pair of sentries watching over a stack of wagon wheels: one was an Eyade, the other blond-haired, tall, and wearing a tattoo of an Imperial Legion’s crest on the back of his bare left hand. The Seeress nodded shortly, the cocked and loaded crossbow braced against her hip bobbing in counterpoint to her movement.

  The eyes that followed them were measuring in the way jackals watch a herd animal, looking for a weakness, something exploitable that could be used to transform the newcomers into profit and pleasure with the least amount of personal risk.

  In the village square ragged men and women loaded four wagons and a string of pack mules under the careful watch of a detachment of armed men while down a side-street another group of refugees unloaded sacks of flour and crates of dried beef with Lasharian markings from a half-dozen carts, lugging the foodstuffs into a fortified house.

  “Notice no dogs other than those?” Henri jerked his chin to indicate a half-dozen bull mastiffs which growled and tugged at their handlers’ leashes as th
e Badgers rode by a guard detachment watching the loading.

  “Yep,” Philip grinned, his teeth flashing under his drooping mustache. “Things are pretty hungry around here for the hired help, I’ll bet.”

  Their destination was a two-story tavern on the north side of the village square whose sign had been removed; a dead Goblin swayed from the metal sign-post jutting out from the tavern’s front, the creature’s faced twisted and blackened from the noose which had taken its life. Four well-armed men and two leashed mastiffs lounged around the buildings entrance, rising from the kegs they had been sitting on as the four mercenaries approached.

  “State your business,” a scarred man wearing a bear-skin coat demanded as the five reined up in front of the tavern’s hitching posts, his hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his side, a blade which displayed on its pommel the crest of the Lasharian Royal Foot Guards.

  “We’ve business with Deven Stacton,” Henri met the man’s gaze squarely.

  “Never heard of him.” Bear-coat studied the mercenaries with an appraising eye. “The lady can stay, but the rest of you can piss off.”

  “Business must be rich if Deven can write off coin with both hands,” the wizard smiled at the guard. “Of course, you can trust your people not to tell him you cost him money.”

  “Don’t worry what or who I can trust,” Bear-coat sneered. “Every road-rat for a hundred miles comes here looking to get a meal and a fistful of ducats, so you better have more than a name I’ve never heard before.”

  The lean Arturian flipped the man a coin. “Here’s twenty-five ducats to tell your master that opportunity knocks.”

  Bear-coat studied the coin, then eyed the five Badgers, taking in the horses and the quality of their arms. Without looking away he made a short gesture and one of the men behind him turned and went inside the tavern. “The money buys you nothing, but having it shows a bit,” he conceded, thrusting the coin into the pocket of his coat.

  The guard came back outside and nodded to Bear-coat. “Seems this Deven Somebody may have been here after all. Go on in.” The scarred man stepped back to make way for the Badgers, who dismounted and secured their horses.

  Leaving Rolf and Philip outside to watch their mounts Henri led the other two Badgers into the tavern. Inside he found himself in a common room that smelled of stale ale, spilled wine, hot lanterns, the spicy tang of pulvas, and fresh-baked bread; it was also very warm, heated by a roaring fire in the massive fireplace and a half-dozen bright oil lanterns, a fact the wizard welcomed as he had left his coat hanging on his saddle, as had his two companions. The room was crowded with barrels of ale and crates of bottles, wine and stronger drink, and occupied by a half-dozen guards, three better-dressed men who were less openly armed, and at least eight women clad in expensive silk shifts which proclaimed their role in the group. In the center of the room a beautifully carved dining table and chairs showing signs of abuse and rough handling supported an ample, if plain, repast served on silver and crystal dining ware; the three men who stood out from the guards were seated at the table with several of the women, while the guards and the rest of the women sat or lounged on the barrels and crates. Henri noted that the guards were alert and watchful, although they maintained poses of studied indifference.

  “I understand you wish to conduct some business,” a portly, balding man in a brocade coat decorated with seed pearls sitting at the head of motioned the trio closer. “Tell me about it.”

  “I’ve been told that Deven Stacton can obtain what I need, for the right price,” Henri took the chair the man waved to while Elonia and Maxmillian ranged themselves against the casks and boxes behind the wizard.

  “I use the name Stacton on occasion,” the black marketeer shrugged. “Names, you understand, are not fixed things in this business. What shall I call you?”

  “Henri will do.”

  “Fine, and Devon will suffice for me. Who do you serve, Henri?”

  “Myself, principally, although I have associates whose interests run parallel to mine. We follow the way of personal enrichment.”

  “A noble cause, and one I espouse myself. Help yourself to my repast, if you like. While I am not opposed to new business, strangers are not always trusted here in my little abode, so you might do me the courtesy of telling me how you came to know my name.”

  “During the late unpleasantness in Apartia certain Hand files came into my possession, files which detailed the purveyors of certain types of goods,” Henri answered truthfully. “The Hand has high regard your abilities, and for what we need only the best will suffice.”

  “Apartia was indeed a lovely city, although no doubt having changed hands three times in such a short season has greatly diminished its beauty,” Devon observed, pouring himself a glass of brandy. “They should have followed Sagenhoft’s example and spent less on beauty and more on the walls. Still, such things occur.” He regarded the wizard with piercing blue eyes as he sipped his brandy and stroked his short, neatly-trimmed silver beard thoughtfully. “Life is cheap these days; many who approach me end up feeding my mastiffs.”

  “Really.” Henri smiled politely and opened his hand. A tea saucer of thin bone china loaded with slices of fried potato rose smoothly from the table and drifted into the Arturian’s hand. “Life is indeed fraught with danger.”

  “It is,” Deven eyed the saucer thoughtfully. “Of course, violence is not my primary business.”

  “No, I understand buying and selling was your line.”

  “Perhaps, if the transaction interests me. What do you have in mind?”

  “Buying, specifically at least two, and more if you can obtain them, of a minor enchanted device known as an Orb of Sending; also an equal or greater number of the devices known as Orbs of Lore.”

  Devon’s eyebrows rose. “Enchanted items? Difficult to come by.” He glanced at one of his table companions, the one Henri had sensed was a magician of some sort. The man, a pale, consumptive-appearing youth in a wine-stained jacket of scarlet silk, nodded slightly. “Perhaps we can do business, but you understand the cost will not be small.”

  “I would hardly think so.”

  “Just so we understand. Tranie, perhaps you have a word to offer?”

  The young man ran a long-fingered hand through his thinning, mouse-colored hair and squared his thin shoulders beneath the too-large jacket. “Our efforts are not without risk, and the cost is always high, both of which must be passed along to the customers...”

  While Henri handled the business end Maxmillian let his eyes rove about, taking note of the caliber of the guards and the varied sources for the goods stored in the room and worn by its various occupants. He also looked for the signs of carefully concealed murder holes in the ceiling and walls from which a crossbowman could assassinate anyone in the room, and was surprised when he saw none; he did eye the stains on the seldom-washed floor, some of which were certainly blood. The guards eyed him and he stared back, amazed that his life had come to the point where he could meet the sneering gaze of men who were clearly cold-blooded killers, and not only fail to be intimidated, but give them back the same flat, appraising stare. He had faced a centuries-old liche, seen Undead warriors at hammer range, killed Direbreed, and danced the sword-step with Eyade; these riff-raff were years past the time when they could have stared Maxmillian von Sheer the Third into fear-sweats.

  Elonia stood hip-shot, thumbs hooked in her girdle, right palm nuzzling the warming steel of a throwing knife, the left thumb hooked around a scrying crystal. The contact was enough to boost her Arts into the mildly useable range, more of an intuitive addition to her experienced and trained eye, but she was too much the professional to pass up an opportunity. Based on this spark of skill and her own judgment she marked the guards as both skilled and loyal, professionals one and all. Devon was in fact master here, and not a stand-in to confuse an assassin’s aim, while the skinny sick-looking man in the red jacket was a spellcaster of some sort and the third well-dressed man wa
s a skilled assayer of goods and especially gemstones and jewelry. She was as surprised as Maxmillian to note no murder holes, but turned her eyes to the women lounging in the background, noting that there were ten, more than she had originally thought. Eight were just what they appeared to be, pretty young women used for the pleasures of Devon and whomever he chose to reward, girls either docile enough or who had been expertly broken to the correct degree to ensure instant compliance and silence. The other two, although dressed as the others, were guards using their gender as camouflage. The Badger wondered if his male guards knew about the pair.

  “Agreed, then,” Henri nodded to Tranie. “How long will it take you to get them?”

  The spellcaster looked at Devon, who had been listening with interest. “Late today, mid-day tomorrow by the latest,” the black-marketeer answered. “I’ll provide you with bed and board while you wait, free of charge.”

  “Bed and fodder, if you will,” Henri smiled. “We brought dinner with us.”

  “Good. Now, be careful if you move about the town, I can’t be responsible for your safety outside my buildings, and you’ve already made a show of having money.”

  “We can handle any sneak-thieves,” the wizard cocked an eyebrow. “As for anything larger, certainly the fear of the rest of our comrades laying waste to the entire village should protect us.”