Dark Tide: Book Five of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  “Confidence can be a dangerous thing,” Devon observed.

  “True, but it can also be based on fact. By the way, I must apologize: one of our scouts was a bit high-spirited last night and tied a rag around the base of the wind-vane on the top of this very building. You might have someone remove it lest it foul the vane’s swivel and give you a false reading.”

  Devon made an expansive gesture. “Youthful exuberance. Petre, show these good people to the guest quarters and see to their mounts. If you need anything, send for Petre and it will be tended to.”

  Petre was a somber dark-haired man whose full beard was thickly shot with gray, an Arturian from his accent; he led the Badgers down a side street to a converted barn; the ground floor stalls were empty, clean, and stocked with grain, straw, and water, while the former loft had plastered walls and was divided into a common room and three smallish bedrooms, each with it’s own stove and a goodly supply of charcoal.

  “There is a sentry out front and out back,” Petre rumbled. “The front guard has a runner with him, ask for me if you need anything; move around the village at your own risk. This is Marbot,” he indicated a plainly-dressed woman who kept her eyes on the floor. “She cleans and tends the stove, and stays downstairs unless you call for her. If you want a woman or boy, or food and drink, tell her and she’ll get them for you. Food’s free, drink and fun’s cheap as dirt. We’ll send for you when Devon’s ready.”

  “Fine,” Henri nodded. “We’ll stay until noon tomorrow.”

  The bearded Arturian nodded his understanding and strode out of the barn. Marbot wordlessly began tending the horses as soon as the mounts were unsaddled; Henri gestured for the others to follow and climbed the stairs to the living quarters, his saddle bags and blanket roll across his shoulders.

  “We’re all right here, two beds per room and clean linen on each, and plenty of charcoal for the stoves,” the wizard announced after examining the place. “I’ll take one bedroom, Philip and Rolf another, and Elonia and Maxmillian the third.”

  “How do you rate a single room?” Elonia asked. “Rolf is senior to you.”

  “I plan to avail myself of the room-service women,” Henri grinned. “Something Tonya and Veda have prohibited Philip and Rolf from doing.”

  “So we’re set,” Maxmillian stepped in to assert his authority as ranking officer. “We’ll eat our own food, decline their drink, and stay in the building to avoid trouble. I’ll draw up a guard roster in a moment, one Badger on duty in the common room at all times, but first, Henri, what impressions did you have of the situation?”

  “The town’s a rats-nest, plenty of hard cases and trouble in every corner; as to Devon and his crew, Tranie’s a spell-caster, a budding necromancer if I’m not mistaken, not so far along in power as I am but no one I would want to face in a fair fight. The guards he has with him are first-rate and loyal if I had to guess. I would say he’ll deal straight with us, we’ve agreed to a fantastic price, and the rag on the weather vane ought to introduce a touch of caution.”

  “Good. Rolf?”

  “His dogs are well-trained, and his outside guards are well-armed, confident, and hard lads; as for the town, we saw a knifing while you were inside, one dead and another cut up over some quarrel or another. This is a bad place.”

  “True. Elonia?”

  “Devon’s got two guards amongst the girls in his tavern, and I’ll bet his people are loyal. I agree he’s likely to deal fairly unless we show weakness, but I wouldn’t be surprised if another group tries their luck with a wink and a nod from master Stacton.”

  “Which is why we’re standing guard. Philip?”

  “It’s already been said.”

  “All right, I’ve nothing much to add except that I agree with Elonia: someone will try us, knowing Devon won’t mind. If we go down, he’ll take a cut of the profits and none of the blame, while if we survive he’ll get an idea of our capabilities. Either way he’s ahead of the game.”

  “After we get what we need, maybe we ought to come back with the bulk of the Company and see how friend Devon looks on the end of a rope,” Philip suggested.

  “I would like that. Let’s make ourselves at home and get some rest.”

  “Suits me.” Henri strode to the stairway and shouted for Marbot. When she appeared at the foot of the stairs he flipped her a ducat piece. “Send for three girls, pretty ones; the one I like best will get my custom, and the other two’ll get half a Sagenhoft ducat for the walk.”

  Marbot lugged a large kettle of boiling water up the stairs as soon as she heard the Badgers stirring; dawn was not long past, but the mercenaries had gotten used to rising early while in the field and their current conditions certainly were not secure enough to warrant sleeping in.

  “I’m surprised we didn’t get hit during the night,” Philip observed to Rolf, who had had the last watch, as he poured himself a cup of tea from the pot that had been brewing all night for the sentry’s use. “Word must have gotten out what we’re buying and the amount of money we would have to be carrying.”

  “You would think,” the big Corporal agreed sleepily, tossing a bit of salt port to Squeak. “But not so much as a rock thrown at the building, although there was plenty of yelling and foot traffic on my watch; this place never sleeps.”

  “A lively place, and a rough one,” the ex-thief-taker said, heating a slab of salt pork in a pan on the stove. “When this war’s over and we’re back in Oramere I’m going to kill a pig every day just so my bacon’s fresh.”

  “I don’t think it works that way, bacon, I mean,” Rolf shook his head.

  “Well, it’s going to be fresh bacon, however they make it,” Philip was undeterred. “And fresh everything. Nothing I eat will have ever been carried in a leather haversack.”

  “I’ll go check on the horses,” the half-Orc set Squeak on his shoulder and tucked Tumbler into his open shirt front. “The boys need to stretch their legs and attend to business anyway.” He stepped past Henri, who was standing shirtless and rumpled in the center of the common room staring vaguely at the shuttered window and muttering to himself in Arturian. “Morning, Henri.” He received a surly grunt in reply.

  Elonia was coming down the hall wearing a patched man’s shirt, an old one of Maxmillian’s she slept in, with her washing gear in hand and a towel and her knife-belt slung over her shoulder. Rolf froze in mid-step, face burning, at the sight of the Seeress’s long bare legs, but the mixed-blood Badger merely winked at him and strolled on past into her room. He liked the cat-calm Seeress a lot, but she seemed to take a perverse pleasure in rattling him; even now, with a lady friend and a knowledge of the other part of relationships Rolf had trouble coping with embarrassing situations that involved the opposite sex.

  Still bemused by the subtleties of human relationships the big Corporal trudged down the open timber staircase, the fingers of one hand trailing idly along the splintered railing. Squeak’s sudden rigidity and Tumbler’s abrupt shift from a curled-tight position against his chest for warmth into a jump-capable stance half-out of his shirt snapped the half-Orc back to the present. Instinctively he maintained his stride, wishing he was wearing his armor, as he slid his right hand around to the hilt of his renac, which rode angled on the back of his belt. The smell which had already alerted his rats hit him as he reached the floor, the hot-metal reek of freshly shed blood and the stench of death-loosened bowels nearly covered by the cloying odor of horses. The barn was only illuminated by two lantern-candles so that Marbot could perform her menial duties, but there was nothing wrong with his hearing, and in any case Squeak was twisting to face behind and to the right even as Tumbler leaned still further out of his shirt to look in the same direction.

  Rolf jumped forward and then spun, drawing the cleaver-sword as he moved, the abruptness of his maneuver tossing Tumbler from his perch, bringing his sword down overhand in a mighty swing at the half-seen figure whose boot-scuff had warned the already-alerted Badger. The blade met and sliced fl
esh, wringing a howl from the attacker which turned into a panicky scream as Squeak settled his footing and leapt, landing with teeth and claws flashing on the man’s face.

  Booting the attacker aside, Rolf ripped a light rod from his belt and spoke the word that set it to glowing, dropping it as it came to life and another man rushed him, a swarthy gap-toothed thug who appeared to be nearly as dark as Duna. The Corporal parried with the flat of his blade and rammed the blunt, square-off end of his sword intro the thug’s face, knocking a couple teeth loose. Tumbler hit the man’s thigh, his teeth too short to penetrate the hide trousers the man was wearing, but the rat’s impact startled him and gave Rolf a precious exploitable second to bring his renac up and back down again, hewing into the man’s neck where it joined the rest of his body.

  Maxmillian had Elonia up against the wall trying to get his hands under her sleeping-shirt while he kissed her when the shouting and metal-clashes erupted from below. Shoving himself free, he snatched up his sword belt and loaded crossbow and leapt for the door, banging his knee against the bed frame and accidently firing the crossbow into the roof. Cursing with pain and annoyance, the Serjeant discarded the crossbow, pulled his sword and dagger free and then dropped his sword belt as he ripped open the door. Charging down the short hallway, he skidded to a stop by the stairs and glanced down them to ensure that an ambush wasn’t waiting before clattering down the steps, wishing he had had his armor on but at least thankful for his boots. Behind him he heard Philip cursing as he came down the hall wrestling with something metallic.

  A light rod glowing on the floor illuminated the barn; the ex-scholar took in the unbarred rear door, the four or five ragged, well-armed men who were confronting Rolf, who stood with his back to a support beam with a bloody renac in one hand and a clean dirk in the other. One man was crawling for the back door, and yet another thrashing about in the filthy straw with what appeared to be a mortal neck-wound.

  Vaulting over the rail three steps short of the floor, Maxmillian landed next to the crawler, whom he promptly stabbed through the neck, twisting the blade to ensure that he got the major blood vessels and airway. Above him, Philip leaned over the rail and shot one of the five in the back with his crossbow. Behind Rolf the Serjeant could see a blade of fire cutting a circle in the plank ceiling, proof that Henri was preparing to join the fray.

  Philip vaulted down to land by Maxmillian as the four men fumbled about trying to deal with the sudden change in odds; before they could get organized, a section of charred-edged planks the size of a trap door dropped out of the ceiling and Henri’s head and shoulders came through the hole, hanging upside-down as the wizard took in the situation in the barn.

  “Drop your weapons or take the consequences,” Maxmillian bellowed in his best parade-field manner. The four hesitated, and then one threw his spiked club onto the floor with a Kerbian-accented curse. After a moment the other three followed suit.

  “All right, up against that wall there, face it, good, and now take off your clothes, down to bare skin.”

  The youngest of the four looked over his shoulder with a look that verged on panic. “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing to you directly, so long as you follow instructions,” Maxmillian tried to keep a grin off his face at the would-be assassin’s tone; beside him, Philip chuckled. Henri levered himself upwards out of his hole and reappeared moments later on the stairs.

  “Elonia’s watching the roof,” he advised Maxmillian.

  “Good. All right, get to it, toss ‘em behind you. Philip, you get the duty, Rolf, you check the barn and then tend to the dead ones.”

  “They cut Marbot’s throat, that’s what my boys smelled,” Rolf reported after checking the area, his rats back on his shoulders. “They knocked the back sentry over the head, but he’s still alive.”

  “Naturally, it wouldn’t do to kill one of Devon’s lads, now would it?” Philip drawled, raking garments further back from the line of naked men and searching them by running a sheath dagger-blade over the cloth, looking for hidden valuables. “By the Eight, have none of you heard of bathing?”

  “All right, load their clothes into that barrow and dump ‘em across the street; you four, when I say ‘go’, you trot out the back door and try to get your togs before the hangers-on steal ‘em.”

  “What about our blades? It’s murder, leaving a man unarmed in this town,” one of the four protested, a husky man with the stains of metal-work on his hands and the scars of a whip on his back.

  “What a coincidence, murder was exactly what you had in mind for us,” Maxmillian observed. “Go or die.”

  Cursing bitterly the four trotted out, yelping when they reached the snow.

  “Rolf, give Philip a hand with the bodies.” The ex-scholar surveyed the barn. “Not a bad plan,” he observed to Henri. “Kill the first one to come downstairs, then creep up and rush the ones upstairs.”

  “They killed Marbot, and my boys smelled the blood,” Rolf observed as he helped heave a corpse onto the barrow. “If they had just knocked her over the head, it might have worked.”

  Maxmillian shrugged. “Perhaps those four will learn a lesson from this and mend their ways.”

  The looks they received when they led their mounts to the tavern four hours later were no less unfriendly than any they had received before, but there was a new wariness, a primitive respect brought on by three fresh corpses tumbled like refuse from a wheel barrow and four ready killers sent scampering naked across the street to recover their jumbled clothing. Maxmillian spat into the tramped snow in the frozen ruts and cursed the watchers under his breath, for the new looks carried a measure of acceptance in them that he detested; these were Human vermin with no further thought than the next meal, bottle, or rape.

  Once again they left Rolf and Philip with the horses, the three who entered the tavern shedding their coats before going in. Inside very little had changed, except that Devon and the assayer had on different clothing and the long table’s scratched surface was bare and freshly-waxed. The same number of guards and girls were scattered about the room, but everyone looked considerably more alert, with an air of expectation hanging in the room.

  “Ah, my friends, I’m glad to see that you survived that unfortunate incident unscathed. I do apologize for the failure on my sentry’s part, but I must say, I did warn you as to the hazards of this wretched locale.”

  “No harm done,” Henri took a seat. “They were bumblers of the first degree. I’m afraid I burned a hole in your floor during the encounter, but I imagine it will be no great matter to repair. Were you able to secure the goods?”

  “Yes, indeed. Tranie?”

  The pallid enchanter placed a plain wood case on the table and opened it. Inside the case three green glass globes the size of a baby’s fist rested in velvet-lined depressions, along with four blue glass cylinders three times as thick as an arrow-shaft, and one-fifth as long. “Three Orbs of Sending, and four Orbs of Lore. You will note that the easterners use a cylinder for the latter rather than the more usual sphere, but the effect and usage remains unchanged. Examine them if you wish.”

  Henri did wish, and carefully lifted each out of the box while he murmured a brief cant. After several minutes’ exacting examination, he replaced the last device into the case and closed the lid. “And the price?”

  “As we agreed yesterday,” Devon shrugged. “In Sagenhoft ducats or gems.”

  “Both, I’m afraid.” Henri produced a gem-wallet from his pouch while Elonia stacked rolls of coins on the table. After some haggling over the value of individual stones the agreed-upon price was reached and the Badger wizard rose with the case tucked carefully under his arm. “Good day, gentlemen. No doubt we shall do business again another day.”

  “With luck. Would you care to join me for lunch?” Devon rolled a ruby across the table between his forefingers as he spoke.

  “Our thanks, but no, we must be off; our comrades await.”

  Devon Stacton watc
hed the door close behind the stocky hammer-carrying man who was the real leader of the group, still rolling the ruby back and forth. “Should we take the goods back, then?” he mused out loud.

  “No.” Tranie still lolled back in his chair, but his reedy voice was hard with conviction. “The woman has the Sight, and some lesser Art as well, and both the hammer and the wizard’s sword are enchanted. That stave he carries is as well. Void knows what the rest of the party is carrying, or how many wait outside of town.”

  “Might not be any,” Devon suggested mildly.

  “It had to be a Lanthrell that put that rag on the wind-vane, and I doubt he’s out there alone. Those are mercenaries, mark my words.”

  “What would mercenaries be doing out here?”

  “There’s at least three companies helping the irregulars train and operate,” Petre offered from behind them. “All in the hundred-man range with solid reputations. Any of them could reach here without undue difficulty.”

  “How many are pan-racial? That woman was of mixed blood, and they apparently have a Threll in their ranks.”

  “Two.”

  “Huh.” Devon stared at the closed door for a while. “A hundred men, eh? And no doubt well-blooded, after all the fighting going on.” A thought struck him. “Did any take part in the raid on Apartia? They mentioned capturing paperwork there.”

  “The Phantom Badgers.”

  “Bad lot?”

  “They’ve been making quite a name for themselves since the war started, got a piece of nearly every major battle in the central region. They’re the ones who collected the bounty on the Hand’s station chief in Sagenhoft, ten thousand Sagenhoft ducats dead or alive. The station chief was of the -Hern.”

  “Ah.” Devon was impressed. “Best to let them go, then; no point in courting trouble, and no profit in losing battles.” He sighed. “Still, honest trading just isn’t as much fun.”