by RW Krpoun
Dark Practices
Book Four of the Phantom Badgers
By RW Krpoun
Published by Randall Krpoun.
Copyright 2014 by Randall Krpoun
ISBN 9781310751219
Dedicated to my wife Ann, and to all my old comrades from Kaiserslautern and the 230th Military Police Company, 95th Military Police Battalion.
A Glossary is listed at the end of the book, after About the Author.
Chapter One
The wind rattled bare branches together and skimmed loose flakes off the drifts of snow as it swept up out of the north, its chill touch dropping the temperature to a dozen degrees below that of freezing as it crossed the forested western foothills of the Thunderpeaks Mountains. The wind had been blowing all night, and as dawn came to a cloud-choked sky it showed no inclination to slow or stop its numbing caress; nothing, neither sentient creature nor animal would stir from its shelter on such a cheerless day if any other option existed.
The clearings around the Tribal Goblin kanketa, or village, known as Niou Ureyki gave the wind space to work with, snatching up snow from the frozen furrows that had been gardens and farm plots last summer and swirling them into stinging flurries that danced across the open ground like fat, slow dust-devils, slapping at the squat log huts and woven-stick goat pens of the Goblin encampment like invisible hands, adding new layers to the boot- and urine- scarred drifts that gathered at every wall and post.
Niou Ureyki (Shining Creek) consisted of fifty or so single-level log huts, each sunk two or three feet into the soil for warmth, a long house-style johat (a combination of chieftain’s hall, religious shrine, and armory), a dozen outbuildings, several goat pens, and a timber watch tower whose sentry platform stood a dozen feet higher than the tallest tree in the area, all enclosed by a circular defensive ditch and stake-belt, both of which were buried by the snow and indifferently maintained. Mixed in with these were also forty or so abandoned huts and attendant outbuildings and pens, sure proof of a declining population. The kanketa sat in the center of a square-ish clearing carved out of the forest over the decades the Goblins had lived here, the cleared ground amounting to roughly seventy acres devoted to crops or gardens. The creek which gave the place its name slashed through the clearing running from the east to the west, a fast-moving strip of water now ankle deep and rimmed with ice, passing within twenty feet of the village’s scanty northern defensive works. Roughly three hundred Goblins of both sexes and all ages lived here, members of the Purple Spider Keiba, or tribe-nation, along with twenty slaves and nearly two hundred goats, plus dogs, ducks, and chickens.
Stifling a gasp as the wind cut through the blanket she had draped about her shoulders and the two ragged dresses she wore underneath (and which represented her entire wardrobe of outer garments), Osa hurriedly crawled out the hatch-like door of her owner’s hut and dragged the portal closed. Pausing to bang her rag-wrapped hands together in an attempt to warm them, the young Human woman surveyed the cloud-filled skies and the black line of trees at the clearing’s edge, just barely visible in the grayness of dawn, with eyes devoid of hope. A slave of the Goblins since her capture from a river boat seven years ago, Osa had long since learned that freedom was a dream without a hope of fulfillment; while the kanketa lay well south of the Emperor’s Ward, the line that marked the north border of the Eisenalder Empire, and thus was technically within Human lands, the fact of the matter was there was thirty-five miles of trackless, Goblin-controlled forest between herself and the nearest Human settlement, a small community called Hohenfels, a distance that might as well have been three hundred for all the good it did her. The Purple Spider claimed all the lands to the east of the Burgen River, and although they could no longer enforce that claim throughout all of the area in question, they could still control most of it. Should she flee this frigid morning, she would be tracked down and recaptured by noon.
Gathering the yoke and buckets from the open-sided lean-to attached to the side of the hut, she made her way along the rutted, frozen paths that ran between the huts and served the kanketa as streets, her worn, thin body shaking from the cold. Although not far past her twenty-fifth birthday, Osa walked with a stoop and gray was fast overcoming her lice-infested blonde tresses as the toll of years of back-breaking labor, abuse, and hopelessness took their toll.
The Goblin sentries assigned to the tower had long since quit their lofty perch and were huddled around a charcoal fire with the two assigned to the north gate, she saw as she picked her way across the frozen ground, the weight of the yoke already breaking open the infected sores across her neck and shoulders, the legacy of hundreds of hours carrying a load-yoke. None of the warriors looked up as she approached, but she kept her eyes safely downcast just in case: the Goblins did not care for slaves who looked them squarely in the face, all the more so as most of their Human slaves were taller than themselves, the average Goblin male standing five feet. She had seen more than enough forest Goblins, anyhow: rangy, hairless humanoids with wood-brown skin, oddly-rounded skulls, forward-pointing fox ears, bat snouts, and mouths full of round, sharply-pointed fangs, their wizened features always radiating an implacable, humor-filled maliciousness. Her one joy in life as a slave had been watching Odular, or patrols, and war-parties returning to the kanketa with fewer Goblins than they had set out with; the Purple Spider was under terrible pressure from the Imperial Army and the local Militias, as well as the encroachment of Human farmers, timber-cutters, trappers, and prospectors, and its fighting strength had been eroding away since the Empire had expanded the Ward to its present position ninety-odd years ago.
Stopping a respectful two paces short of the group, she lifted the yoke off her throbbing shoulders with her hands. “Water detail,” she said in Ganjon, the language of the Goblins. “Permission to go to the stream?” None of the four moved; that was good, she felt: hopefully they were too cold to bother with raping or beating her to pass the time left in their watch.
Suddenly the yoke was snatched from her hands from behind and a strong arm came around her, lifting her off the ground with both arms pinned to her sides; a hand wearing a fingerless leather glove that smelled of some sort of mineral oil clamped over her mouth. “Quiet girl, don’t make a sound.” It took her a stunned moment to realize that she had been picked up off the ground by someone far taller than any Goblin she had ever seen, and that the words in her ear were spoken in Pradian, the language of the Empire, by a Human male. ‘Rescue’, she thought dazedly, noticing as she was carried bodily into the lee of a hut that the steam rising from each of the four Goblins was not from their breath, but rather was from wounds, their corpses propped up to conceal their demise.
Her captor set her back on her feet in the scant shelter afforded by a ruined hut’s wall, keeping the hand on her mouth; before her stood a male Dwarf of mature years, his walnut beard plaited into long braids. He wore breast-and-back plate armor and was leaning on a ornately engraved long axe, a loose bleached linen tunic and leggings worn over his outer garments, with a matching thin scarf wound around his helm and neck in such a manner that it could be pulled up over his face. Camouflage, Osa realized: snow-colorings to hide him.
“Easy, lass, we’re friendly, at least to you,” the Dwarf smiled, speaking Pradian without an accent. “We’re here to settle a score with the Purple Spider. Will you help us?”
Osa nodded, too choked by desperate hope to speak.
“Good; now, we’ll take you to safety and see you returned to the Empire with new clothes and some money to start your life anew, but first we’ve Goblins to kill. How many sentries are there?”
The hand was
removed from her mouth. “Si-six, sir, six sentries, two each at the gates and two more on the tower, only they must’ve come down to warm themselves.” She waved at the bodies.
“Good. By the by, I am Captain Durek Toolsmaster, commander of the Phantom Badgers, a mercenary company which has debts to settle with the Purple Spider for a raid they made last summer into our steading; we’ve an Imperial Charter to establish a colony northeast of here, and your masters decided to bugger about in our territory.” The mercenary produced a sheet of paper. “This is a map of the village, as best we can make out; we’re here, right now.” A calloused finger indicated a point on the drawing. “What can you tell me about the Goblin’s fighting strengths?”
Swallowing burning tears, Osa pointed out huts and reported their occupants as more white-clad figures gathered around, giddy from terror and hope, dazed at the sudden, radical change in her fortunes. Suddenly, life might hold some meaning for her, some bit of hope after so many years of abject hopelessness.
Durek Toolsmaster gestured for Rolf to take the slave-girl to the charcoal fire the Goblin sentries didn’t need any more, a frown on concentration on his face. “Right, then, pretty much as we have expected.”
Serjeant Janna Maidenwalk knelt in the snow to get a better look at the notes added to the map, a tall, not unhandsome woman a year short of forty whose facial features and voice were marred by a thick scar that angled from above her left eye, across her flattened nose to the right jaw-hinge, the legacy of a Fortren’s axe years past; a few strands of red hair escaped her wool cap and fluttered in the cold wind (Janna wore no helm, as an enchanted brass torc she wore conferred the same protection without the hindering weight). “I’ll shift Elonia’s squad further east and Silver Troop will be ready to begin.” The scarred Serjeant was calm in the face of impending action, as could be expected from a woman who, besides being one of the Founding members of the Company, was a retired member of the Silver Eagles, the elite temple warriors of the grim goddess Beythar, mistress of virtue, defense of the weak, and the arts of war.
“Good; Blue Troop ought to be in position by now,” Durek nodded. “Start as soon as you’re ready.” The Phantom Badgers, sixty warriors and one apprentice strong on this field, were split into two troops, a command group, and a rear guard for this raid; Janna commanded Silver Troop, consisting of herself and four squads of eleven Badgers each; Serjeant Arian Thyben commanded Blue Troop, which consisted of himself and eight Badgers; the rear guard was two Badgers guarding their pack animals a safe distance from the kanketa, and the command group consisted of Durek, Lieutenant Axel Uldo (who was also the Company’s primary Wizard), his apprentice Picken Weedholar, Serjeant Bridget Iola Uldo (the Company’s primary Healer and Axel’s wife), and the Company Standard-bearer. Silver Troop, supported by the command group, was to attack into the center of the village while Blue Troop lay in hiding outside the southeast gate to ambush the Goblins fleeing Silver troop; it was a simple and brutal plan, and so far everything was going well.
Corporal Maxmillian von Sheer IV was sweating under his heavy clothing and armor, but it was tension, not over-dressing that was making him perspire. This was his first action as a Corporal; in fact, Durek had only activated the rank and promoted Maxmillian and six others to that position last fall. The fighting held scant terror for him: in the two years he had served with the Company Maxmillian had fought everything from Undead warriors to Direbreed, but this was the first time he had been in command of anything. The husky Company Historian (the first to hold that office) was a balding man of thirty-eight years who still looked like the University archivist he had been for nearly all of his adult life; the sudden death of his wife left him rootless and well-to-do, and he had headed off to the Border Realms to gather research material on two books he planned to write, taking a mercenary escort hired from the Phantom Badgers along as security. One thing had led to another until here he was, leading a squad of ten mercenaries in the heart of a Goblin kanketa. How it had come to such a point was difficult for him to explain, even to himself.
He had a hastily sketched map of the kanketa, with huts circled in red as his squad’s responsibility; he had three such huts targeted, each with three Badgers waiting outside the odd little hatch-doors for his signal, and the tenth Badger on sentry. Settling his iron-rimmed shield more securely on his left arm, Maxmillian took a couple practice swings with his oak and steel war hammer, feeling the strength of the enchantment that bound the weapon humming in his wrist bones like a happily dozing bee. Under Company rules the hammer actually belonged to the Badgers, but since he had carried it since they had plundered it from a Direthrell treasure house he thought of it as his own.
A high, faint whistle echoed through the kanketa; instantly Maxmillian slapped the front of his shield with his hammer to alert his Badgers. “Right, have at ‘em, lads.” The trios each ripped open the hatch-like doors and stormed into the huts, killing any Goblin they found. The crashing of forced doors, war-cries, and screams of dying Goblins erupted all around as Silver troop went into action. In the dim, smoky huts no quarter was given nor asked, and no Goblin, be it warrior, female, or child would be spared; over the centuries of conflict between Man and Goblin the rules of war had simplified to the stark concept of genocide.
The hatch beside him was unbarred from the inside; leaning back against the wall of the hut, Maxmillian hefted his hammer, waiting, as a Goblin jugata, or foot-warrior, clad only in a light shirt and breeches leaned out, spear in hand, to see what was causing the racket. When the rounded pate was fully outside the door frame the historian stove in the jugata’s brain-pan with a mighty stroke of his hammer and grabbed the Goblin’s collar with his other hand, jerking the convulsing corpse free of the shallow doorway. With his sentry close behind, the Corporal charged into the dark, odor-rich hut, and immediately found himself face-to-face with a second jugata who led with a mighty two-handed swing of his spiked club. Catching the blow on his shield, Maxmillian dropped his hammer as too clumsy in these quarters and drew his sword while the sentry speared a Goblin female who lunged at him with a butcher knife.
Another blow jolted off his shield as Maxmillian thrust, driving the blade of his broadsword (which was made of a lightweight Dwarven steel called Risarn, smelted from sky-rocks) into the Goblin’s left thigh. His opponent was game, however: although his leg was ripped open the jugata simply shifted his weight and tried to get past the Badger’s shield with another swing. Maxmillian parried the blow and ended the unequal struggle with a thrust to the Goblin’s unarmored belly, running the point of his sword through the fallen jugata’s throat to make sure the fight was finished while his fellow Badger set about killing the other female and the three young Goblins huddled at the back of the hut.
Wiping off the blade of his sword on a handy blanket, the light from the door reflecting redly on the ruby chips that were the eyes of the griffin-hilted pommel (the sword had once been the property of a Arturian noble who had died leading a punitive expedition the Badgers had been part of; the mercenaries had seen no point in burying such a fine weapon) Maxmillian tried to ignore the young Goblin’s screams; he knew that little Goblins grew up to be jugata, but his stomach didn’t acknowledge that. Sheathing his sword, he recovered his hammer and headed back into the fresh air outside.
Janna’s orders to her squad leaders had been explicit: no Corporal was to go into the initial huts assaulted, instead staying outside to deal with any Goblins who emerged from their huts, and ready to direct the teams to the next huts to be stormed; Rolf Lightseeker had been unhappy with this command, as it grated against Durek’s long-standing instructions (and personal example) that a leader led, and that from the front, but he obeyed the order as he did every command, deploying his men around three huts, with himself and a sentry in reserve. Although just as new to leadership as Maxmillian, the big half-Orc was far less self-conscious in the position than was the historian, mainly because just as it was inconceivable for him to disobey an order, s
o it was unthinkable that one of his men would disobey a lawfully-appointed Corporal. It never occurred to him that hulking half-Orcs who stood a palm’s width over six feet and were nearly as strong as two average men seldom had problems with obedience from their subordinates. That the tall half-breed was popular with all he served with was an added feature, as was his obvious prowess as a warrior; although his heavy bone structure, and hairless olive skin combined to give him a look of brooding brutality, Rolf’s childlike amber eyes gave solid evidence of what, as all who knew him were aware, was essentially a gentle soul.
The product of rape, as were all half-Orcs born in Human lands, Rolf had been raised by his loving mother to obey the law and serve the Eight, to do no evil and be truthful at all times; despite a grim childhood after her death, and eight years spent lost in an abandoned Dwarven city (culminating in his rescue by the Badgers, who were in the hold on other business), Rolf clung to his mother’s teaching with all his might. The slaughter of the Goblins bothered him not at all: just as a snake killed in the egg was one less snake to deal with in the future, so it went with young Goblins; as with most half-Orcs raised in Human care, Rolf hated Orcs and their cousins the Goblins with an especial ferocity.
The burly Badger recognized his Serjeant’s wisdom as the raid got underway, and filed the information under lessons learned; once they had launched their attack, the noise quickly roused the kanketa, which soon swarmed with Goblins like a kicked anthill. By remaining outside and uninvolved, Rolf was in a position to form and direct his squad as they emerged from their bloody business in the first three huts. Once the fact of the raid had been established, jugata spilled out of their huts with what weapons were handy in order to cover the retreat of the Goblin females, who grabbed up the children and elders and retreated to the central johat which served the kanketa as a natural rallying point.