Dark Practices: Book Four of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  Discarding the blood-filled waterskin Starr leapt to her feet and raced off to her left, circling around the fight to some thirty yards to the Goblin’s rear where she sprang into the lower branches of an elm she had chosen when they were setting up the ambush. Settling herself on a strong limb that gave her a good field of fire, the little Badger began to ply her deadly bow, aiming for Goblins who bore leader’s insignia by preference, although in the wild melee it was often difficult to tell.

  Nimbly side-stepping a glaive’s slash, Kroh stepped in with a mighty but controlled swing, nearly severing the Goblin’s head. Booting the dying jugata deeper into the ranks of its fellows where its dying convulsions and fountaining blood would unnerve and distract those Goblins still alive and fighting, the Waybrother guided to his left and chopped a spear-wielding jugata’s leg off at the knee as it tried to get its weapon’s point over another Badger’s shield, decapitating the Goblin after it fell. All around him the battle raged, the Badger’s superior armor and organization taking a terrible toll of their smaller foes.

  Their leader dead, their ranks hopelessly disrupted, enemies pressing in on three sides and arrows coming in from the fourth, the Goblins had no choice but to break and flee, and those that survived the initial rush of the ambushers wasted no time in doing so, hoping to put enough distance between themselves and their more heavily armored enemies to allow themselves time to regroup. Not surprisingly, the Badgers wreaked havoc upon them for the first few seconds of the flight, but a Goblin is as fast on its feet as a Human, perhaps even faster, and certainly faster if the Human is in chainmail or breast-and-back armor and the Goblin is not.

  She saw the Goblins break and race down their back trail, losing a half-dozen of their number to the polearms, axes, and swords of the Badgers before they out-distanced the ambushers. Nocking another arrow, Starr picked off the last yasama, the impact of the arrow spinning the Goblin around and sending him crashing into a tree trunk with enough force to smash his snout. She paid no attention to the Goblins flashing past her tree on either side as she drew and fitted another shaft to her bow, eyes searching for a good target as she began her draw. A spear-point glanced off her armored back and struck the tree trunk beside her, knocking her off-balance and wringing a shocked scream from her lips, the arrow falling uselessly from her bow as a bracing foot slipped and the little Threll tumbled to the ground. She had enough presence of mind to throw her bow from her and kick the trunk as she fell, breaking the momentum of the drop.

  Her landing wasn’t too painful, but hardly had she made impact with the littered forest floor when a running Goblin tripped over her, the impact of his booted foot into her armored side breaking two of his toes and knocking out what air she had left in her lungs of in a painful wuff. Dazed and hurting, her lungs burning with their desperate need for oxygen, Starr desperately rolled in the direction she thought was the way the Goblins were running, the side the spear attack that had dislodged her from her tree had come from.

  Luck was with her: a spear-blade sliced the leather outer cover of her lattice armor across the back and drove onward deep into the moldy dirt as she crashed into the wielder’s legs, bringing the jugata down on top of her. Instantly the two were entangled in a screaming, biting, kicking, wildly pummeling mass of limbs that rolled across the ground until they fetched up against the roots and lower trunk of a tall straight pine.

  The Goblin ended up sitting a-straddle her torso, with his right hand gripping a handful of blonde hair and the left trapped by Starr who had two fingers gripped tightly in her right hand, trying desperately to get to her belt dagger with her left. The two struggled madly for several seconds before it occurred to the Goblin to let go of the Threll’s hair and draw his small axe from his belt; the instant her hair was released Starr quit trying to reach over the leg clamped around her ribs and instead grabbed half the steel hair-ring that held her hair in place. Thumbing a small catch, she twisted and pulled; the main body of the ring remained in her hair holding the bun in place, while she ended up holding a slightly curved metal bar in her hand with a wickedly pointed steel spike thrusting out from between her second and third fingers.

  Jerking her head to the side as the axe swung down, she drove the steel point of the spike-dagger into the Goblin’s thigh, the point slipping through the creature’s clean, well-made cotton trousers and deep into the leg. The axe buried itself into the dirt as the wielder yelled in surprise and pain; ripping it free as Starr stabbed his leg again and again, the Goblin swung it downward at his thrashing foe with all the strength in his arm. Starr screamed as a lance of pain tore through her right ear, arching her body in a spasm of pain that nearly bucked her opponent off of her; raising her aim, she stabbed the Goblin in the belly, only to have the point of her bloody push-dagger hang up in the cord-armor tunic the creature was wearing, a shirt made of thousands of strands of tightly-wound goat-hair string bound together into interwoven layers. Sobbing from the pain as blood poured into her hair, she stabbed the Goblin’s thigh again and rocked the point back and forth in desperation as the bloody small axe rose for another blow.

  With a shrill shriek, the Goblin thrashed as the steel point of Starr’s weapon grated across his thigh bone, the axe momentarily forgotten, then sagged sideways, his screams dying as abruptly as he had, his head landing a good twenty feet from his still erect torso.

  Grabbing the corpse’s collar as a second pulse of blue-gray blood fountained upwards, Kroh jerked the body off the little Badger, tossing the Goblin’s remains a good ten feet with one tattooed hand. Kneeling beside her as Rolf shouted orders, deploying the rest of the ambush into a defensive circle, the Dwarf ripped a bandage from his pouch and stripped off the wax paper that kept it clean. “Hold still, little one, you’re hurt.”

  “How bad is it?” Starr gasped, still out of breath and dazed at the sudden end to the fight.

  “Oh, your ear’s half off and bleeding bad, here, hold still.” Scowling in concentration, the Dwarf positioned the ear against the side of her head as best he could and bandaged it into place. “What happened to your torc?”

  “Must have lost it when I fell out of the tree,” Starr muttered, growing a bit dizzy from the pain. “How bad is it, Kroh?”

  “Not too bad, it’s cut alongside your head, the top half of your ear isn’t attached anymore, flopping loose like a beagle’s,” Kroh advised her as he bound another bandage to her ear. “Rolf, look for her torc. You see, that’s why I stick with an honest Dwarven-forged steel helm rather than all these enchanted knick-knacks: it stays where it ought to.”

  “I don’t look like a beagle,” Starr snapped, then softened. “This makes twice you’ve saved my life, Kroh.”

  “Don’t know about that,” the Waybrother muttered, obviously embarrassed. “You had that sticker in him, odds are you would’ve pulled through on your own. Anyway, it’s best we get out of here in case there’s more Goblins about.” He levered himself erect with his axe. “Rolf, good, you’ve got her torc, useless damn trinket that it is. Carry her ‘till she gets her wind back, you and you, go with Rolf back to camp. You, you, and you, gather weapons, and you two start cutting ears, there’s no point in passing up bounty money. You there, give me a hand and we’ll get a few heads up on spear-shafts to remind the bastards who did this.” Kroh clapped his hands together with a look of satisfaction on his face. “A good bit of Goblin-butchering, done well and proper, we have. Ought to be ale all around when we get back to camp.”

  “There,” Bridget gave the pointed ear a playful tug, wringing a yelp from the bloody little Threll. “Good as new, and not a mark that’ll show in a week. Who’s next?”

  Durek counted the Goblin ears hanging on the loop of leather cord again and grinned. “Nineteen Goblins including six scouts, and all for six wounded, none seriously, fine work lads and lasses, fine work indeed. This ought to give the Spider something to think about.”

  “Yep, they’ll be thinking ‘time to send more Goblins in’,” Kroh
predicted happily. “We’ll be fighting all summer, we will.”

  “My word, what a bloody crew,” Yvonne von der Jabs exclaimed as she bustled up. “You all look as if you’ve been rolling in an abattoir.”

  “Melee combat tends to be very close quarter, and very messy,” the Captain explained, holding up the string of ears. “But in this case, very successful.”

  “What are those?” Yvonne frowned at the cord.

  “Ears,” Herbet advised her.

  “Ears? But whose...ohh dear me, yes, for the bounty the government pays.” The large noblewoman gingerly took the cord and examined the bits of flesh strung on it. “How dreadful, but I suppose you cannot afford to pass up the rightful fruits of your victory, eh? One, two three,... nineteen of the ghastly little beggars, eh? Seems a good day’s work all around. Oh me, I hope none of your people were injured, Captain.”

  “None that can’t be Healed, although Corporal Brightgift here had one ear nearly cut off,” Durek took the ears back. “My patrol lured them into an ambush using an ancient trick, but a good one; the Spider will be more careful next time. This won’t be our last fight of the summer.”

  “Well, I must say, good show,” Yvonne stared at the bloody patrol members as Arian and Bridget Healed the last of the wounded. “I certainly didn’t...I mean, we knew you would have to fight, but I hadn’t thought...”

  “Your command acquitted itself well, Captain.” Herbet’s voice was as unemotional as always. “My wife and I thank you and your troops, and will take our leave now so you can attend to your duties.”

  “They’re an odd couple,” Bridget observed as she washed her hands. “But nice enough people.”

  “That’s true, and while we’re an odd bunch,” her Captain nodded. “I wouldn’t describe us as nice”

  Chapter Nine

  “Here it is,” Tonya pointed with her chin towards a small shop whose boarded up display window had ‘Gerhard Stotz, Leather Work’ crudely painted in sun-faded blue letters on the whitewashed boards. “Not much to look at, is it?”

  “No,” Philip agreed. “Still, we can leave no stone unturned.”

  “He ought to be it by process of elimination, if nothing else,” Tonya shook her head. “Elonia and Maxmillian meet a cultist within four days of arriving, and here we’ve spent twelve days wearing out our shoes for nothing.”

  The two had arrived in town in the afternoon of the same day Elonia, Maxmillian, and Pug had, getting a room at the White Lion inn and settling in. From the very start the two knew that they were on the trail of an extremely long shot: to find who had made the fake Phantom Badger insignia, and that without even having seen the fake badge itself. Both Badgers, however, were determined to give it their best efforts, and after two days of familiarizing themselves with the leather industry in Teasau they had set out on their investigation. The assumptions they based their approach upon were threefold: first, that the leather worker who made the badge was trusted by the cult or an affiliate of it, as they would not have had much time to go outside of Teasau for it; secondly, such a leather worker would be a single craftsman or a very small shop, as secrecy was a vital issue in this matter; thirdly, the worker was skilled with the use of enamel inlays and an excellent if not master craftsman, based on the description of the badge.

  So after buying and selling enough leather goods to establish themselves as legitimate merchants within their field, the pair, by various sources, compiled a list of craftsmen or small shops of good or better quality who were said to be skilled with enamel inlays. They arranged the list by the frequency the worker was known to use inlays, and then visited each shop. It was long and tedious work, as one could not simply come and say, ‘Did you happen to have an order for this type of badge a few weeks ago ?’ They were down to three names left, all subjects who, from what they could determine, were less likely than most, but were still a possibility.

  “What do we have on him?” Philip asked, brushing dust from his trouser legs and mentally preparing himself for yet another deception.

  “Not much, which is why I put him two up from dead last: he sticks to himself, does very fine work which includes inlays, father was a boot maker and in fact Stotz still does make boots on occasion. From what we could learn, he does most of his work for travelling merchants who go for specialty, art-type items such as decorated belts, scabbards, that sort of thing.”

  “Tough to make a living that way,” Philip observed. “Although to judge from the outside of his shop, he isn’t making much of a living.”

  “Here we go,” Tonya took a deep breath and composed herself, then rapped on the door.

  The man who opened the door was in his late twenties with a sallow complexion and hands so deeply stained with dye and leather oils that they were a mottled gray-blue color; shaggy, unwashed hair framed an unshaved face that displayed equal amounts of cunning and irritation. “What is it?” The words were snapped in an annoyed fashion, but his face immediately softened at the sight of the tall Badger standard bearer.

  Tonya gave him her best smile and tapped Philip’s foot with her heel; by now their signals had become highly developed. “Good morning to you, sir; I am Tera Marn, and this is my husband Peter; we are dealers in leather art work, and were advised that for fine work we should seek you out.” She kept her voice low and seductive, and let her eyes walk over the leather worker. “That is, if you are the master leather crafter Gerhard Stotz?”

  “I am,” Stotz was clearly torn between attraction for the woman before him and an instinct towards rudeness. “But I only do custom work for established customers.”

  “A pity,” Tonya pouted while Philip quietly eased a step to the side to avoid distracting Stotz. “Still, perhaps you could advise us as how best to seek out craftsmen of quality in Teasau, as I’ve never been here before.” One hand idly toyed with the fringe of her shawl, twisting the fine threads around her finger while the other twirled her parasol. “Naturally, I could make it worth your while.”

  “Yes, I suppose I could be of service,” Gerhard nodded. “That shouldn’t be...anyway, come on in, I’ve a kettle on, and something stronger if you like.”

  The front room of the little shop was used as an office by Gerhard, containing a drawing board with an adjustable surface, a battered desk whose top was covered with papers, a sideboard with a selection of dusty bottles and stacked glasses, two chairs, a stove which was only lit to keep a kettle warm, and a bookcase stacked with books, manuscripts, writing supplies, loose papers, bits of leather, tools, and sundry other items; the overall impression was one of immense disarray, the work area of a man who was unconcerned with tidiness or details. The room was well-lit by two large glass skylights that obviously cost a great deal, and Philip noted that the lock on the front door was an expensive one.

  “If I might borrow your privy...”

  Gerhard waved to the door opposite the one they had come in through. “Out through the workroom and left into the alley. Mind your step in the workroom, the light’s poor.”

  It was more than poor, it was nearly nonexistent: only a small candle burned in the room which took up the rest of the building, although a half-dozen large lamps hung unlit from the ceiling. After closing the door to the office behind him Philip pulled a short wood rod from inside his tunic. Touching the small multifaceted lump of crystal glued to the rod’s tip, he whispered a word and the crystal began to glow, providing him with enough light to work with but not enough to give him away. The rod was one of a box containing eight taken as loot by the team of Badgers who had raided the White Necromancer the year before, petty magic which would wear out after a finite time, but extremely useful nonetheless.

  The workshop was, if anything, more of a mess than the office, and Philip had a bad scare when the rod’s light revealed a Human form looming before him, but to his relief he saw that it was just a wooden manikin of the sort tailors used. The room was bordered by long workbenches littered with tools, uncut hides, partially cut hide
s, bits of leather scrap, spools of thread, rolls of leather cord, pots of dye and oils, buckles of all sizes, snaps, rivets, studs, pots of glue, clean brushes, used brushes, rags, empty mugs, a couple dried-out plates of food, and still more junk of all sorts. The walls were covered with tool racks and supplies shelves, most of which were empty as their contents were littering the work benches.

  Keenly aware that his time was very limited, Philip made a fast survey of the clutter, noting that there was no storage areas for finished goods, and in fact no finished goods were present. At the end of the workroom, near the stout, heavily-barred alley door he paused beside the cold stove and looked over a large rubbish-barrel which Stotz obviously hadn’t bothered to empty in a good long time. Poking through scraps of leather used to test dyes or paints, empty spools, decaying food, tea dregs, crumpled sheets of paper with sketches drawn on them, Philip came up with a small square of leather not much bigger than a playing card, blank on one side and bearing on the other a roughly scratched oval which contained a vague outline of some creature, obviously a rough draft of some design Stotz had done to get proportions right. Digging further produced nothing; dumping the debris back into the barrel Philip carefully examined the litter that surrounding the barrel, as apparently Stotz had poor aim. Under the handle of a broken awl Philip found a rough oval of leather with a snarling badger depicted in the attack carved into it in a fair hand; on the reverse was dabbed a row of colors, various hues of pale blue and silver, the Company colors.

  Careful returning the rough-draft badge to its original position and replacing the broken awl on top of it, Philip extinguished and stowed the light rod and went to find the privy for authenticity’s sake, dazed with the concept of success.

  “So, ah, you see, my art work is more in the line of personal pleasure items, for the entertainment of the sophisticated.” Gerhard nervously turned his tea cup back and forth on the desk in front of him.