Dark Path: Book Three of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  A worthy enough cause was found in the ranks of the Scarlet Raiders, a small mercenary band which eked out a living raiding Goblin burial mounds in the Thunderpeaks; the loot and Imperial bounties on Goblin ears kept the unit solvent and taught Rolf a great deal of the ways of the world. It also taught him that, like most of his ilk raised in Human society, he harbored a bone-deep hatred of all goblin-kind.

  The Scarlet Raiders fell prey to an inflated sense of their own competence, a common enough failing in any line of endeavor: they mounted a raid into an abandoned Dwarven city known for its opportunities for loot and for violent encounters with the Void-worshiping inhabitants. The Raiders were dispersed midway into their expedition by a Direbreed ambush, leaving Rolf deep within the hold without the capability of finding his way out.

  Eight years had passed; hard, bitter years filled with hiding, fear, and growing desperation. Alone in the dark a lesser mortal would have fallen, but Rolf, buoyed by the relentless drive to live that was a hallmark of his Orcen forebearers, survived; he wasted away to a mere shadow of himself, but he survived. For eight years his only hope to see the sun and surface again was to surrender himself to the Void-Followers who roamed the abandoned halls, and for eight years his mother's admonition that he serve the Eight and the Light, to do no evil, and to be brave held fast. Rolf was brave, and he did no evil; he followed his mother's teachings and held fast to his beliefs.

  Luck or the Eight caused a chance encounter with the Phantom Badgers, who were a-raiding in the ancient hold, and Starr's quick thinking and perceptive nature had bridged the gap between the mercenaries and the desperate, half-starved Rolf. Although it had entailed bitter combat the big half-Orc had accompanied the Badgers on their mission and onward to the surface and the sun's golden light. He stayed with the Company after reaching the surface, both out of gratitude and because he felt a need to belong to something, and the Phantom Badgers were a fine thing to belong to, in his opinion.

  After washing in the communal latrine, Rolf dressed in the dark, moving with practiced ease in his quarters, which were a simple room on the fourth floor of the wide granite tower. It was a small room, but Rolf was proud of it, having never before lived anywhere so fine. Moreover, he lived in the tower rather than in the wall-barracks; quarters in the former might be no better, but to be quartered in the tower was a sure sign of membership in the Company's inner circle. He had furnished the room with a bed built to his size, a table, two chairs, wardrobe, arms rack, and wicker cage for his trained cave rats. He dressed quickly, mindful of the furnishings; he might have been a shadow of himself when the Badgers had encountered him over three years ago, but he had filled out again, good food and hard work had coupled with Orcen ancestry to cover his massive bone structure with layer after layer of taut muscle. Never small, Rolf had arrived at what could only be described as an extra-heavyweight category of fighter, very nearly as strong as Kroh.

  An outsider looking in upon the spotlessly clean room would have described it as without a trace of personality, but it would have been a harsh judgment. Rolf had noted that other Badgers, especially the females, decorated their quarters, making them much more homelike and nice. He admired these touches greatly, and longed to do the same for his room, but had no idea on how to proceed. Visits to quarters other than Kroh's were rare events for the shy half-Orc, and thus offered little in the way of inspiration. He had sanded and stained the rough, iron-bound shutters that covered the archer's port that served his room as a window, and polished up the metalwork, but was at a loss beyond this rather basic step.

  Strapping on the belt that supported two good Dwarven dirks he wore, Rolf paused before the weapons rack, thinking; his felt-muffled breast-and-back armor, war helm, and crossbow would remain behind of course, but it was a granite-hard Company rule that outside of their quarters all Badgers bore at least a secondary weapon, and that none ventured from the Hold without their primary arm. After a moment's consideration Rolf scooped the enchanted great sword Moonblade from its pegs and hung it across his back. He might want to go outside the walls.

  On the landing outside his room he listened intently outside Kroh's door, hoping the Dwarf would be awake, but the sound of grating snores was clearly audible. It always struck Rolf that Kroh only snored when in Oramere or other safe areas, never in the field; it was as if the Waybrother was deliberately being obnoxious even in his sleep. The three other quarters on this floor were Maxmillian's, who would certainly be asleep, Henri’s, and a room reserved for guests; the latter had initially been Arian's, but when the Monk had been promoted to serjeant he and Janna had taken up joint quarters in a room on the second floor that had belonged to Dimitri. Rolf gave Kroh's door an experimental rap with his elbow, but the snoring did not falter. Shrugging, the burly Badger made his way down the circular stairway that filled the center of the landing.

  Passing through the center of the third floor, he passed the quarters for Durek (double-sized, as befits his rank), Elonia Starshine's, and two empty quarters, the latter two having belonged to Roger and Johann, both having been killed last fall. Seeing Johann’s door gave the big Badger a pang of sadness: Johann had loaned Rolf a book once, being an educated man; Rolf could read and do sums, and was justifiably proud of this accomplishment, but was keenly in awe of real learning.

  Durek's quarters, Rolf reflected as he trudged downward, were no real help in his quest for decoration: he had been in them several times, either delivering messages or having the odd chat, and if anything the Captain had less decoration than Rolf did. Elonia's was not much better, being furnished in a simple but very elegant style that Rolf admired but couldn't really comprehend.

  The second floor housed Axel and Bridget in a double-sized room, Gottri Gravel-breaker, one empty room, and quarters shared by Arian Thyben and Janna Maidenwalk,. The thought of the number of couples on this floor brought a faint blush to Rolf's olive complexion, and he picked up his pace, keeping his eyes on the stone steps. Besides being sterile (like all half-breeds), Rolf was completely inexperienced in the realm of physical encounters and thus, like many a maiden aunt, was easily unnerved by the thought of them. The second floor made him nervous, what with one married couple and one, well, engaged, if not betrothed, couple living on it. Rolf had his rats, his friends Starr and Kroh, and his chums in the ranks, and that was all the contact he needed. This other business was just too much complication for a straightforward lad such as himself, he reflected. He always picked up his pace when passing through the second floor, and unconsciously hummed to prevent the awful embarrassment of overhearing something, well, intimate.

  On the ground floor he had three choices: doorways led to the entrance hall, main dining hall, and kitchen area; luck was with him, for light was showing under the portal leading to the latter.

  Though the sun had yet to rise the kitchen was a warm, friendly place, albeit dimly lit by the banked main hearth and two candles. Rosemary Schack looked up as he entered, a pert, plump former farm girl who had learned her cook’s trade while feeding the lumber mill crew her first husband had led as a foreman; after a broken blade-frame had left her a widow she had taken service in a merchant’s household until her marriage to a now-retired Badger brought her to Oramere, where she acted as the Badger's chief cook and custodian. Rosemary was perched on a tall stool in the center of the room studying a row of figures on a small chalkboard, absently patting at her honey-yellow bun with a flour-flecked hand; the cook, just four years married for the second time and not yet forty, was in charge of the meals served in Oramere, the cleaning, laundry, and the eight orphans the Badgers had rescued in the same raid that had liberated Rolf. The children earned their keep by working in the kitchens and performing general housekeeping, aided by details drawn from the Company as needed.

  Rosemary ran her establishment with the easygoing ways of a veteran top serjeant, and oversaw her young charges with the same careless abandon that a mother bear extends to her cubs. Despite a fine touch at the hearth a
nd baking pan she was not over-popular with the rank and file (generally called ‘rankers’ within the Company) of the Badgers due to the toughness of the kitchen details and the sharp edge of her tongue when crossed; indeed, assignment to a week's kitchen duty was a common punishment for the fighting men and women of the Phantom Badgers. Of all in the Hold only Janna Maidenwalk intimidated Rosemary, (which was hardly exceptional as Janna intimidated almost everybody, and was even treated with some respect by Kroh), and only Rolf and Kroh met with her unquestioned approval. Rolf was obvious, of course: his gentle nature tended to bring out the maternal nature in any woman not intimidated by his appearance, but Kroh was a difficult case to understand; various explanations were offered for this situation, but none presented so far seemed to be more apt than the observation that there was no accounting for taste.

  The cook was not alone, Rolf saw: Picken was dozing on a bench, apparently between chores, while Alicia was stirring something fairly liquid in a big bowl which she held on a table top, sleeves rolled and thin twelve-year-old arms straining. Young voices drifted in from an open pantry door followed by the rattling thud that is associated with a sack of potatoes.

  "Well, good morning, Rolf!" Rosemary exclaimed, the force she put into everyday conversation cutting through the room's silence like a knife, bringing Picken awake and stretching. "My, aren't you the silent one this morning! Hungry? Sunny!" The name popped like a verbal bullwhip. A rather plain girl in the first hesitant stages of womanhood looked out of the cold closet, her plain features made lovely by a half-smile that turned radiant at the sight of Rolf. "Sunny, fix Rolf a basket of bread and a cruet of buttermilk, he's just got up and is no doubt famished, poor duck."

  Sunny set about her task with a will; Sunny was her nickname, both for her smile and disposition, as her real name remained a mystery. The girl was mute, and illiterate when she was rescued, although Rosemary had corrected that shortcoming in each of her charges with the same glad enthusiasm as an armsmaster teaching spear drill to recruits. All that Sunny could provide was that she was Arturian and her parents were farmers, but she could not recall any names. Bridget and Arian had examined her, and agreed that she had been mute at birth; why she was unable to tell them more was put down to the horrors of her experiences before being rescued.

  "By the Eight, it's a right solid effort this morning," Rosemary sighed with gusto, banging a spoon around in her tea cup. "Picken, fetch another load for the hearth, and then start a two-inch charcoal fire in the number three warming oven, there's a good lad. Alicia, how is that applesauce coming? Lively lass, lively." She blew a stray lock of hair from her eyes. "What with the main body of the Company up early, leaving right after dawn for the field, not to be seen for months on end, why, it's just putting this whole kitchen topsy-turvy. There's a good heavy hot breakfast for thirty-seven early, with the rest fed at the normal time, one meal cold for thirty-seven for today's midday, then a packed breakfast for thirty-seven for tomorrow morning, plus biscuits, cookies, and sweetmeats to last them for the first week or so...well, it just wants a great deal of doing, and me with just eight tired children, Picken do be careful with the bits of bark, and of course the Captain can't spare me a body as they're all to be off for the fighting this very morning and need their sleep, the poor dears."

  Rolf had to remind himself of the usual terms Rosemary reserved for the 'poor dears' that made up the main body of the Phantom Badgers, especially those who expressed any sort of interest in Sunny or the older girls in her charge. The emotion in Rosemary's voice was real, however: she saw people in terms of healthy appetites, and the idea that a number might leave and never return was obviously distressing her.

  "They'll take field rations, lots of them," he offered diffidently. "You don't have to fix them lunch or tomorrow breakfast."

  "Of course I do," Rosemary huffed, professional pride challenged. "Can't have them marching off into battle on dried food straightaway, now can I? It'll put them off their mark, keep them from doing...well, whatever it is you do to win battles, anyway. And the Light only knows what kind of cooking they'll be finding in those southern towns they pass through, frying in old grease and I shouldn't wonder. No, it doesn't do but to start a trip out properly, I always say."

  Rolf agreed sagely as Sunny glowingly presented him with a bundle neatly wrapped in a clean napkin. Although Rosemary had never been more than twenty miles from her home farm until her first husband brought her to the lumber camp, and since coming to Oramere had gone no further than Badgerhof, and that once a month at best, her views on the culinary horrors of travel were unshakable, as was the belief that the Badgers would be embroiled in hand-to-hand combat before completing their first day's march from their Hold.

  "And there you are, m'lad, a little something to keep you until breakfast. Now run along, dear; we've far too much to be done to have onlookers cluttering up the kitchen. Picken, watch so you don't spill charcoal dust on my clean floor. Sunny, have you finished breaking up the butter blocks? Well, step lively girl, and then fetch the eggs; we'll need a hundred good big ones at first. Alicia..."

  Rolf fished a thickly buttered slab of bread from his bundle as he wandered through the dark entrance hall and out into the night. And night it still was, with not a glimmer of gray to the east. The big Badger paused to let his amber eyes adjust to the darkness; thanks to his Orcen forebearers, his eyes were about twice as sharp as a Human's in low light. When structures and trees began to swim into a fuzzy gray focus in the thin starlight he moved off, working at his bread and buttermilk.

  Oramere was a square bound by neatly dressed ten-foot granite walls a hundred yards on a side, the tower rising from the exact center. In daylight new settlers, used to the massive Imperial fortifications erected by an Empire with limitless manpower, often expressed dismay at the stubby little fort, but veterans never did. Located on a low hill with plenty of cleared ground, Oramere would be a tough nut for any force less than half a thousand, and no walk in the sun for twice that number.

  "Halt," the voice was low, careful, and pitched so as to not carry outside the walls and give the sentry away.

  "Rolf Lightseeker," the big half-Orc replied in the same tone, and saw Pug lower his crossbow. One sentry was posted on each wall; Rolf had picked the east simply because that was the direction the tower entrance faced. "Are you the last watch?"

  "Yep."

  "I'll relieve you, if you like," Rolf offered, stepping up on the timber catwalk. "I'll need your crossbow."

  "Nothing to report," Pug handed over the cocked weapon and unslung the quiver before marching off into the darkness. The stubby ex-halbardier was, by common agreement, the most taciturn in the history of the Badgers, including Janna.

  Slinging the quiver, Rolf stepped off the length of his post in the proscribed manner. He enjoyed guard duty on the walls; there was something special about walking a post while the world slept, guarding your friends while they rested. He often took the duty despite the fact that as a Full member of the Company he was only rarely assigned it by Janna, who was charged with sentry rosters whether in garrison or in the field.

  Clouds were working in from the north as the east grayed; the night cooled as a mist crept up the shallow slope of the hill like an army of crawling white ghosts in a slow assault. Rolf leaned against the wall at an archer's notch, watching the stars. The main force would be leaving today, and the smaller raid group in four days. It would leave Oramere strangely empty and hollow, and, more importantly, much more vulnerable. Of course, there was the militia, the Ravenmist Company, and himself, Starr, Kroh, and Axel, veterans all and Axel a wizard, but trouble could come from anywhere. It had even come from the Festival, now sixteen days gone.

  That brought to mind the trial of Hekbar and his comrades, the first such event that Rolf had ever witnessed. Janna and Arian had acted as judges because Durek had excluded himself due to the confrontation with Hekbar, and Rolf had been the court bailiff, a position, he felt, of considerable importa
nce and one he had taken very seriously. Henri had acted as the prosecutor, and Maximilian had been chosen to act in the trapper's defense, with Elonia assisting him in preparation. A jury had been selected from men of mature, property-owning status who had no direct dealings with the brewery or the Phantom Badgers.

  The trial itself had taken place in the same field as the Festival, as it attracted nearly as many people, and lasted all day. It was fraught with drama, tension and high entertainment as both Janna and Arian made it clear that the trial was going to be conducted in accordance with Imperial law and custom, rather than a simple legal stamp to an execution. Henri rose to the occasion, driving towards convictions for arson, assault, and attempted rape, with hanging as the desired sentence. Maximilian won Rolf's admiration for his spirited defense of the trappers, matching the wizard in enthusiasm and showing a considerable attention to detail in his planning. When the evidence against the trappers began to mount to the inevitable guilty verdict, the scholar deftly changed course and began striving to cheat the gallows by presenting reasons for flogging, branding, and fines in lieu of death.