Dark Path: Book Three of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  “That’s a first,” Henri commented as they turned their mounts towards the nearest ‘stable’ with enough room. “I’ve never seen anyone being buggered while they were seated in a saddle before.”

  “There didn’t seem to be much point in haggling,” Maxmillian shrugged. “I wouldn't were I in his place. There’s a chance a few more people will straggle in before the night is over.”

  “Maxmillian did what I told him,” Bridget observed, unsure if the Arturian was joking or being obnoxious. “I would have paid ten Marks just for a dry night’s rest, and twenty if there was a hot bath and a private room in the offing. Damn, how are we going to do all this without getting covered in mud? There’s a wheelbarrow, that will be a help, and thank the Lady for this gravel. Everyone drop off their gear at the door; I’ll stand guard. Henri, you run the saddles over to the mill with the wheelbarrow while Maxmillian and Elonia tend to our mounts. We’ll get the food after we find our bunks and get our equipment settled in.”

  Elonia stayed outside with the gear while the other three stepped in to determine where they were to sleep. The barracks was a rough log building, well chinked against the wet, with a floor of muddy rough-cut planks; windows had been considered an unnecessary luxury by the builder, but the single-room structure at least boasted two good fireplaces in opposing corners. The single door was centered on the long east wall, with the fireplaces in the northwest and southeast corners; the room was furnished with a row of a dozen double bunks against each of the long walls, a five-foot walkway between, and a wide plank table near each of the fireplaces. A half-dozen lamps lit the barracks reasonably well, and between them and the banked fires in each fireplace, the room was cheerfully warm. Warm, and strong-smelling as well, filled with the odors of drying cloth and leather, pipe smoke, various foods, ale, both freshly drunk and spilled, horses (coming from saddles and packs), and human bodies that had not bathed often while performing hard manual labor. The volume of noise generated by a good number of hard-drinking men all trying to out-boast each other created a solid wall of noise that slapped the ears of any who entered.

  The room was occupied by around twenty persons, not counting two hardy young men seated by the southeast fireplace. Armed with spiked cudgels, they were tending a keg of ale and several large kettles; a stack of mattresses were near to hand. The other occupants were mostly rough-looking men clustered at the tables, drinking hard, talking loudly, and gambling; the exceptions were a man and woman of middle years seated on a bottom bunk across from the door, a man in a badly-fitting Navian-style coat dealing cards at the north table, and a chubby young woman sitting on the bed nearest the north table trying to ignore the comments directed at her. After a moment, she gained a respite, as attention drifted to the newcomers and Bridget in particular. Witty invitations to share a bed flew thick and fast while their attention held, which was not long.

  All the lower bunks had mattresses on them, as did most of the upper. The rack to the right of the door had an empty upper bunk; Bridget caught Maxmillian’s eye and jerked her chin towards it. The scholar swept off his rain cape as he stepped into the walkway; kicking the bunk’s frame lightly, he glanced at either table. “Whose bunk is this?”

  “Mine, not that it’s any business of yours,” a thin man stood from the south table, ale wetting his thick red mustaches and gleaming in the week’s stubble on his chin.

  “Would a shilling convince you to move your mattress elsewhere?” Maxmillian kept his voice light and his face bland. “We need an entire rack, you see.”

  Red-Hair eyed the coin the Badger held between two fingers, and the sword-hilt it was being tapped against; Henri, leaning against the opposite bunk with his cape off and a hand casually draped near his sabre-hilt won a glance as well. “Make it two and you can heave it onto the one your friend’s leaning on,” Red Hair conceded.

  Maxmillian gave the man the coins while Henri moved Red-Hair’s mattress, and Bridget helped Elonia lug their packs inside. After presenting the paper to the young man seated on a sturdy cash box, the scholar heaved two mattresses off the pile and managed to drag them back to their rack without bumping anyone hard enough to give offense. There Bridget directed him to place both on the top bunk while she and Elonia arranged their packs and bags in a neat and level pile next to the bottom bunk, and the wizard strung a line to hang their rain capes to dry.

  The scholar and Elonia then went to fetch their food while Bridget screened off the bare lower bunk with blankets hung from the upper on all sides and Henri changed into dry clothing. With the bottom bunk screened, the two women were able to change into dry clothing in (very cramped) privacy; a shilling purchased four buckets of hot water for washing, and soon the Badgers were sitting on their packs in dry clothing, devouring warm (and surprisingly good) meat and potato pie, washing it down with hot tea.

  “I have the top bunk,” Bridget paused in her eating. “Two of you share the bottom, and one sleeps on the packs. I’ll throw in one of my blankets and my cloak for padding on the packs.”

  The other three regarded the slender serjeant with dour expressions, but the dark-haired Badger simply returned to daintily eating the section of pie that oozed gravy onto her worn traveler’s bowl.

  Maxmillian sighed and dug in his pouch. “Flip you for the floor,” he offered to Henri.

  “No, I’ll take my chance,” Elonia shook her head, digging in her own pouch. “All three flip; odd one in the bunk and other two flip again.” She cocked an eyebrow at the two men. “After all, we’re all comrades here, aren't we?”

  The Seeress had the only ‘tail’, and won the first round. Maxmillian flipped again. “Call it.”

  “ ‘Heads’, ” Henri watched the silver shilling spin up into the air and drop, to be caught and slapped into the scholar’s wrist. “ ‘Tails’, damn the luck. Ah well, it’s better than where I slept last night. Since you won the toss, you buy the first round, Maxmillian.”

  The evening passed slowly enough for the four Badgers. Maxmillian and Henri purchased mugs of ale and joined in at the tables for a bit, but quickly lost interest; except for the man in the worn Navian coat, a travelling gambler whose skills were on a par with his clothing, the chunky girl who was his companion, and the husband and wife tinkers who stayed on their bunk with dagger-hilts close to hand, the occupants of the barracks were fur-traders heading south after a winter spent on the Ward buying pelts. They were a rough and rowdy lot, with few manners and fewer conversation topics. The two Badgers gleaned what information about the Wastes that they could (which was very little), obtained a second round and a mattress for Henri, and returned to their rack, where Bridget and Elonia were playing draughts and ignoring a steady stream of comments and shouted offers. At their return, Bridget dug out the careau tiles and the four played for pennies.

  Two hours before midnight the ale keg went dry; Gareth’s employees gathered up the water-kettles, money-box, and three remaining unrented mattresses and left, taking four of the lanterns with them. With strong drink reduced to private stocks, the good humor, such as it was, left the traders, and the noise diminished somewhat. Bridget and Elonia retired to their bunks while the two male Badgers sat on upended buckets in the walkway, passing Henri’s flask back and forth and studying their barracks-mates.

  “Twenty-three men counting our party and the ones that came in after us, and four women,” Henri mused, keeping his voice low. “The tinker and his wife seem capable enough, but I would feel better if that fool of a gambler didn’t have that girl along.”

  The scholar accepted the flask, took a tiny sip with an arm motion that would indicate a larger drink, and nodded. “And if there’s trouble with one, it could spread to the others. Who do you figure for the main problem?”

  The wizard took the flask back, sipped, and made a hand gesture suggestive of a woman’s figure. “The big bastard with the scar across the front of his jaw, there, standing up and yelling. I heard one of his cronies calling him Wert. He has four with h
im, and seems to know most of the rest; if there’s trouble, he’ll start it.”

  Maxmillian grunted. The traders’ mood was half-drunken and surly. The catcalls and sly remarks intended for the women’s ears had tapered off, but they had been replaced with mutters and looks that the historian did not like. He had no sure knowledge, but he guessed that a winter spent on the Ward would be a dismal experience, all the more so for the caliber of men that the traders appeared to be. He and the Arturian sat up a while longer, pretending to drink more than they actually did, seeming to be engrossed in conversation while watching Wert and his comrades. As time went by, Maxmillian found himself agreeing with Henri’s estimate; the problem, as he saw it, was that the strong drink ran out too soon: if sufficient ale had been available, the traders would have drunk themselves asleep and the chance of trouble would have been small. As it was, they had had just enough to make them reckless.

  Climbing into bed was a ticklish problem that Maxmillian worried at as he pulled off his boots and over tunic; of course, they were both fully dressed, but it was an unnerving situation all the same. Moving softly, he buckled his sword belt to a bunk-post so that the scabbarded sword hung between the bed and the wall with the griffin-headed hilt close to hand (the Badgers’ beds were arranged with the feet towards the walkway); his hammer would be under the cloak he used as a pillow. With a deep breath, he slid beneath the blankets, and, despite his best efforts, found himself in body to body contact with Elonia. The Seeress, however, merely made a sleepy noise and squirmed into a more comfortable position against him, an action that heated his face with a flush that he was sure must be visible throughout the barracks. Struggling to keep his breathing even, the scholar settled in for the night.

  Sleep, despite Elonia’s proximity, was not long in coming; they had ridden nearly thirty miles in cold rain after a night on the ground, and Maxmillian had already recovered the campaigner’s habit of being able to sleep when he could. Staying asleep, however, was another matter entirely. Elonia had hung a saddle blanket from the upper bunk to cover the foot end of their bed for a bit of privacy; to do so on the sides would invite trouble, as the blanket could then be used to trap them in the manner of a net. Several times shouting or braying laughter at the tables woke Maxmillian (and the other Badgers), but what was most ominous was the several stealthy approaches made on their area, whether for theft or other mischief it could not be determined. The sight of one or more Badgers sitting up with a bared weapon was enough to settle the problem, but it was annoying all the same.

  Maxmillian opened his eyes and blinked groggily as the laths of the upper bunk swam into focus. He was on his back beneath his blankets clutching his hammer to his chest; Elonia was a warm ridge to his right, a lock of her hair tickling his ear. A soft snoring to his left a couple feet and down a bit marked Henri’s position on top of the pack saddles and saddlebags. The two remaining lamps, one at each end of the barracks, were guttering low, leaving much of the room in darkness; from many of the bunks could be heard snoring and the sounds men made in their sleep; the scholar figured better than half of the beds were now occupied. The south table was occupied by a single trader with his head down on the table top, either asleep or passed out. There was a knot of traders still at the north table, and a dull mumble of voices.

  The laths above his face shifted, and Maxmillian realized that it was Bridget sitting up; he wondered if whatever had awakened him had roused her as well. Peering about sleepily, he yawned and wondered how much night was left; no doubt Bridget would insist on leaving at first light.

  The slender sergeant suddenly dropping onto the walkway made him jump; realizing that she was already walking towards the group at the table, he scrambled after her, aware that Elonia was sitting up and Henri was stirring.

  “And just what is going on here?” Bridget’s voice had a hard edge to it as she confronted the group, weight evenly balanced with her left foot forward, her sword-rapier held point down, blade away, wrist cocked in what Maxmillian recognized as a low inside position, her parrying dagger held unseen to the traders behind her left thigh. The advocate might be tousled from sleep and barefoot, but there was little doubt as to the menace in her carriage and tone.

  Maxmillian stepped around the priestess, working his arm to draw attention to his hammer and limber up in case the sight of it wasn’t sufficient deterrence. It seemed typical that Bridget should ask what was going on when the scene before them was self-evident: Wert and four other traders had been interrupted as they went about molesting the chubby female companion of the gambler’s. Wert was sprawled on the bunk claimed by the gambler with the half-undressed girl gripped in a kind of headlock; a second trader apparently had been assisting him in pinning her down, and was now climbing out of the bunk with a look on his face that seemed an even mixture of anger and sheepishness. The others had the gambler, now wearing only his breeches and a ratty undershirt that hadn’t seen washing in a good while backed against the wall, although from the looks of things he hadn’t been trying to intercede beyond a verbal protest.

  “I asked what was going on,” the priestess flicked her sword blade for emphasis. “And I expect an answer.”

  “Nothing that concerns you, ‘less you want a man,” Wert growled, releasing the girl and swinging his feet around to a sitting position on the edge of the bunk.

  “My business is what I choose to make my business. Girl, what is going on here?” Bridget was frowning, and in truth Maxmillian did not feel too comfortable with this confrontation either; Wert hadn’t had his hand over the girl’s mouth, yet not one screech, yell or loud cry had been heard. He risked a quick glance behind and was gratified to see that Henri, sabre in hand, had joined them, and Elonia was standing upright on Bridget’s bunk with a cocked crossbow. By now most of the barracks was awake, but no one else seemed inclined to join in on either side.

  The girl, who was older than she looked, the scholar noted, was a chunky sort with clear blue eyes and a wild mass of honey-yellow hair that desperately needed washing, scowling sullenly under the Badger serjeant’s steely glare. “Nothing,” finally emerged from a face that would seem to be set permanently in a pout.

  “There was a problem about payment, the usual course being money in advance,” the gambler spoke up from his position against the wall. “In keeping with the sound business practices as shown by friend Gareth, whose hospitality we are all enjoying tonight, I had set a fee a tad higher than the norm but which, considering the market, seemed fair enough to me.”

  “Highway robbery it is, and no mistake,” Wert growled, digging in his pouch. “Still and all, here it is, you son of a wharf rat.” The trader contemptuously tossed the gambler a five Mark piece. “There, for the first go round.”

  The girl sighed and rolled her eyes. “Ought to be more, wakin’ me up in the middle of the night and all.” She cocked an eyebrow at the half-dressed Badgers. “It’s extra if you want to watch.”

  Bridget opened her mouth to speak but seemed to be choking on something; behind him the scholar heard Henri shuffle a bit. Stepping forward, he caught the priestess’s elbow and tugged gently. “Well then, we’ll be about our business, no harm done. Too long on the road makes for tight nerves and a quick sword, I’m afraid,” he announced to the room at large, carefully steering the serjeant back towards their rack. “Good night to all.”

  Bridget tossed both blades onto her bunk and scrambled up after them, muttering darkly to herself. Elonia raised an eyebrow at the sudden return but remained silent, hopping nimbly down and uncocking the crossbow.

  She remained quiet until she and Maxmillian were back in bed; snuggling forward, she whispered in a hardly audible voice that sent cat’s claws up and down the Historian’s spine.

  “Not honor, but money,” he muttered back, hoping she could not hear the blood pounding in his temples. “It would seem the gambler’s friend is, shall we say, rentable. Wert and company were inclined to avoid the tariff, but fortunately we were there
to see the thing done right. I can assure you that this is one deed that isn’t going into the Company History.”

  The predawn darkness that the Badgers woke to the next morning was cold and damp, but the rain had stopped and the cloud cover was breaking up. After a breakfast of last night’s bread and butter, and porridge from their own stocks, the Badgers saw to their mounts and equipment. The rest of the barracks showed little ambition to arise early, save the married peddlers, who had their bags packed and loaded onto their two mules even as the Badgers were eating.

  The first real light of dawn saw the four turning their mounts off of Nachmung’s well-ploughed main street and onto the hard-surfaced main highway, heading north. The sun broke through the clouds an hour into their day, and by mid-morning the mud was beginning to crust over and crumble on the road’s shoulders. The lands they passed through as the miles dropped away grew increasingly free of Man’s mark, save for the road they were on which sliced through the thick stands of trees like a scar. As the day advanced, however, the forest began breaking up, the natural clearings growing larger and more frequent and the density of the trees thinning out until as the evening drew on they traversed true northern plains, vast tracts of smoothly rolling grassland broken only by isolated clumps of scrub woods and green swathes of glossy-leafed red maples that lined the banks of the narrow, shallow streams.

  This was the southern edge of the great grass-sea known as the Northern Wastes, Maxmillian advised his companions. It was once the Orcs’ boast that no plow touched the Wastes, which they called Blotar Gaushak, the Iron Land, a true enough statement despite the fact that a slender belt now was south of the Third Ward, for no farmer dared live so close to the line that marked the wilds from civilization.