Dark Path: Book Three of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  “They’ll come through the tree line,” Bridget panted, rubbing the small of her back. “Henri...”

  “I’ve never tried it before, but by using a Orb of Warding as a trigger the results should work out just fine,” the wizard assured her, using dirt to scrub the sap off his hands. “Of course, if it doesn't, this barricade will slow them down quite a bit. We might even stand them off in conventional fighting.”

  Maxmillian eyed the six foot gap that constituted the open ground the Goblins would have to cross to reach their barricade from the tree line, and seriously doubted it, but kept his thoughts to himself. The tangle of brush and living trees roped together was actually stronger than the barrier they had built on the bare slope, and without a doubt the Goblins would take serious losses breaching it, but without magic the scholar didn’t see how they could hold.

  An arrow flickered over the north barricades, followed closely by a half-dozen more. “Here we go,” Bridget picked up her staff sling. “Places, everyone.”

  While the troop which had made the first charge advanced on foot to within bow range on the north slope and laid down a barrage of covering fire, the second troop, also dismounted, entered the tree line two hundred yards out from the ridge and worked their way in close under the cover of the trees. Maxmillian and Elonia manned the north barricade, sniping back at the Goblin archers, while Bridget and Henri awaited the charge from the tree line.

  The attack was not long in coming; in moments the two could see figures darting through the underbrush and taking up positions on the edge of the narrow cleared gap. Henri fitted the glass globe into his sling, took a deep breath, and glanced at a page of notes. Clearing his throat, he carefully chanted a phrase of twenty words in a measured tone, focusing on inflection; at the last word, he cast the Orb, and an instant later the tree line on the other side of their gap exploded into a raging firestorm that engulfed the trees from the plains edge to the river bank and extended some thirty feet deep. Goblins, clothing and accouterments ablaze, ran shrieking from the yellow-gold wall that leapt thirty feet into the air, desperately rolling to put out the flames.

  The fire storm ended as abruptly as it had begun, leaving behind a thirty-foot expanse of charred tree trunks and feathery ash, dotted with the smoking corpses of a half-dozen jongata who hadn’t made it out in time. The sight of the fire storm and the huge addition to the cleared gap ended the Goblin’s second attack, and so awed the two Badgers that neither raised a weapon as their foes withdrew to safety.

  Shaking off her shock at the spectacle, Bridget turned and thumped the pale wizard on the shoulder. “Now that is spellcasting, Henri! Damn fine job.”

  “And time for another job,” Maxmillian called from the north barricade. “Quickly, if you please.”

  Bridget cursed and trotted to where Maxmillian knelt beside Elonia, carefully pressing a bandage to the base of the arrow that stood out from her side.

  “Maxmillian, go get my case with the green cover and a water skin. Henri, go check the riverbank in case they sent a patrol around back while we’re distracted.” The Serjeant carefully pressed the bloody cloth tighter around the arrowhead. “How do you feel, Elonia?”

  The Seeress grinned wanly, her features gray. “Like a lucky shot got me in the ribs.”

  “Not to worry; this isn’t bad,” Bridget pulled a Goblin arrow out of the dirt and compared its length to the shaft thrusting from Elonia’s side, and nodded. “Maxmillian, go get her blanket roll. Elonia, the arrow went in between the ribs, fairly deep. Do you have blood in your mouth?”

  “A little.”

  “Right. Here, put your fingers so to hold this bandage in place, there. You haven't lost much blood, Maxmillian was quick. All right, move your fingers... there, put them back. This dressing will slow it down more.”

  Opening her bag, the priestess set out a plain pewter cup and a square of boiled canvas which she staked in place with four bronze pegs. Filling the cup (loot from the Alantarn raid) with water, she added dried herbs from two packets, and a small lump of blue-green paste. Tapping one of the series of runes circling the lip of the chalice-shaped cup, she stirred energetically as the contents rose to a near boil in seconds.

  “Fold two blankets and put them under her head, yes, like that; now hold the bandage, so. Here Elonia, drink this.” Bridget steadied the shaky Seeress as she slowly sipped the cup’s contents. Within seconds of the last sip, the woman’s eyelids fluttered, and moments later she was deeply unconscious.

  “Is she going to be all right?” Maxmillian asked, his features nearly as gray as the Seeress’, as Henri trotted up.

  “Half-dozen were climbing up,” the wizard panted. “I wounded one and the rest fell back. Is she going to be all right?”

  “The arrow seems to have touched the lung,” Bridget shrugged. “I’ll have to Heal her or she won’t make it. Henri, go back and watch the back way. Maxmillian, you watch the Goblins.” Rinsing out the cup, Bridget refilled it and brought the water to a boil. It took six cupfuls to thoroughly wash her hands, wrists and forearms to her satisfaction; only then did she break the seals on her instruments, which had been boiled and wrapped in waxed paper before being sealed inside boiled canvas, which itself was sealed with wax to keep dust out.

  Unbuckling the Seeress’ girdle to end the enchantment, the advocate cut a six inch square in Elonia’s shirt centered on the arrow shaft, and stripped away the bloody bandage and kerchief with a pair of tweezers in order to study the wound. Nodding to herself, she chose a scalpel and carefully incised a short row of characters into the Seeress’ skin just above and below the wound. Placing her hands on either side of the arrow, Bridget murmured a careful incantation and slowly pulled the arrow free, the wickedly barbed head sliding out as if drawn from a bucket of water.

  Choosing a clean scalpel, Bridget cut new runes to either side of the wound and chanted loudly, making several curt gestures; the bleeding from the wound died away to a trickle. Using an expertly carved stone probe, Bridget studied the interior of the wound as best she could, and then carefully examined the arrow head for signs that any portion had broken off and stayed in the wound. Satisfied, she took up a clean scalpel to cut a third set of runes and, holding the wound shut with a pair of light tongs, chanted a lengthy stanza.

  When she finished, she was holding a fold of healthy skin in the tongs; aside from the blood and the rows of runes she had cut, the Seeress was outwardly unhurt. Sighing with real fatigue, the priestess sagged back against the barricade, her bloody hands held awkwardly to either side.

  She winked gratefully as Maxmillian held a flask of wine to her lips. “Mmmm, thanks, I needed that. Here, pour the water over my hands so I can wash.”

  “You Healed the wound completely?” Maxmillian ventured nervously. “I mean...”

  “The wound is Healed,” Bridget nodded tiredly, drying her hands. “But the blood she lost is still gone, and the shock of the wound and blood-loss is still real. We’ll wash her up and make a bed for her; she’s healthy and strong, and should recover in a day or so with rest, hot food, and herbal brews.”

  “That’s good. More good news is that it looks like the Goblins are pulling out; eight dead and a bunch more singed seems to be all they’re willing to invest in us.”

  The Serjeant nodded. “The game’s not worth the candle, as I said. No point in losing any more troops, they’ll find easier pickings elsewhere. Go gather up all the arrows that landed in and around our barricade while I tend to Elonia; we’ll use them as stakes in our cleared area. You never know, the Goblins might double back.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It was one of those soft, rainy summer days when you could smell things growing and the entire world seemed to be a damp, downy place. Oramere moved at a placid pace, with all hands occupied but hardly over-busy. Axel was making his rounds of the hold, hopping awkwardly on one crutch, as it was his intention to spend every third day learning anew how to move with less support. He had begun in the tower
itself, where Rosemary had her charges (less Eclipse, who was below the Southline on patrol with Starr) gathered in the main dining hall for a lesson in sums; the cook had shot him a sour look (the only kind she had for him since Duna had been taken from her charge) and pointedly continued in her teaching. The Wizard could sympathize with the Company’s chief cook; he himself had serious misgivings about allowing Duna to take part in Starr’s aggressive scouting, but necessity dictated otherwise. It bothered him a great deal to see a girl not yet sixteen striving so hard to set her feet upon the mercenary’s path, but there was nothing he could do to alter the situation. The best anyone could do was to hope that if she survived the next few years, perhaps Duna would find the Badgers were not what she wanted.

  Hanns Schack, Rosemary’s husband, was on the north wall’s roofed archer’s walk replacing a rotten board. Axel spent a few minutes talking with the one-legged former Badger; the two had served together for nearly four years before Axel was crippled, not long before Hanns had lost his lower left leg in a skirmish with Orcs. Hanns now served as the chief custodian of Oramere, a tall, spare man in his mid-thirties who got around fine on his wooden leg.

  The remainder of the hold’s garrison were in the forge: Kroh was hammering out a shield-rim for the Militia, while Rolf and Rudolf Lusan did the finishing work on the wood staves for the body of the shield. Halabarian sat on a keg in the forge’s open doorway, just inside the dry area afforded by the eaves, idly playing some light tune on his flute. A long-necked clay wine jug stood nearly submerged in a cooling vat, and the sharp smell of hard cider was discernable over the odors of the well-ventilated forge.

  Rudolf had enlisted in the Badgers six months after their Founding, losing his right eye and three fingers off his left hand not quite three years later in the second battle at Hagen’s Landing. The burly, red-haired ex-Badger now served as the hold’s chief groom and secondary smith, although with the main body (and nearly every mount) gone from Oramere, Rudolf had been reassigned to helping Rolf and Kroh train the Militia.

  Kroh dunked the glowing metal band into a salt-water vat as Axel ducked in out of the rain, tossing his dripping otter-skin rain cloak onto a handy peg. “And what occupies the main body of Badger might today?” the Lieutenant asked, picking up a clean mug and pouring a measure from the jug.

  “Making shields and getting drunk,” Rudlof explained, knocking sawdust from his plane with careful taps on the stone floor. “Except for Rolf, who’s only making shields, and Halabarian, who’s making music while getting drunk.”

  “And a damned lot of cider it takes,” Kroh observed, draining his mug. “But we’re out of brandy.”

  “Well, it’s as good an occupation as any on a day like today,” Axel grinned. “Why isn’t Hanns in here?”

  “He was for a bit, but he wanted to finish replacing catwalk boards before he got down to serious drinking,” Rudlof gestured into a corner. “Three done so far, and a fourth underway. We should finish two or three more before the drink overwhelms us.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Kroh growled. “I can hammer out rims until we’re out of cider.”

  “True, but it was interest that I was referring to,” Rudolf explained. “There comes a point in drinking where conversation takes all priority.”

  “You’re right,” the Dwarf conceded.

  “Try to stick it out as long as you can,” Axel advised. “We need twenty more to replace the hide shields, and at least thirty against battle-damage.”

  “We’ll strive mightily, but the cider shows no signs of weakening its assault,” Rudolf observed grimly.

  “What are your plans, if I might be so bold as to inquire, regarding the mysterious cave we found while spider-hunting?” Halabarian asked, absently sighting down his flute.

  “Leave it alone for now,” Axel shrugged. “The Titans are dead or scattered, thanks to the Militia and a lot of hard work, no small part done by you, I might add.” The Threll acknowledged the compliment with an airy, if seated, bow. “We’ll keep an eye on it, but I don’t intend to do anything with it until Durek returns with the main body. Whatever is in there is too old to tamper with unless we have no other choice.”

  “A wise course of action,” The Threll nodded. “Or more correctly, a wise course of inaction.”

  “Sometimes patience is a virtue,” Axel studied the Threll carefully. The lean musician frequently tread hard on the line between civility and sarcasm, and while more easy-going than most, the Badger officer brooked no disrespect, however valuable the minstrel’s donated services.

  “So what comes of the summer now?’ Halabarian changed the subject, having noted the wizard’s look. “The spiders are dead or dispersed, their egg sacs destroyed, the Stone Adder are convinced that companies of deadly Lanthrell archers ward Mount Gesham, and the mysterious cave-dweller is left for a better time. Do we occupy our time with the manufacture of the accouterments of war and the consumption of strong drink?”

  “Not entirely,” Axel shook his head. “We train and prepare, true enough, and we wait, as well. The Purple Spider won’t let this summer pass without some test of our will, whether it be a raid or outright invasion. I’ve been in communication with the mayor of Hohenfels, the town most troubled by the Spider; he reports virtually no Goblin activity so far this year; that bodes ill for us. The Purple Spider clan has been ground down by years of engagements with Imperial forces, local militias, and various Human traffic through the area. They no longer can deal with more than one target at a time.”

  “One would think they would spend a year or two avoiding any conflict, to renew their ranks and wealth,” the Threll observed.

  “Not likely,” Axel shook his head. “The Burgen river runs through the heart of their lands; while Hohenfels is really out of their territory, having been built on the Old Ward before it was the Old Ward, it is the main departure point for all the river traffic on the Burgen, and not incidentally, the last stop before Badgerhof, which lies in the northern reaches of their lands. Should the Goblins lie idle for a year, they would find Human encroachment on their lands increasing to double what is normal.”

  “And if they resist, they spend another year locked in a war of attrition with an Empire whose population and wealth exceeds theirs by ten-thousand-fold,” the Threll shook his head. “Surely they can see the inevitable end; why not relocate north beyond the new Ward? I doubt the Imperial troops would try very hard to attack Goblins leaving Imperial territory.”

  Axel shrugged. “I imagine they know, and no doubt that has weakened them further as individuals and families have pulled out to join other keibas out on the Wastes, but a lot of Goblins are stubborn and land-proud; most will have to die before the keiba dissolves and the area is completely Imperial.”

  “And we’ll give them a helping hand along that path if they stick their noses north of Southline creek,” Rolf observed darkly.

  Axel left the group in the smithy a short while later when the rain stopped, and headed back to the tower and his office, passing Hanns along the way, the sawdust-sprinkled custodian bearing a mug and a mellow look upon his face.

  The castellan’s office hadn’t changed one iota since he had left, and more specifically, the many chores that waited there. Sighing, he seated himself at his desk and reached for the list of things he had to do. When Durek returned Axel was going to ask for a permanent clerk to be assigned to the castellan, who would be someone else in a year or two, the Lieutenant vowed to himself. There was just too much paperwork these days for one man to keep up with, even without the full force of the Badgers here. And the ranks of the Ravenmist would likely reach a hundred by next year, an ever increasing burden of paperwork regarding training levels, equipment issued, equipment in storage, and a thousand other details. Perhaps one of the orphans could be assigned to the clerk’s position, although stealing another of her charges would put Rosemary up in arms.

  Thoughts of the orphans and Rosemary naturally led to Duna Kadal and the scouting
team. There was not the slightest doubt in the Wizard’s mind that Starr, motivated by a lust for rank, had talked the girl (who was equally desirous of admittance to the Badgers) into cooperating in the repulse of the Stone Adder. Success forgave much in the mercenary profession, and initiative was always to be encouraged, but there was a fine line between taking an obvious advantage and assuming unnecessary risks. Starr would get a Corporal’s rank, only in part because of the skirmish on Mount Gesham, and Duna would enter the ranks of the Badgers on her birthday as she so obviously desired, but the Lieutenant had made it very clear that he understood why the two had engaged in their daring-do up on the mountain. Such risks were part of the Phantom Badgers’ trade, but they were to be undertaken only for the sake of the mission, not personal glory, advantage, or ambition.

  The Phantom Badgers had no formal system for punishments; unlike professional militaries, mercenaries usually disciplined with fines, work details, or expulsion. Axel had them shoveling manure out of the stables for three hours on each of their rest days for a month after their little victory to drive home his point.

  He had also reversed their patrol order, with the long patrols below the Southline, and the shorter patrols on the mountain, as he seriously doubted that the Stone Adder would try any more raids this summer. It had been twenty days since the Stone Adder incident, and more than seventy since the Festival; to Axel this summer seemed endless.

  A regular courier pattern had been established between Durek and himself, using a reasonably trusted professional courier; it took twenty-two days, round trip, a situation that seemed pretty luxuriant to both parties. Both kept a concise daily log in a simple code; when the courier arrived, the recipient would read the cover letter with the log, make appropriate responses to any specific questions in the cover letter, and send the courier out with the response and the log kept since the last exchange. Thus each was appraised of the conditions of the other, and both the main body and the garrison had news of each other.