Dark Path: Book Three of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  The second woman, a pretty, slender brunette whom Kustar would have found enticing under different circumstances, was seated before her on the stool from the makeup table with a sheaf of papers in her hands. Icy horror gripped Kustar’s heart in a merciless grip when she saw the ruby-capped torc the woman wore, the jewels glowing faintly in the room’s dim light. Pieces fell together with professional speed, the benefit of years of training and practice; years of daily danger and risk kicked in as well, holding the intelligence officer’s face blank even as she wrestled with terror, and crushed any tremor in her voice when she spoke, although her throat’s dryness made her words drag. “Bridget Uldo, I presume.”

  The Badger held a glass to her lips, and Kustar gratefully drained the pint of red wine. “Bridget Iola Uldo, to be exact, of the Phantom Badgers. You, of course, are Kustar Pravas, a Chora in the Arbmante Pargaie based out of Alantarn, and one of the officers tasked with solving the question of who was behind the raid on Alantarn last year. Quite a clever investigator, I might add, although your end game is a bit weak.”

  “Not as weak as you might think. There’s a sealed copy of my final report in the Hold-Master’s office; should I not return in ten days or so, they will declare me missing, and open it. After that the life expectancy of a Phantom Badger will be measured in days, or perhaps hours.”

  “Nice try, but unfortunately for you, the ability to read Nuadh was a skill we’ve been honing over the last year. Thank you for the pouch, by the by, and the documents it contained; they’ve been most enlightening. This is what we would like to discuss with you, and your candor would be much appreciated.”

  “And if I respectfully decline?”

  Bridget poured the Nepas another glass of wine and held it so the Nepas officer could take a drink. “Pointless, as you well know. I lack the stomach for torture, and I doubt turning you over to the pleasures of my male troops holds any terror for you, but I do have other options.” Setting the glass of wine down, the Badger Serjeant produced a small bottle and a silk handkerchief. Using the handkerchief, and being careful not to let the fluid touch her own skin, she carefully spread the oily contents of the vial across Kustar’s chest, breasts, and ribs.

  “Nice hands, very nice,” Kustar purred, and chuckled at the angry flush which darkened the mercenary’s features.

  The chuckle ended abruptly when the Healer touched a scalpel’s point to the lower eyelid of Kustar’s left eye. “I’m going to spread a substance onto your tongue; hold your tongue out nice and steady, and swallow every grain, or your depth perception will never be the same. There, that’s good, and swallow.” The substance was the consistency of moist dirt, and tasted like fresh yeast; she tried to tuck it under her tongue, but the tingling sensation that grew from the grainy stuff’s touch caused her mouth to fill with saliva, forcing her to swallow or spit it out; since the scalpel had never wavered, she swallowed the mess.

  The Badger held the glass to Kustar’s lips for a long drink of wine. “There, now we’re ready to negotiate.”

  “Negotiation is my middle name,” Kustar assured her after drinking the rest of the glass. “What are you willing to offer?”

  “You are dead, you know that, don’t you? What I just did to you, the salve and the powder, was a two-stage poison, a very complex and difficult combination of substances and Healer enchantments. Basically, it is a poison which causes your joints to lock up, freezing your body in a fetal position. Then your muscles begin to contract, much as a corpse’s will, except these contractions are spasmodic, in a slowly growing tempo that will take nearly an hour to kill you, literally tearing your body apart using your now-rigid skeleton as a rack and your own muscles as the torsion devices.” The Healer held up a small glass vial the color of amber. “Now, unless this vial is filled with brandy, an enchantment is cast upon it by a priestess of Hetarian (myself, in other words), and the vial is held in the living flesh of four specific persons, to wit, myself and my companions each in turn, the poison will act in two hours. If we prepare the vial as indicated, you will have four hours to live after drinking; of course, we can prepare the vial as many times as we wish you to live. The poison will remain effective within you for at least a month, perhaps longer. Not the usual equipment a Healer has access to, but we acquired a few interesting things from the Hand of Chaos last year, and I’m a bit more…worldly than most of my Order. As to what we’re willing to offer, I would suggest that at this point it is a reprieve from a slow and very horrible death. Depending upon how cooperative and forthcoming you are, we may up the ante.”

  Ignoring the long slow somersault her stomach was making, Kustar forced a smile. Was this how it ended, in a musty guest room belonging to a wizard so long dead that even the Pargaie admitted the impossibility of finding reliable background data, killed by the very mercenaries that she had come to betray? It would seem so, she admitted to herself; she had heard of similar poisons before. She had no real options other than to dance to the Badger’s tune, and hope they would like it well enough to keep her around afterwards. What her Pargaie superiors would think of it should she live was not a consideration at this point. “A lovely offer, and one I would like to consider in detail.”

  “You have one minute.”

  “In that case I accept, although it goes against the grain to forgo haggling and the exchange of collateral. Ask away.”

  Bridget glanced at her papers. “Tell me about the overall effort into the origins of the raid.”

  “The scyers washed out due to the heavy use of magic during the raid; the wizards cleared the new-magic angle, and the security apparatus cleared the possibility of treason. That left subterfuge of some sort, most likely a third party aiding the Felher by opening Gate egran at a prearranged time. Five investigators were assigned, each working independently, and I was one of them.”

  “How are the others faring?”

  “We share no real information, not with each other, nor with our superiors until the final report is submitted, but one investigator terminated his inquires with a report that he could not define the causes; my spies indicate that the other three are nowhere near the truth of the matter.”

  “How did you first stumble upon our involvement?”

  “More wine? Thank you. As I said, there was a second raid which disrupted everything; in the aftermath I acquired the original of an Anlarc’s report of a fight with non-Felher forces who exited through a Gate. I was already suspicious of the Serpent Den you disguised yourself as; a check of the debris gathered from that site revealed weapons bearing Serpent markings. I contacted the Anlarc and offered to tell him how to find you in return for his cooperation. Amongst other things, he loaned me the services of his pet wizard, who located the point outside the fortress that you fled to. Although quite a bit of time had passed, the site had not been used by anyone else, and a Seer was able to give me clues that, through research, led me to you and the Torc connection.”

  “The wizard being ‘Coke’, who was next door?”

  Kustar caught the past tense. “Yes.”

  “Tell me about the back trail: how long until your fellow investigators key in on your premise and track us down?”

  A sip of wine gave her a moment to tug at the question; how much of her log had they read? Sighing inwardly, she realized that it made no difference: sooner or later they would read every word. “No time at all: there is no back trail. I forged a new report for the Anlarc, and got him to support it; the new report says he fought an elite Felher unit with non-Felher slave or vassal troops. I removed the evidence from the storage warehouse and buried it outside of Alantarn; I even killed the Seer immediately after she had taken the readings, and had ‘Coke’ destroy the magical residues at your battle site and exit site. I kept my staff in the dark at all times, and even had my chief clerk imprisoned before I left Alantarn.” She realized she was talking too much, telling far more than what was necessary, but it was difficult not to: she was bound, naked, completely helpless, all of w
hich conspired to instill a desperate desire to please her captors so they would let her go. It was an irrational desire, she knew from experience and training, but a very real one none the less.

  “You said you left a sealed report with the Hold-Master: what does it say?”

  That was another possible point of leverage; she had been desperately weighing it in her mind, the risk of lying against the gain of insurance. If not for the presence of the Pargaie mole, she would have lied, but another Direthrell intelligence officer would immediately know how such a report would be handled. No doubt she was posing as the group’s expert on all things Direthrell to protect her in case of a slip. “That I suspected that the Felher were aided by a conspiracy of planted slaves and visitors from the Dark Star cult, which also accounts for why I had to go to this part of the world to follow up on various leads.” Seeing a Bridget’s skeptical look, Kustar grinned. “Don’t wrinkle your nose like that; that’s how the Felher managed the second raid: by inserting intelligence agents amongst the slave population. The new Hold-Master will be pre-disposed to believe that sloppy slave-handling made the raid possible.”

  “So you confided our identity to the Anlarc. Who else?”

  Another point where a lie might be inserted, the risk of being caught out weighed against the security of added insurance. Again, the crippling danger was the mole: how much had been revealed, and what was her role in all of this? “No one; only Agyra knows, and he is extremely unlikely to tell anyone else, moreover, an Anlarc, especially one of his ranking, answers to no one.” Kustar smiled. “That leaves you with a problem: Agyra agreed to stay at Alantarn for eight days after my departure; when that term is expired he will be leading his retinue to Oramere to seek a redress for his defeat at your hands. Should I be allowed to return to Alantarn, I could arrange for him to be stopped; otherwise, you will return to a burnt-out ruin. Perhaps we should re-negotiate.”

  That stopped them for a moment, and Kustar held her breath, but the moment passed. Bridget shook her head. “No, that works to our advantage. You in our custody here, and the Anlarc dead at Oramere, both with disguised missions, perfect.” She smiled crookedly. “Your twisted champion isn’t the first one to try us; he lost the first encounter, and we won’t let him get away a second time.” She checked her notes again. “That would seem to cover all our questions. Now, what are going to do with you?”

  “Set me free on my word of honor that your secret is safe?”

  “Hardly. Still, it seems a shame to waste your talents and capabilities.” The Badger sergeant regarded her thoughtfully. “We might work out an arrangement where you remain alive after all this is over, assuming that any of us survive. This is what you will do: you will write out in your own true hand (and we have plenty of examples to compare) the following: a list of Pargaie officers in Alantarn, and the names and contact information on at least twenty non-Direthrell agents the Pargaie have placed in Human lands. Remember, we captured a great deal of information on the Direthrell last year, enough so we will be able to detect any serious attempt to provide us with false information.”

  “And what will this be used for?” Kustar carefully concealed a sinking feeling.

  “Insurance; once the documents are done to our satisfaction, you will write out at least a dozen copies, perhaps more. If we do release you, you will know that any Direthrell raid on the Badgers will undoubtedly uncover one or more sets. I suspect that your masters would be less than pleased with this action, and that their wrath would be worse than any fate of our devising.”

  “If I must,” Kustar nodded, seeing a light of hope glimmer ahead: by immediately confessing what had happened upon her return to Alantarn, she would lose most of her reward, but might side-step any serious repercussions.

  “That is, of course, not all: we have come here to slay the White Necromancer, to put that ancient evil to rest once and for all. You will assist us in this endeavor, and do so to the best of your ability, your continued existence being dependent wholly upon our survival. Should we succeed in this undertaking, you will produce an equal number of copies of a document outlining your participation in this deed.”

  The light winked out with desperate finality: while naked ambition was considered an acceptable trait amongst the Direthrell servitors, upsetting the balance of power was definitely not. The White Necromancer had been an ally of Arbmante’s on occasion in the past, and could be expected to be so again in the future. For a Pargaie officer to participate in its demise would be completely unacceptable to her masters, the more so if word leaked out to the outside world, a circumstance the Badgers would be sure to arrange should anything happen to them. Having a Pargaie officer involved in the death of a friendly liche would hinder Arbmante’s dealings with necromancers for decades to come. Betraying the Badgers to the liche was out: the poison neatly eliminated that possibility, along with physical escape or simple murder. She needed the four more than they needed her. “I suppose that I have no choice.”

  “Exactly. Annoying, isn’t it? We’ll leave you untied in this room for now; you can get started on your writing. In less than two hours you are going to get solid proof that we aren't bluffing about the poison; don’t worry, I won’t let you die this time. With that under your belt, we’ll negotiate the terms of your service with us.” Bridget smiled sweetly. “I’m sure you’ll find us more lenient than the masters you are accustomed to.”

  Kustar glowered at the floor. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  Henri was puzzling over the map of Tiria, and Maxmillian was keeping watch at the door when the two female Badgers returned to the sitting room; both men were eating pastries. “We left you half,” the scholar waved a honey bun. “Found them in that cupboard over there. Not too bad by a long chalk. How did it go?”

  “She backed up what was in the log, and added a few wrinkles. She did a better job of covering our tracks than we did: there are still three investigators digging into the origins of the raid, but if the garrison at Oramere takes care of the Anlarc we’ll be home free. This assumes she’s not lying, but the log bears her out, and I’m inclined to believe her.” Bridget quickly explained the Anlarc’s involvement.

  “That was awfully easy,” Henri observed. “I thought these Pargaie types would be unbreakable, die under torture and all that.”

  Elonia knelt to rummage in the liquor cabinet. “You would think so, but the Direthrell culture creates a deeply ingrained cynicism and self-interest in their people, and the Pargaie have it far more than most Direthrell. Besides, there is always the chance she can come out of this alive, and as long as there is that hope, she’ll keep trying to maneuver.”

  “What now?” Henri asked around a mouthful of pastry.

  “You and I will take care of the Orcs,” Bridget chose a sweet roll, using a silk napkin to keep her fingers clean. “While we wait for Kustar to get the first taste of what going without the vial will mean, and does some writing. That ought to lock her into our immediate control at least. Once we’re confident about her, we’ll rest up a bit while we study the paperwork, and then mount the raid. With a trained assassin added to our force we should have a much easier time of it, using that phrase very loosely.”

  “We could just stay here,” Maxmillian offered. “In each room is a little flag you hang upon the door to indicate that you are not to be disturbed until the next meal. That would also keep them from discovering the attrition amongst their guests.”

  “Clever man,” Bridget nodded. “That’s what we’ll do. Now, Kustar will stay in her room until we leave here; we put a couple spikes through the shutters so she can’t escape even if she wanted to. We’ll give her weapons back just before the final assault begins, not a moment before. We only go into the room in twos; once she gets a taste of the poison, I’m confident she won’t act rashly, but there is no point in taking any risks.”

  “Since she’s part of our group now, in a fringe sort of way, does the hands-off ruling still apply?” Henri leered.


  “Have you forgotten what she is?” Bridget asked with a look of distaste.

  “Yes, the most very beautiful half-breed I’ve met after weeks of celibacy. Besides, how many men can say they’ve had a Pargaie officer and lived to tell the tale?”

  The Serjeant shook her head. “Only if she is willing, Henri, although why I bothered to stipulate that is beyond me, given her attitude. If you do indulge, you leave your weapons out here, don’t take in even a fork with you. And make sure whoever’s on guard knows where you are and bars the door behind you.” She stared at the wizard for a moment. “By the Eight, can’t you just wait until we’re back in the Empire?”

  “That’s why I’m interested in her: there’s a damn good chance we won’t ever see the Empire again. Remember, this is the White Necromancer we’re about to beard in its den, not some Goblin shaman. I have no intention of passing up an opportunity when another may never come along again.”

  Maxmillian looked up from the maps and Elonia’s translated key as the Seeress stepped through the hallway door into ‘Coke’s’ luxurious sitting room, her knife belt slung over one shoulder and a bottle of wine in her left hand. The lovely Badger’s hair was damp; they had been taking turns using the baths since Bridget and Henri had returned from slicing the throats of the Orc guards, no dangerous task given their state of drunken unconsciousness. Kustar had had a dose from the vial after feeling the first onset of the poison, and was vowing complete obedience and loyalty.

  “How was your bath?” Maxmillian asked as the Seeress swayed across the thick carpet, casually pinching out every other candle in the room’s two candelabras as she passed them.

  “Refreshing.” Elonia tossed her belt onto a low table next to the plush day bed and kicked off her unlaced buskins. Wedging the wine bottle between two of the cushions, she strolled to a sideboard and selected two crystal goblets, holding them up to the light of the oil lamp over Maxmillian’s desk to admire the engravings before returning to the daybed. “Bridget is on guard; she says we’re to begin the rest period now, in preparation for the final leg of the mission.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Why don’t you put out your lamp and come have a glass of wine?”