Dark Path: Book Three of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  “Stand aside, Threll, or die. It is all the same to me.”

  Agyra shifted his axe comfortably. “Come on, then: I fear no bag of Goblin bones. You would have been wise to stay in your cell and rot.”

  Without hesitation, the vampire sprang across the chamber.

  The Goblins and Thanes left on the surface watched the Anlarc disappear into the vent. As the minutes ticked by, the two forces stood and eyed each other warily, weapons ready but not completely threatening, the pall of distrust thickening.

  The sound of stonework shattering and a high-pitched yell of pain from a Goblin drifted out of the vent, causing both forces to stiffen; Bakmann and the Baia stepped over to the crevice to listen while their followers shifted uneasily, fingering their weapons and muttering of treachery, all thoughts of the Badgers forgotten. Seconds later the sounds of a dying scream echoed upwards, followed shortly by the Anlarc’s voice.

  “Treachery?” the Baia muttered, staring at Bakmann.

  Before the Thane could reply, a Goblin arrow whipped out of the trees and struck him in the thigh; without thinking, he lifted his crossbow and released the bolt, striking the Goblin leader square in the chest. A ragged volley from the retinue’s crossbows tore into the Goblin ranks as the dying Baia’s bodyguard swept over the wounded Bakmann, stabbing him to death even as the retinue broke ranks in an attempt to rescue him. In seconds, the small clearing around the vent was engulfed in combat as jugata and Thanes exchanged blows.

  “That was too easy,” Kroh chortled, watching the fighting from a hidden vantage point. “Let’s go in and finish them off.”

  “No, we’ll wait,” Axel shook his head. “Let them thin themselves out first. Remember, we’ll have to deal with whoever comes out of the crevice, either the Anlarc or whatever it is that we’ve released. Kurt, go tell Starr, Halabarian, and Eclipse to start sniping at both sides, but only to use the Goblin arrows we took off the yasahe. Are you sure all the mule-handlers are dead, Rolf?”

  “Yes, sir. Will we get to kill at least a few Goblins?”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll see plenty of fighting today. Hopefully we’ll all be standing afterwards.”

  The fighting around the crevice surged back and forth; the Goblins had the advantage of numbers and the effects of the vampire’s aura, as well as the fact that the Thanes had broken formation; the retinue had the advantage of better armor and weapons, as well as size. The Thanes managed to get back into formation, although they lost several warriors to the jugata and several more to the arrow-fire coming from the surrounding trees. Neither side perceived that there was a third force involved.

  Axel waited and watched; since his assault force was small (Rolf, Kroh, Starr, Gottri, and Kurt, supported by himself, Halabarian, and Eclipse) he would have to choose the point at which to attack with the utmost care; surprise and shock were fleeting things, and when their effect was gone his small force would be badly exposed. It was essential that his attack come at a point where the fighting spirit of both enemy forces was at the breaking point. Just as importantly, he must be sure that they could finish off the surface forces before either the Anlarc or whatever it was behind the enchantments came out of the fissure. Yet another consideration was that none of the Thanes survive, and as few of the Goblins as possible to keep this entire action a secret. The fewer know of this, the less chance of some nosey Pargaie officer digging up the Badger’s name.

  The point he felt was right came as a lull fell on the fight, both forces showing signs of exhaustion. The Thanes had only twelve members still on their feet, nearly all wounded to some degree, deployed in a half-circle with their backs to the trees; there were twenty-two Goblins still mobile, but most of their leaders were dead or too badly wounded to fight, leaving them a disorganized mob held together by the aura coming from the vent and simple battle-fever.

  A sudden, stunning eruption of hail ripped through the Thane ranks, throwing the red-faced, tired warriors into confusion just as the five Badgers exploded from the trees behind them, while a long Lanthrell arrow impaled the last Goblin Lapla (serjeant) left on his feet, and a short bow arrow killed the Goblins’ standard bearer. A second volley of hail slammed into the battered jugata, followed by a wispy flicker of silver mist that killed two and frost-burned a half-dozen. Tired, confused by the aura coming from below, and leaderless, the Serao fell apart as individual Goblins ran for safety from the sudden shift in the battle.

  The five Badgers struck at the center of the line of Thanes, killing three outright and breaking the line in half; Kroh and Gottri swung right, taking half the line on the flank, while Starr and Kurt swung left, doing the same to the other half, while Rolf charged into the broken ranks of the Goblins on the heels of a third hailstorm. The jugata had had enough: even as the big Badger cut a Pa down with a sure swing of Moonblade the rest took to their heels.

  Starr slapped a sword point aside and closed, Snow Leopard flashing forward to deliver the Leopard’s Kiss, killing a Thane instantly as the wave of cold stopped his heart. She hopped back and parried an axe-swing with her buckler as the Human fell, glad that there were only three left facing her and Kurt. Kurt side-stepped a sword-thrust and riposted, catching the Thane high in the chest. As he darted forward to finish the wounded man a hulking Thane suddenly lashed out with his axe.

  The little Lanthrell was caught up in the fight, working sword and buckler with practiced swiftness and a veteran’s precision, staying primarily on the defensive until the odds changed, as the retinue warriors were both skilled and well-armored. She caught Kurt’s attack out of the corner of her eye, but missed the Thane’s counter-move in the noise and confusion. A jet of hot blood struck her squarely on the right cheek, splashing across her ear and hair and running down the front of her armor as Kurt’s head bounced past her feet.

  Reacting instinctively from her training, she instantly hopped back a step and snapped her head violently down and to the right, throwing the blood away from her eyes, buckler up and angled in front of her, sword held low and to the side, ready to riposte. The man Kurt had wounded hung back, clutching the wound in his chest, but the other two Thanes closed, heartened by the change in odds. Starr parried and blocked, backing up a deliberate step at a time to keep from being flanked. Others were watching, however; the larger of her two opponents was suddenly coated in hoar frost and toppled lifeless. The little Lanthrell took advantage of his comrade’s surprise and thrust with Snow Leopard held low, hamstringing her opponent. A quick chop to the crippled Thane’s neck as he fell ended her fight; the wounded Thane who had held back was already dead, a short bow arrow jutting from his side.

  Wiping the clotting blood from her face with the back of her right hand, she surveyed the battlefield: hers had been the last of the retinue; Kroh and Gottri had joined Rolf in pursuing the remaining Goblins. Still scrubbing at Kurt’s blood, the little Badger stepped over to a moaning Thane who was curled into a ball in an attempt to push his intestines back into his body, and dispatched him with a sure thrust to the spine. Moving to another incapacitated but still living Human, she ended his misery, and, not incidentally, his danger to the Badger’s secrets.

  “Starr.” She looked up to see Axel waving to her. “Get your bow and Eclipse and hunt down as many Goblin stragglers as you can; Rolf and Kroh can clean up. Halabarian has already started after them. I’ll tend to the wounded.”

  The last blow sent the vampire to the ground, the weird inner glow fading and winking out. Not content with an apparent victory, the Anlarc reversed his axe to the hammer-head and proceeded to pound each bone to splinters, ensuring that the Undead creature would not return to its half-life. Finished, he straightened his twisted frame and regarded the shards of his opponent, his left arm hanging limp and broken at his side, gray-blue blood oozing through rents in his armor. He could not remember a more viscous fight against a more powerful and wily foe, and no greater waste of ability.

  Above, he sensed a battle underway; no doubt the Badgers had att
acked, perhaps even provoking his troop and the Goblins to fight amongst themselves beforehand. Wearily changing his senses, he concentrated upon the hole in the corner of the chamber, only to discover what he expected: far down the shaft was a stout barricade made of steel bars; in his weakened state it was sufficient to close that way as an exit to him. Retreat removed as an option, he tiredly unstrapped the pouch at his side, an enchanted container that would hold as much as a trunk without additional weight. Tossing it upon the floor, he chopped it in half with a single stroke of his axe, ruining the item, and instantly destroying its contents.

  Moving to the rope ladder, he began his painful ascent, too weak to waste the energy in floating out. Rung by rung he dragged himself out of the crevice, feeling his weariness and wounds in every movement. It had been decades since he had been injured so badly, and it would be months before his andern-augmented body could restore itself.

  Reaching the surface, he levered himself to his feet with his axe and surveyed the clearing. It was, to put it simply, an abattoir: one could easily walk about the entire clearing by stepping from corpse to corpse without ever touching the ground. Where it was not covered by corpses, some stacked two or three deep, the ground was littered with weapons, shields, severed limbs, and puddles of blood. It was no surprise to him to note that most of the dead Goblins and Thanes appeared to have fallen while fighting each other; it was even less of a surprise that waiting for him in this outdoor charnel house was a group of warriors wearing Phantom Badger insignia. There was a well-armored Dwarf bearing a long axe, and a big half Orc carrying a great sword, both weapons obviously enchanted, and both wielders liberally spattered with blood. The third member of the small reception committee was an unarmored Human leaning on a crutch, the aura of a wizard about him.

  Finally, he was facing followers of the Eight, after misfortune and subterfuge had spent his followers and his personal strength in battles with other servitors of the Dark One. Finally he was coming to grips with the real enemy of his race and Master, instead of the endless battle for domination over the like-minded. It would make dying much easier.

  “I am Agyra of the Axe,” he announced in a calm voice. “Anlarc of the Master of the Void.”

  “Nice to meet you,” the Dwarf sneered. “We’ll make sure we put it on your tombstone.”

  The twisted Threll felt a touch of amusement. If the gnarled little warrior only knew that by now Kustar would have her proof and be legging it back to Alantarn to seal the doom of the Phantom Badgers. They had won this engagement, but had lost the war. Still amused, he painfully hefted his axe and moved forward with what speed he could muster. The Void was calling, and all that remained was to die as an Anlarc should.

  Axel looked down at the savaged, armor-clad corpse. “Done, by the Eight. Rolf, take Gottri and get every scrap of bone left from the vampire; we’ll burn them, and any dead Goblins down there for good measure. I want to be absolutely sure that it is completely, permanently dead.” He jerked the tip of a crutch towards the dead Anlarc. “We’ll burn his corpse as well, and send what survives the fire down to Teasau; there’s temple-priests there who will know how to dispose of the axe and whatever else remains.” Sighing, the Wizard turned to Kroh, who was sitting on a dead Goblin inspecting his side. “Are you all right?”

  “Ruined my breastplate, but didn’t reach the skin,” the Waybrother advised. “Knocked the wind right out of me, though. Threll or not, he took some killing, and him half dead to begin with.”

  It was the only time in Axel’s experience that Kroh had spoken of a foe with anything like respect. He looked down at the shattered husk of the Anlarc and wondered who else in Alantarn knew the secret behind the raid. When the raid group and Durek returned, there would be much to discuss.

  Chapter Eighteen

  With Kustar’s maps the raiders had no problem locating the liche’s compound, slipping quietly through the ruined streets in the predawn grayness after a full day’s rest in the guest quarters. The White Necromancer had for its personal lair the ruins of the city’s archives, a sprawling, multi-winged edifice that engulfed a low hill on the edge of the storm-ruined waterfront. It had once been three or four stories of near-fortress solidity; the Direthrell notes indicated that it had been an armory before becoming a warehouse of words in the golden years before the Sundering and the death of the city, but now it was a mound of ruins, the top floors open to the elements and home to gulls and sea hawks. The real lair was underneath, in a rat’s-nest of tunnels and catacombs expanding outwards from the archive’s deep cellars. Their maps were imprecise about the tunnels; apparently they had been expanded between Pargaie contacts, although the liche’s own chamber had not been moved, and a basic outline was given. The five raiders took shelter in the ruins of a storm-wrecked warehouse and studied the final barriers.

  “Now what?” Maxmillian muttered to the Serjeant, unconsciously keeping his voice low. “Every entrance is going to be watched in some fashion, and there’s bound to be traffic in the hallways. They might not be able to locate us with magic, but the Torc doesn't affect their eyes.”

  “Elonia? Any helpful readings?” Bridget turned to the Seeress.

  She shrugged. “They don’t know we’re here, so the Torc is working fine. Not much to work with, otherwise.”

  “Subterfuge is out,” the advocate decided. “Trying to pass ourselves off as servants won’t work; from all accounts the living staff here is small enough for all to be well-known to one another, and we have no clue as to how they identify themselves to the Undead guards. We do have three Orbs of Destruction; they might serve to get us into the tunnel network without having to fight or bluff; once inside things should be much easier, relatively speaking.”

  “At least we’ll be doing what we’re used to: sneaking around, killing from ambush, looting,” Henri grinned. “It might be a bit premature, but what about getting out?”

  “We kill the liche, then slip out in the confusion,” Bridget shrugged. “The Dayar, lesser liches, and ordinary Undead will be badly disrupted for a period of time immediately after it is put down. And before you ask, I don’t know exactly how long; it depends on the binding spells, the age of the thing, and so on. In this atmosphere, magic-wise, I would imagine that they will recover far faster than anywhere else. I would guess that in the worst case, the best of the Dayar would be out of commission for at least thirty minutes, with the lesser followers out for periods up to a couple hours. In any case we won’t dally about with much looting or destroying once the main deed is done; the instant the liche is finished we grab what’s handy and head for sunlight, race to the horses, and ride south. The good news is we’ve gotten here so quickly that the Torc’s power hasn’t slackened a bit, and we’re got at least seven or eight hours before our actions back at the guest quarters will be discovered.”

  “Into the breach, then; or rather, let’s make one.” Maxmillian shook his head. “Although this is like breaking into your own tomb.”

  The rest of the raid group went to ground while Bridget and Elonia slipped off to scout the exterior of the liche’s stronghold and to choose their point of entry. Maxmillian took sentry while Kustar gloomily returned to her writing and Henri devoted himself to a tome on magic. The ruined shards of the warehouse’s roof threw weird patterns of shadow onto the raiders in the early morning sunlight, serving only to unsettle them to yet a higher degree.

  Maxmillian leaned against a tarred timber that had once helped support the roof, and wondered at the direction his world had taken. After he had spent eighteen months of worshipping from a safe distance and cautious friendship (cautious on his part), Elonia had suddenly taken him into her bed. It left him unsettled and bewildered, for in front of the others she treated him exactly as before: was this to indicate that what had happened was a one-time occurrence, and nothing more? Or was theirs to be a relationship of clandestine meetings and covert passion? He was too old for this sort of schoolboy agonizing, he grumbled to himself; if she
hadn’t been so incredible he wouldn’t trouble himself any further. Morosely, he wondered if the incident was a sort of passionate good-bye.

  The words on the page blurred before his eyes every time he tried to read; finally, he gave up and flipped a page at measured intervals. Henri was as frightened as he could ever remember, more than he had been at the Orc fort or even in Alantarn. There were so few of them this time, and there was so much to be afraid of, so many unknowns. Worse, the liche would need to be killed with enchantment, not steel, and that would lay the effort squarely upon his and Bridget’s shoulders; moreover, since he did not, could not, wear the Torc, it meant that if anyone died, the odds were high that it would be him. Battles between magicians were rare, both because spellcasters of any capability were rare, and the manner of death was so very ugly that few practitioners cared to risk it.

  The only thing holding him together at this point was the memories of Kustar a few hours ago; he could not define what it was about sex, but it had restored his courage to a degree, steadied his hands, and given him back some measure of confidence in himself. There was something about being with a woman that rebuilt your strengths, soothed your fears, and made you master of your destiny yet once again.

  Without moving, he studied the petulant Pargaie officer out of the corner of his eye. Little had been said between them in the hours he had spent with her; he had gone in expecting a wooden performance appropriate to a whore, but instead had been granted what was undoubtedly the most intense experience of his life. Whatever moral shortcomings she might possess, Kustar was a truly expert lover. If the subject came to a vote, he decided, he would support releasing her.