by RW Krpoun
The Nepas woman set aside a completed document, flexed her fingers, and reached for another sheet. She had finished her lists of Pargaie officers and operatives (spite led her to list Chorapel Vargrat, Dooaun, and every other member of Fort Margrave’s staff that she could recall), and her lists of Direthrell agents, which was badly dated and restricted primarily to the net she had managed near the Bloody Road, but Bridget had decided that she also wanted a letter written (in a dozen copies, as before) explaining that Kustar had arranged for the Gates to be opened in Alantarn for the first raid, and had been instrumental in aiding the second raid. With Kustar’s own log (which had included her heroics during both raids as self-promotion) to work with, the priestess had come up with a scenario and forced Kustar to abide by it, thus proclaiming herself to be a long-time agent of the Felher. The document was written in the format of a letter from the Nepas to the Captain of the Phantom Badgers, introducing herself and offering to assist the Badgers in ambushing Direthrell convoys in return for a percentage of the profits. It was a clumsy attempt, but the chilling thing of it was that should it come to light it could be used to make a convenient scapegoat to explain away the raid.
She had initially suspected that the writing exercise was simply a ruse to give her hope and keep her cooperative until the liche was dead, but now she knew that they would release her; the writings, instead of being insurance against her betraying the Badgers, would be the leash by which they controlled their own spy within the Pargaie apparatus. She was being ‘turned’ as it was called, made into a double agent, and there was very little she could do about it for now.
The best course, she had decided, was to play along as best she could until they released her, and then make the hard decision: come clean to her superiors, which might result in a lingering death as they probed for subterfuge and triple-crosses, act as the Badger’s agent and plot for their downfall while obeying their commands, or fake her own death and start life all over again. None of the options available was particularly attractive.
The two scouts stopped to orient their map and ponder the options before them. “That would seem to be the likeliest point of entry,” Bridget indicated a section of flagstone flooring that had once been a small patio or broad walkway on the north side of the ruins. “It ought to be over this sub-cellar, which opens into the main tunnel complex.”
Elonia examined the map where the sergeant indicated. “That would seem so. Now that that’s done, what you do plan for Kustar?”
“If she survives the raid, we’ll kill her, of course, quickly and cleanly. There was never any question of that.”
“Good. From my studies of her log, she did a much better job of covering our tracks than we ever thought to. Of course, had we not run into the Anlarc’s force while leaving we would have left very few clues behind. Provided that the garrison at Oramere can deal with the Anlarc, we are safe from Alantarn’s revenge.” After offering the flask to Bridget, the Seeress took a long drink of wine.
“An astute evaluation of the situation,” Bridget observed admiringly. “Concise and exactly to the point, well supported by a careful study of the facts and obviously arrived at after lengthy consideration of all aspects of the problem. Which is especially impressive given the amount of time you spent hauling Maximillian’s ashes.”
The mixed blood Badger held back a choked cough by sheer force of will as some of the wine sought a different route. Thusly unable to trust her voice, she turned a steely gaze upon the advocate, who was seated on a block of granite with the maps on her lap, kicking her heels like a child.
“Accurate estimations of the dangers before us and tending to the morale of the troops! Elonia, where do you find the time?” the sergeant turned an innocent smile to her companion’s frosty glare.
“I might expect such behavior from Henri, but hardly would have thought it of you,” Elonia snapped. “The historian and I spent some time perusing the maps before I dozed off, if it were any of your business.”
“It isn’t any of my business, but when I was on guard in Kustar’s sitting room, I discovered the interesting fact that the guest house is really not in too good of repair: under the sideboard that held the pastries is a dry-rotted hole the side of a good shield, and several paintings on the wall conceal holes that were simply papered over for appearances. Two such holes connect Kustar’s sitting room with the wizard’s sitting room.” She grinned wickedly at the Seeress’ sudden flush. “So naturally, without trying, I overheard much of your perusing with Maxmillian, especially the points in the map study where you urged the scholar to...”
“That is quite enough,” Elonia curtly cut her off. “I perform my duties to the best of my abilities; your writ to command extends no further over my life.”
“Oh, I believe you performed your duties with excellence and elan,” Bridget leered.
“You know, Bridget, I noticed that Durek never thought to inquire about it, but back when we had the trouble with the trappers at the brewery and you went for help, it was never made clear to me why you made the trip without your blouse on under your dress,” the Seeress observed. “Of course, sentry duty can be very tedious, and Axel is your husband, but...”
Red-faced, the priestess began to roll the maps to return them to their leather carrying case. “Enough girl talk; we should return to the others and start the raid.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Elonia murmured.
A short distance from the patio that was to act as their entry point, Bridget went over the plan one more time. “We don’t have time to make copies for everyone, so take a good look at these maps; if anything happens to me and you lose these, you’ll have to get out on your own. I believe we’ll come into the tunnel complex here, fairly close to a major thoroughfare, and work our way to the liche’s chamber thus, and so. Every description the Pargaie have only mention three entrances to the chamber, so I feel it’s safe to assume that that hasn’t changed. Kustar’s reports indicate that the bulk of the Undead guards are concentrated at the entry points and the treasury; internal security is low, as is traffic.”
“If traffic is low and the living staff s small, why do they keep expanding the complex?” Maxmillian frowned. “You wouldn’t think they would need a whole lot of room, given that the bulk of the garrison doesn’t eat, sleep or require entertainment.”
“Storage,” Kustar explained. “The liche stores the makings for an Undead army, intelligence data on everyone and everything, and holds the greatest collection of necromantic writings and artifacts in the known world. The complex is expanded to support those three interests.”
“Perhaps our exit shouldn’t be as hasty as we had planned,” Henri mused. “Perhaps we should destroy what we can, and loot where we’re able.”
“That’ll depend upon the recovery time of the garrison,” Bridget shrugged. “What effects the pervasive aura will have on the recovery rates for the Dayar and lesser liches is a matter of guesswork. Linger too long and we’ll never leave.”
“May I have my weapons back?” Kustar politely broke the thoughtful silence that followed the Serjeant’s observation.
The advocate passed the Nepas woman her sword belt and boot daggers. “No point in giving you back your throwing stars; they won’t be of use against the Undead, and Elonia took the poison quills, anyway.”
“Hey, look at the sky,” Maxmillian suddenly exclaimed. Overhead, the broken cloud cover had spread out into bulky tufts of low-lying clouds and long streamers of high altitude clouds, the whole bathed in midmorning light, making the sky a wondrous combination of diffused light and blurred shadows. “Silver and blue, the Badgers colors: a favorable omen.”
“That’s true,” Bridget nodded, unwrapping an Orb of Destruction from her pouch. “Here goes.” She tossed the sling-bullet sized glass sphere onto the center of the patio, where an area the dimensions of a doorway erupted into gravel. After the eruption, however, the bits of stone settled back into the ruined flagstones, proof that penetrat
ion had not occurred.
“Looks like a fresh grave,” Henri observed.
“Nice line of thought. All right, let’s scoop out the gravel and try again; these Orbs were meant for walls; it’ll take two, most likely.” Bridget shook her head. “I hope.”
The gravel created by the second Orb cascaded inward, exposing an opening leading through the ceiling of a subterranean chamber.
“I’m first, then Henri, Kustar, Elonia, Maxmillian,” Bridget carefully packed away their last Orb. “Let’s finish this.”
After Kustar had dropped through, Elonia paused to touch Maximillian’s lips with a fingertip before rolling lithely into the darkness. The scholar, heart hammering, gave her a second to get clear before dropping heavily into the hole.
The room they found themselves in was an old wine cellar with timber-reinforced earth walls, dirt floor, and rotting shards of wine racks, illuminated by a rusty glow from the Torc’s rubies and a soft white light Henri had created on the top of his iron cap. A frameless doorway led into a short earth-walled tunnel which sloped gently downward for twenty feet, the last five feet of its length floored with bedrock. The tunnel’s far end was sealed off from the other side with heavy, unfinished planks nailed horizontally across the opening, the work crudely done, with several gaps between the boards. Bridget peered through the cracks before setting to work with a short pry bar.
Two boards were all that was needed to be removed in order to let the raiders slip through; Maxmillian hammered them back into place with a couple fresh nails (veterans all, the Badgers carried a wide mixture of items in their pouches) while the rest of the party conferred. They had emerged into a hallway whose floor was seven inches into the bedrock, illuminated faintly by clumps of luminous peton moss which grew on the plank-covered walls, encouraged by the living occupants as a cost-effective light source. The moss created an oddly sweet odor, which off-set but failed to completely cover the sharp tang of the dirt held back by the planks covering the walls, and the nose-tingling scent of the plank’s dry rot. The liche’s lair was a level below them, dug deep into the living stone. The direction of the discussion was whether to risk taking one of the various stairways or to use the last Orb to break through the floor into a smaller side room below. Bridget decided that they would head for the nearest stairway and assess the risks, preferring to save their last Orb in case of emergency.
Weapons ready, the raiders slipped down the corridor, passing two intersections and several closed doors. They paused to listen outside each of the unmarked doorways before moving on, but heard nothing to indicate occupation. A hundred feet from the intersection where the stairway was located, they took refuge in an unlocked storeroom filled with stacks of timber, both beams and boards. Bridget spread the map on a convenient stack of planks and indicated their location on the map.
“Kustar’s maps aren’t off by much so far: one doorway, here, is the only change we’ve seen, and we’re on the outer edge of the first level. Although we’ve only seen a fraction of the whole, this does give me some hope that we won’t be completely lost in here. Now, this level is used for staff quarters, the kitchen, storerooms for mundane supplies, and the like. The next level contains the liche’s chamber, quarters for its key subordinates (all of whom are lechtor), storerooms for the materials for creating his Undead troops, armories, several treasure vaults, and the storage for his collection of things necromantic. Once past this level and the stairs, there shouldn’t be too much in the way of traffic.”
“Will the stairs be guarded?” Henri wondered.
“Perhaps; the Pargaie files indicate that on some of their visits they were guarded, and on others they were not. Now, it could be that on some visits the guards were withdrawn to keep the liche’s security practices secret, so we cannot count on it either way.”
“Better just to use the Orb,” Kustar observed. “The storerooms for the Undead troops would be safest.”
“I agree,” Henri nodded. “No doubt any Dayar sentries will be equipped with some sort of alarm device, and even if the head of the stairs is unguarded the Dayar could be at the bottom, just to make things more difficult.”
Maxmillian gave the subject some thought. “But traffic is heavier on this level; what if we run into someone while moving around this level in order to get over one of the store rooms?”
“Any encounter on this level would likely be with a living servant, rather than a Dayar,” Kustar shrugged. “Easier to kill, or better yet, take alive and interrogate.”
“That is the best idea of all,” Bridget nodded decisively. “We wait near the stairs and grab a servant; by using them as a shield, we may get close enough to a Dayar to kill it before it sounds the alarm, and in any case we’ll learn more about this place. Elonia, take one or two with you to scout the stairs; if there are no visible guards, wait and capture a living prisoner; if they are guarded, come back right away. The residual effect of the Torc’s aura should shield you for at least fifteen minutes, but wait no longer than ten.”
“Kustar will do,” the Seeress leaned forward to study the map for a moment. “Who’s got some cord left?”
Henri tossed her a quantity of stout silk cord wrapped around a length of arrow-shaft. “Good hunting.”
The stairway was located in an alcove off their corridor, with another corridor intersecting directly opposite the alcove. The stairway, which did not go up, was a spiraling stone ramp just wide enough for two people side-by-side. Flanking the alcove was a pair of niches for sentries, but both were empty and long unused. After a quick examination of the area, Elonia positioned herself and the Pargaie officer in one of the niches and settled down to wait.
“So tell me of Alantarn,” the Seeress whispered. “It has been many a year since I spent any time there.”
“The two raids gave it a complete facelift,” Kustar shrugged. “Fewer slaves about, no Felher slaves at all. Peria’s cut the fortress staff by a huge degree, sent the excess back to Arbmante or out to the field, and has filled what was left with his people.”
“I imagine that the garrison is completely strange to me now, what with all the new recruits they must have sent in to replace the raid losses,” Elonia mused.
“More than you might imagin,; the first raid inflicted terrible losses. But they weren’t made good with recruits, Peria brought four veteran Albars through just after he took command, troops he had led on the frontier.”
“Two thousand veterans,” Elonia shook her head. “That’s quite a jump in the fortress’ strength.”
“More than just two thousand; many of the losses from the second raid were made up by veterans who were brought in from Arbmante, troops from Peria’s earlier campaigns. There’s hardly a familiar face in the garrison, especially in the ranks of the troop leaders.” The Nepas officer stopped and frowned slightly.
“Hadn’t given it much thought, had you?” Elonia grinned. “Makes you wonder what he’s up to.”
Kustar shook her head angrily. “It’s hardly a likely scenario: even if he could launch a coup, Alantarn could never exist as a city-state: there is no Treasury, no cash reserve, and until the anverax becomes operational, no means to create one. Without reserves of gold, the garrison cannot be sustained, making the fortress a sitting duck.”
The Seeress shrugged. “Still, it does sound unusual.”
Approaching footsteps killed their conversation; Elonia motioned for the Pargaie officer to remain in place, and eased forward to look out. The footsteps belonged to a man of middle age carrying a basket on one shoulder, dressed in a plain wool tunic and canvas trousers. He was coming down the corridor the raiders had used, but from the opposite direction, and appeared to be unarmed but for a small belt knife. The Seeress held one finger behind her back where Kustar could see, and motioned her forward.
As the man unconcernedly turned to enter the stairwell he found himself seized from behind with a hand clamped over his mouth and a knife’s edge tickling his throat. A second set of hands
ripped the basket from his grasp and expertly plucked the knife from his scabbard.
The touch of steel to his throat made their captive completely cooperative; Elonia marched him back to the raider’s hiding place without difficulty or the use of the binding cord. Kustar walked alongside, cutting the man’s pouch from his belt and patting him down for other weapons, no mean feat to be performed while moving. Maxmillian was on watch, peering through the slightly ajar door; seeing them, he held the portal wide, grinning.
“Well, well, what have we here?” Bridget studied the ashen-faced captive. “What’s your name?”
“Brett, milady, Brett, I wasn’t malingering, I promise you.”
“I’m afraid it’s worse than that, Brett,” the advocate shrugged. “Henri, what was he carrying?”
“Three pots of glue, a bundle of seasoned reeds, a spool of woven thread, three brushes of varying width bristles, a dull belt knife, and a pouch containing the usual junk and an interesting coin or token.” The wizard held up a disc about twice the size of an Imperial gold Mark, made of black steel with the White Necromancer’s skeletal hand in silver on one side, and silver-filled runes on the other. “I imagine that this is what protects him from the Dayar.”
“Supplies for book repairs, the basket contents, I mean,” Maxmillian observed.
“So, Brett, tell me about yourself; start with how you came to serve the White Necromancer,” Bridget settled herself comfortably on a stack of beams.
Brett looked from one to another with growing horror. “You don’t work for the Gray Lord, you are assassins. How did you get this far?”
“And what is it that assassins do?” Kustar prompted.
Brett gave that a moment of thought, sweating and pale.
While he wrestled with his situation, the Badger Serjeant leaned forward. “Look at it this way, Brett: we did make it this far without being detected; if you are found to be in our company, just who do you think they’ll blame? Tell us what we want to know and we’ll knock you over the head and leave you tied up in here; whether we succeed or fail, you will not be blamed.”