Dark Path: Book Three of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  “Make him comfortable, then stand guard.” Climbing the three steps made her legs ache. The block of gold, she saw, sat on a metal plate set into the floor; after a moment’s reflection she realized that the weight of such a mass of gold would crack even the stone slabs it sat upon; no doubt what she initially thought was a metal plate was actually a steel pillar embedded in the bedrock below, installed to bear the precious weight.

  Drawing forth the symbol of her goddess, she carefully pronounced the funeral cant over the pile of bone shards that were all that remained of the liche. At the last syllable, the shards crumbled away to dust, gone beyond the reach of any necromancy. Using her dagger blade, she tipped the ripped pillow off the block, scattering the liche’s powdery remains.

  Maxmillian looked up from wetting Henri’s lips as she came back. “What’s that under your belt?”

  “The scepter of the White Necromancer; I’ve his seal and a bunch of keys as well, they were on a ledge on the back of its gold block. Here, let me look at him.”

  The scholar stood painfully and stared at the block. “So it’s really dead, gone, whatever?”

  “Gone for good,” the Serjeant nodded, her faintly glowing hands gliding expertly over the wizard’s body. “Check Kustar’s pouch, see that she doesn't have anything on her of use; I’ll say the cant on her before we leave. Henri will be all right, except for his left ear perhaps, but he’ll be very weak, so we can’t be burdened with a body.”

  “What’s the matter with his ear?”

  “He’s going to lose most, if not all, of the hearing in it, I’m afraid, but it’s better than being dead. He’s going to keep some of these scars, too; I don’t have time or strength for fancy work. There, now we can let him rest until we move out, which won’t be long. Take off your armor and tunic and let me have a look at your ribs.” The advocate slumped back to a sitting position, her face drawn and gray with the terrible exertions of the last few minutes.

  A few minutes’ rest, half her water flask, a couple mouthfuls of wine, and a strip of dried beef had gone a long way to restoring Elonia. She was still surprised that she hadn’t been wounded, although she was filthy from rolling around on the floor, as well as bruised and abraded over much of her body. She had unstrapped and stowed her manoples, dug out a net to replace the one she had used rather than bother recovering it, and was eager to get out of this death-pit before the shock of losing the liche wore off and the inhabitants came looking for those responsible.

  Maxmillian emerged from the Grand Chamber strapping his battered breast-and-back into place, just as filthy as she but considerably less battered, thanks to his armor. “Did she Heal your ribs?”

  “Good as new,” he smiled wearily, tightening the last strap. “Henri is awake but weak as a lamb. He can hardly hear right now, although Bridget says only his left ear will be permanently affected; probably be deaf on that side. Go on in; I’ll stand watch. Bridget needs to have you drink this awful-tasting brew and say a cant over you, says it’ll stop any side-effects from rolling around in the stuff from the levare, and for breathing in any Dayar dust.” He shook his head. “Whirlwind of a fight, wasn’t it? For a moment there I thought we were done for, by the Dayar, I mean.”

  “We would have been, were it not for von Sheer and his singing hammer,” the Seeress cocked an eyebrow at the blushing scholar.

  He watched her stroll through the double doors, admiring the swing of her hips and the saucy roll of her shoulders, before dragging himself back to the responsibilities of sentry duty. Running a finger along his hammer, he wished the enchantment would recover quicker: it would be at least a day before he could use it again, two at the strength it had had before this fight, and he suspected that he would have need of it before that time had passed.

  “So, we hit the main treasure vaults here, zig over to the Grand Archive, cut back to this stairway, and thus onward to our entry point. Elonia supports Henri, Maxmillian deals with any Dayar we meet, I’ll handle any lechtor we find, and we’re out.”

  Maxmillian leaned forward to study the blue line which traced their planned path. “That covers a lot more ground than we had planned,” he observed. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

  “The liche is really dead, but I’ve no doubt one of his lieutenants will set itself up here in its stead, and continue some version of its late master’s dread work. That could include the enmity with the Badgers, although it’ll have its bony hands full for the next couple years making sure it hangs on to what it grabbed. We need to do enough damage here to ensure that it doesn't have too easy a time of recovering.”

  “You mean after a fight like that, we’re still in the same boat as before?” Maxmillian was aghast.

  “Not hardly: whoever replaces the White Necromancer will be far less powerful than the liche, and will lose much of the network of spies and hirelings that made the bastard so dangerous. I doubt that the replacement will have much sway outside Tiria.”

  “Why the Grand Archives?” Elonia asked.

  “The master indexing system will be there, or near there. Destroy that and you’ll badly hinder the next ruler of this cesspit. I would like to do something about all the levare, but there’s only so much we can do in the time we have. If that’s all, let’s get moving; our time is short.”

  They moved quickly through the halls, Maxmillian in the lead, Elonia supporting Henri, who was strong enough to walk but unable to balance well due to his injured ears, and Bridget bringing up the rear, map in hand. After the first turn in the hall they were startled by four Dayar who had obviously having been rushing to the liche’s aid when its destruction tore the life from their limbs, at least temporarily. Maxmillian destroyed the helpless Undead with four solid swings of his hammer and the raiders swept on.

  A full dozen Dayar were slumped about the entrance to the vaults, including two that were nearly as old as the ones they had fought in the liche’s chamber. Maxmillian dealt with them while Elonia, armed with the score of ornate keys Bridget had taken in the Grand Chamber, studied the locks on the narrow portal that allowed access to the treasure rooms.

  “Dwarven work, probably Black Dwarves,” she announced, carefully applying no less than four keys to open the lock. The door opened into a narrow passageway that was half the size of the corridors that had led to it. Metal-bound doors were placed at staggered intervals along both sides, terminating in an alcove that held four more Dayar.

  With Henri sitting in the doorway on guard, and Maxmillian happily disposing of the inert Undead, Bridget and Elonia moved down the passageway studying the engraved plates mounted next to the doors. The Serjeant marked three with chalk marks and set Elonia to opening them.

  The first was a good-sized room, the door set off from the rest of the room by a low bannister that segregated a small entryway; a swinging gate allowing access to the rest of the room. In the entryway was a desk supporting a row of ledgers and writing instruments; the rest of the room was filled with sturdy shelves supporting stacked coin rolls, twenty coins sewn into a linen sleeve and marked as to type and value.

  “Right, Maxmillian, fill up the rest of this pouch we took from Kustar with rolls of Imperial marks; no point in messing around with small change or foreign currency. When you’re done, pile the ledgers in the center of the floor and set them on fire.”

  “How many rooms are there like this one?” The scholar accepted the pouch while staring in wonder at the wealth.

  “Over half the rooms in this hall are like this one; add in a couple for bullion, one for enchanted goods, one for gems and jewels, and the rest hold rare and wondrous works of art, books, and the like which can be sold or given as bribes or gifts. We’ll hit this room, the gem room, and of course the room with the enchanted items in it, then head for the archives. Get to work.”

  “Gladly.”

  The gem vault was set up in an identical fashion to the coin room, except that the shelves, no less strongly built, supported long plank-like slabs of a gre
enish-brown substance; gemstones of various types and sizes could be seen embedded deep inside the ‘planks’. Bridget passed the Seeress a small pry bar and a hammer. “The stones are embedded in those ‘planks’ to prevent pilferage: only magic or careful splitting will get them out. Break off four four-foot sections; we’ll dig out the stones on the trip home, if we can find some tools on the way out. Torch the ledgers when you’re done.”

  Elonia surveyed the shelves. “This is a disappointment; I had hoped to ride out of here with a few pounds of finely-cut stones for my troubles.”

  “As did I, but one ‘plank’ apiece is all we’ll be able to carry back to the horses. At least we’ll have a goodly sum of cash to console us.”

  “What about filling that half-full enchanted pouch with sections of ‘planking’?”

  “The slabs are created by magic, and it would not do well to put one enchanted item inside another.”

  “Damn, I’ve been looking for a nice square-cut emerald for a choker for years now.”

  The door to the vault containing magical items had three locks upon it; Bridget was not as expert in the matter of locks and traps as Elonia, but her many years in the Badgers had taught her more than a little. Maxmillian found her seated at a desk in a room identical to the coin room, except that the lath and pole shelves were stacked with items of every variety imaginable. The Serjeant looked up from the ledger she was studying. “I’ll be a bit longer; check with Elonia and then relieve Henri so he can rest.”

  “He’s better, by the by,” the scholar commented. “Says he can hear almost normally from his right ear, and can wobble about pretty good on his own. I grabbed a roll of Arturian fifty-franc pieces for him, a touch of home.”

  “That’s thoughtful of you. Now go.”

  When Elonia had finished and went to report to Bridget, she found the Serjeant sitting on the floor in the entryway cutting the covers off of ledgers. At the Seeress inquiring look, the advocate explained. “Snakeskin pages: won’t burn worth a damn. We’ll take them along and dump them outside; I’m cutting off the covers to save weight. Did you find your emerald?”

  “I think so, but it’s hard to say through this amber-stuff; I think I found a pair of emerald-cut dark blue topazes to make earrings like you’ve been wanting, plus a nice stone for a matching pendant if you should like.”

  “Thank you. Figure out a way to load up this stuff; we had best not use any of it until Axel and Henri can check them out thoroughly. Most of the items here are Void-oriented, trade goods, but these seem to be all right.” The priestess indicated a small pile consisting of a sheathed sword, a bundle of javelins, two staves, four small wood boxes, and a leather pack. Each item had a page from a ledger tied to it. “I was hoping for another pouch like we took off of Kustar, but no such luck. Let’s get out of here.”

  After distributing the magical loot, the Badgers set off for the Grand Archives, Henri using the two staves, which were bound together, to help him keep his balance. Near the archive they found five more Dayar and disposed of them. Four more, all old warriors, had been on guard outside the main entrance to the Grand Archive.

  “Bad news here,” Maxmillian observed. “This one’s starting to twitch.” He ended that minor movement with a hearty swing of his hammer.

  “They’re starting to recover, the old ones, anyway. Figure ten more minutes for ones the age of those in the liche’s chamber (of which there will be very few, if any), and the best lechtor; about an hour more for the rest. The lechtor will still be woozy for a day or too, but the Dayar will be in full fighting form within minutes of recovering. Waste no time.”

  The Grand Archive was a massive room easily as large as the Grand Chamber, if far less tall. Glowing skulls on iron chandeliers lit the place, which consisted of rows of tall shelves, with a small raised platform in the center of the room for the indexing system and three long tables. A Human form could be seen slumped under one of the tables. A walkway circled the room midway to the ceiling, supporting still more shelves; every inch of shelf space was filled with written material or painted wood blocks which displayed where works had been removed.

  “I’ll take the one under the table, it is most likely a lechtor. Henri, stand guard. Elonia, make a torch and start fires up on the walkway. Maxmillian, here are two Orbs of Warding; find the room with the master indexing system and get it to burning. Stay within shouting distance.”

  The person under the table appeared to be an old man in a simple robe at first glance; closer examination revealed that it was a Human corpse of an old man, without any signs of decay other than an odd flaking dry rot that had claimed the ears and nose, and was eroding the mouth and eyelids. Bridget gripped the rubies of the Torc and concentrated; after a few seconds, the lechtor collapsed into a loose bundle of bones. After a proper recitation of the funeral cant to ensure that the necromancer was gone forever, the Serjeant busied herself with pulling the drawers out of the indexing system. Above her, Elonia was starting fires with a torch made from a Dayar’s axe shaft and an old portfolio.

  Maxmillian stepped out of the stacks, wiping at streaming eyes. “Found the master index; it’s burning nicely.”

  “Good; are your eyes hurt?”

  “No, just a bit more smoke than I expected; all that dry paper went up fast.”

  “Go wait with Henri. Elonia! Come on down.”

  When the Seeress had joined the other two, Bridget hurled one Orb at the index system, and the other at a bookshelf at random. The advocate looked wistfully at the thousands of pages of necromantic lore stacked around her, some of which were the only copies left in the world, knowing that the best volumes were locked away in a secure area somewhere, along with the scores of necromantic artifacts purchased or created by the White Necromancer. She longed to destroy them all, along with the lesser archives and the warehouses of levare, but a dozen minutes had passed since they entered this room, and the dangers confronting them were growing with each heartbeat.

  Moving more briskly, they headed back to the stairway they had come down, ever alert to the possibility of ambush. Henri was growing dizzy again, and the other three were all feeling the aftereffects of the battle, Bridget most of all. They paused for a rest in the storeroom where they had interviewed the servant, who was still tied up in a corner.

  “What should we do about him?” Maxmillian asked, jerking a thumb to the still-unconscious Brett.

  “I’ll deal with him,” the Serjeant sighed. “Take one of these long planks and put a spike in it every foot or so, with plenty of spike left out. We’ll use it for a ladder from the cellar we came in. Oh, and look for chisels and files, something we can use to dig the gems out of those ‘planks’.”

  Leaving the store room, Maxmillian helped Henri, Elonia carried the plank-ladder and the magical goods, and Bridget kept up as best she could. They had forgotten to mark the place where they had come ‘through’ the plank-covered wall, and lost precious minutes finding it again, although the time was a welcome rest for Bridget and Henri.

  Elonia was the first out, blades ready as she climbed out the hole they had blasted barely two hours before; when she signaled, Henri, Bridget, and Maxmillian followed.

  A gray-faced Henri jerked a thumb towards the noon-day sun. “That’s something I didn’t think I would ever see again.”

  “Too true.” Bridget turned her face towards the sun for a moment, eyes closed. Sighing deeply, she shook herself. “What I would give for a hot bath and clean clothes. I would never wear these again, if I had any others along; the stink of that damned grave-house will never come out. We had better get moving.”

  “With the lechtor, or rather, newly independent liches still groggy, won’t the Dayar be at a loss as to what to do? You said they don’t have much aptitude for thought?” Maxmillian asked.

  “To a degree, yes, but these are older than most; the longer they’ve been around, the better they can function. At this stage of the game, I would guess they would revert to their last o
rders until told otherwise. Once we’re clear of the city the risk should be minimal.”

  “Getting the horses over what’s left of the city wall won’t be easy,” Henri commented as the raiders set off through the ruins.

  “We’ll manage. Too bad they have been ridden so hard getting here; otherwise we could keep them and ride in relays, changing mounts every few hours and doubling our speed. As it is, we’ll do best to release them once we reach our own mounts and have transferred the grain and food.”

  “By the Eight, all those miles to ride,” Henri scowled. “Thirty days’ hard travel across the Northern Wastes, just for three minutes desperate battle, then thirty days in the saddle back, and that just to the Ward.”

  “Even a Ward garrison town would look damn good, inflated prices and all,” Maxmillian grinned. “Was it really only three minutes? It seemed like forever.”

  “Five at the most, and that’s stretching it,” Bridget nodded. “Strange how combat is, so fast and so slow. More happens in a minute of fighting than happens in a normal week.”

  “Poor Kustar; that was a hard way to go,” the wizard shook his head.

  “Hard luck,” the scholar agreed, trudging along. “Although we would have killed her ourselves after we got outside the city, you know. She was too smart, and too damned dangerous to let go.”

  “I know,” Henri sighed. “But at least I would have gotten to bed her a time or two before we did.”

  Maxmillian laughed and slapped the Arturian on the shoulder, raising a puff of dust. “That’s something a nice bath in that icy quarry pond will cure.”

  The captured horses were still where they had hidden them; mounted, they made good time through the ruined streets, keeping to the side roads and alleys as they made their way across town, twice sighting figures in the distance, but both times avoiding contact. As Henri predicted, getting the horses across the ruins of the city wall was difficult, but they finally found a place where they managed to goad and drag the beasts through.