by RW Krpoun
All three incidents had been accidental, in that they hadn’t gone out looking to start a grudge match with a powerful foe, but the arch-mage hadn’t seen it in such a light. The White Necromancer (whose gender and true name were a mystery) had put bounties on the collective heads of the Badgers big enough to draw a lot of attention. The Badgers had managed to purchase protection from a powerful arch-mage, but that period of safety was drawing to an end.
The Badgers had decided that their only chance for long-term survival was to put the White Necromancer itself to rest permanently, a task they had not considered before due to the fact that everyone who had tried to get at the liche in its hold had been butchered. While Durek was confident that the Badgers could slip in by guile and stealth, he knew they couldn't take on the Necromancer itself without a big edge in magical power. The Badgers had recently acquired information on something that could give them such an edge, an item called the Torc of Suian. The Torc, the scholars amongst the Badgers assured him, would give them a solid chance of winning a fight with the liche itself. According to the spell-casters, the Torc was the key to the trap they found themselves in.
The complicating factor was that if they openly set out to locate the Torc (which according to their information had been lost in a ruined monastery near the Border Realms) and the White Necromancer heard of it, they would either face a blizzard of assassination attempts, or the liche would simply devise defenses against the Torc. Hence the need to keep Maximilian alive: while the historian thought they had taken the job for the gold and frequent mentions in his books, it was actually because the trip he was taking would take the Badgers right past the ruins they sought to investigate without it being obvious that they were in the area to investigate the ruins.
A further hindrance was that he could not bring the entire Company on a mission so overtly simple, and so had limited himself to a dozen Badgers. Hand-picked veterans led by himself personally, but still a small band compared to the dangers they might face. He had even left their Company standard back at their hold to further indicate that this was merely a small detachment on a secondary mission.
To complicate things to an even greater degree, a two-week stop had been planned in Tarnhen so that Maximilian could study in the excellent library there; accordingly, Durek had dispatched Jenna Maidenwalk, Bridget Uldo, and Arian Thyben on various errands outside the city to gather information, with Roger Turin along for security, only to be caught short when Maximilian announced that he wanted to accompany the expedition. Since there was still a mass of details to be attended to in Tarnhen, both for the trip east and the Badger’s own mission, Durek had reluctantly decided that Dmitri would have to lead those Badgers still on hand as an escort while the Captain remained behind to take care of the detail work. Not that Dmitri wasn’t up to the job- on the contrary, he was as good a leader as the Captain himself, but it was the idea of sending his people into danger while remaining behind that bothered Durek.
The Captain shook his head-this whole affair was more convoluted than Threll poetry and as easy to manage as a fire in a brothel.
Dmitri surveyed the milling confusion that was the Arturian expeditionary force with profound disgust. He had had a bad feeling about the expedition when Durek had tasked him with leading the detachment guarding Maximilian, and the feeling was worse now, before they had even gotten out of the assembly field. The force the Marquis fielded was good-sized, and made a brave show of military prowess to an uneducated onlooker, but to a warrior who had spent nearly thirty years in arms, man and boy, it looked like a circus. There was very little that was complex about the Badger Serjeant or his past: he had fought in one military force or another since he had been old enough to handle a spear. The Phantom Badger's reputation for unorthodox and highly successful applications of the military arts had attracted him to their company, and he had quickly made rank, as was his custom. Skill was all he respected in a warrior, not fancy dressing or shining arms.
The Marquis de Morand had a sizable expedition of forty knights in full armor on heavy warhorses, forty halberdiers in half-plate drawn from town garrisons, twenty light infantry drawn from the militia, and twenty mercenary crossbowmen. On the surface they amounted to enough of an expedition to deal with a cult of Harbingers of Darkness, but Dmitri wasn't impressed by numbers any more than he was by fancy armor and bright pennants. He had heard the reports told by the Watchers who had detected the activity and figured there had to be Direbreed waiting for them by the time the expedition reached the valley, twisted beast-men made by drawing dark forces from the Void and housing them in animal flesh. The Direbreed wouldn't be impressed by numbers or fancy dress, either, only by steel expertly wielded. In the big Serjeant’s opinion there would be hard fighting and dying aplenty in the immediate future, pretty pennants notwithstanding. He felt that if the Marquis had really knew what he was doing, he would have struck when he first received the news rather than wait two days.
The sun was two hour’s height above the horizon and the Arturians were still not ready to go; the mercenary serjeant kicked a rock and wondered why he had had his people roused at dawn. The noblemen, armor on their wagons, gathered in bright-clad groups, gossiping while the halberdiers made a brave show as they stood in formation, officers fussing about their inspections, but Dmitri saw too many garrison beer-guts and too few scars on them to see them as fighting men. The light infantry, fresh off the streets with a week's annual training and no idea what a formation meant, stood in a feeble herd, clutching their spears and waving to friends and family in the massive crowd which had come to see the expedition off. Only the crossbowmen knew what they were about: the company had marched to the field not long after dawn, fed and ready; the officers had inspected their men's weapons and boots, and now they were over in a corner, every man but a sentry resting.
His detachment for this expedition was tucked away under a big willow not far from the field in the hopes that it would prevent trouble, but Kroh's gravel-rough voice could be heard now and again, jeering at one or another element of the expedition despite Starr's efforts to keep in check. At the moment the Dwarf was playing draughts with Rolf under Starr's watchful eye, and the distraction was working for a bit. The last thing Dmitri or Durek wanted was a brawl between the hot-tempered Dwarf and the equally hot-headed, if less dangerous, Arturians.
Rolf, Starr, and Kroh were never far apart, and a more disparate group could not be imagined: Rolf was a heavily muscled half-Orc with the hairless olive skin and massive bone structure of his Orc forebears and soulful amber eyes that spoke of his oddly gentle, almost childlike nature. He worshiped Starr as she was his savior from a terrible fate: Rolf had been lost for years in an abandoned, Void-ridden Dwarven city, and it was Starr that had recognized his nature and negotiated his inclusion in their company when the Badgers had encountered him. He had taken the name of Lightseeker in memory of those dark years, and never forgot that it was Starr and the Badgers who had set him free. His attachment to Kroh was that of a younger brother's adoration for an older, and like Kroh he wore felt-muffled breast-and-back plates, studded leather bracers, and carried an axe. At his waist were a mismatched pair of excellent Dwarven-made dirks, scabbards worn angled for fast cross-drawing.
Starr Brightgift, although nearly three score years of age, was by Threllian standards not completely shed of her teenage years and thrived on the adventure and danger found in such a company. She was bound to Kroh by a blood-debt: he had saved her life in a fight with Undead warriors shortly after she had met the Badgers and before she had really joined. She was the leader of the little squad, as Rolf would do anything for her, and her influence on Kroh was just as strong: she was the only person who could reason with the Waybrother when he was in one of his frequent killing rages, and had more control over the Dwarf's temper (which was as stable as a one legged duck) than the Dwarf.
A prime example of lithe Lanthrell beauty on a miniature scale, Starr was a good head shorter than the norm for her
people, standing only an inch over five feet tall, supple and fine-boned yet possessing a subtle nimbleness about her, as well as an air of child-like frivolity, although she was sensitive in regards to her height. Some Badgers speculated that part of her affection for Kroh was that she was seven inches taller than the Dwarf. With sky-blue eyes, corn silk blonde hair, and features that seemed to have been carved from the finest china, the little Threll was an enchanting companion, saved from overt sensuality by an innocence and young-girl-openness unmarred by the battlefields of romantic endeavor. As was true of all her people, she tended to be narrower-built and finer-boned than Humans, with slightly tilted eyes that seemed a bit larger than the Manish norm, and whose ears were smoother, longer, and pointed.
She was the Company's chief scout and deadliest archer, expert with the murderous yakici recurve bow made that was the Lanthrell national arm. She wore the enchanted sword Snow Leopard, which she had captured during an intrepid independent scouting mission nearly two years before. While she was not a veteran of the caliber of Rolf and Kroh, she was no novice.
Kroh Blackhand, who often went into a hot fighting fury in combat, earned his nickname from his habit of tattooing runic markings on his hands to commemorate the battles he had fought and the various races he had slain; at a distance it appeared as if the Dwarf was wearing gloves of course black lace. Kroh was a member of the Guardians of the Way, a loose organization of battle-mad Dwarves whose simple creed was to improve the lot of their race by killing anything that might possibly pose a threat. He was an exemplary member of the order, as testified by his possession of a Named Axe, a treasured relic of the Guardians. Besides being empowered by several potent runes, the axe's haft bore twenty-four narrow gold bands, each bearing a name of a Waybrother or Sister slain while fighting the foes of Dwarvenkind with that very weapon; when a Named Axe was made, it was given to a mighty Waybrother, and then passed on to another particularly worthy Waybrother when the original wielder fell, and so on. When the haft was full the axe would be retired to the Hall of Honor.
Kroh was a Waybrother's Waybrother: swaggering, bigoted, hot-tempered, arrogant, outspoken, indelicate in speech, violent-natured, quick with his axe, and slow to see any other view than his own. Additionally he had a child's attention span, a two-year-old's patience, and a weird approach to most things. He was also, according to those who knew him, incredibly brave, absolutely fearless, and loyal to the death. He watched over Starr with an attentiveness akin to a cross between a loving older brother and a spinster aunt chaperon. In physical form Kroh was a walking wedge of muscle, so much so that he was appeared as broad in the shoulders as he was tall, a Dwarf whose weathered features held equal amounts of cunning and maniac intensity. His dark brown hair was worn close cropped to insure a better fit for his helm, while his thick beard was worn braided and tucked under his belt. Until most Dwarves he wore no beard-broach, for reasons known only to Kroh.
As Dmitri passed the little trio Kroh looked up. “Bet you not one in four comes back alive," he offered with a manic grin that was barely visible. “Bet you double I could take any five with just my short sword. Bet you triple I could take any ten with my axe. In fact," Kroh was on his feet with his enthusiasm. "I could take any twenty of them with my back to a wall, my axe, and a breather between halves. I bet..." Starr grabbed his hand and pulled him back to a sitting position, playfully fluttering a willow branch at his nose. The Dwarf brushed it away with an irritated grunt, but, his attention diverted, returned mumbling to the game.
The rest of Dmitri 's seven-Badger detachment was whiling away the time with the patience of experience: Johann Helbritt, a tall, lean scholarly-looking man not yet thirty who in normal missions was the Company’s standard-bearer, was talking with their paymaster, Maximilian von Sheer, who was sketching the scene before them; Henri Toulon was engrossed in a book as befits a practitioner of the mystic arts, and Elonia Starshine, the Company’s only Seer, was brooding a short distance from the others. Henri and Johann were identically equipped as light combatants with studded leather shirts, sword-rapiers, and parrying daggers; Johann carried a light crossbow while Henri bore a sling, as it was an iron-clad rule in the Phantom Badgers that all members be proficient with, and carry, at least one missile weapon.
Johann had been in the fur trade when an Orc raid began a series of events which ended with the Badgers effecting his rescue from a slave work crew; the former clerk had accompanied the Badgers back to civilized lands only to learn that the loss of his funds and records in the Orc raid had ruined his prospects in his old occupation. Penniless and unemployed, the trader had remained with the mercenaries because he had no other occupation, and had turned out to be an excellent addition to the Company.
Never one to get too close to his sword-mates, Dmitri nevertheless felt even more distance than was usual between himself and the Seeress. Not that he didn't trust her-she was no friend of the Dark nor an oathbreaker, as both time and events had proven. But there was something about her he could not put his finger on. She claimed to be of mixed blood and it was a fact that she had the beauty and features that spoke of Threll blood and the robust figure that suggested Human lines as well, but it went beyond that. She brooded more than anyone he had known, and seemed to approach events with a certain confident expectation as if it was all set down in some ledger she had already perused. Perhaps it had to do with her being a Seer who dabbled in magic, but Dmitri was sure there was no simple answer.
She was as unsettling in appearance as she was in habit, being tall and full-figured, with the easy grace of a well-bred cat and the aloof, serene beauty such as was seen on statues of goddesses, her dark blonde hair worn long and her sea-green eyes as calm as a summer day. Caring little for armor or fighting conventions, she wore a leather shirt and a wide leather girdle that supported two angled Navian dirks known as yataghans, several different-sized pouches, and a battery of throwing knives. A folded fighting net was carried over each cross-draw yataghan scabbard, and a crossbow graced her saddle. She served as the Company's Seeress, dabbled in that brands of magic known as Amplus Novo, or the Inner Sight, and Vectuis Meum, or mysticism, and remained an enigma to all.
On an impulse he walked over and sat beside her. “Any ideas?” Protocol forbade direct reference to a Seer's abilities; every one he had known was touchy about it, although Elonia was more relaxed than some.
She shrugged and smiled with an easy elegance. "I used the runes and crystal both, and didn't get anything you can't see with your eyes: danger and foolishness. A pity Durek couldn't have budged Maximilian.”
"Not much of a chance, he's spent his whole life reading and writing about battles so there's no way we’re going to keep him from seeing this one. Hopefully he'll learn and make the rest of the trip easier." He stroked his beard, checking by touch that the luck charms were all in their proper places. "I want you to stick close to Maximilian on this trip; you're exotic, and he'll be more than glad for the company. Get into his confidence, and steer him right."
Elonia cocked an eyebrow. "Am I supposed to win him over with my seductive charms for the good of the Company?" It was meant to sound like a rebuke, but Dmitri was sure she was making it out of form. Not that she would sleep with Maximilian: she had never expressed the slightest physical interest in anyone since she had joined the Company. Elonia seemed to spend a lot of effort reacting in ways that appeared conventional, when Dmitri was sure that her way of thinking was not.
"What I want is to make sure we watch this battle from a distance. If you can't do that with your wits and a smile I'll get Starr to do it."
"Oh, I can manage. Tell me, what do you see when you look at this expedition?"
Her gaze was meant to be casual, but Dmitri saw something deeper than idle interest. He shrugged. "I see too much concern for pomp and comfort, too much reliance on armor and horse and too little on planning and scouting, and above all I see everything bet on one roll of the dice. Heads down and charge, that's the Arturians f
or you. There's a bunch of men out there in that field that don't have much longer to live." He was a bit surprised at himself; normally silent, he always found himself talking far more than usual to Elonia.
She nodded absently. "I'll get Maximilian to listen, Dmitri. That much we can do."
Elonia Starshine watched the big Serjeant as he interrogated the harried Arturian quartermaster, and wondered if any of his forbearers had the Sight. The big Kerbian saw through her more than any other in the Company, even Starr, who knew far more of the truth than was perhaps wise. She suspected that if her intentions had been hostile to the Company Dmitri would have sensed it, and killed her without a second's hesitation. There was no danger of that, at least: she did play a deeper Game, but she was true to her oaths to the Company.
Chapter Two
Dmitri emerged from the council of war with anger burning a hole in his gut. The pace they had set was maddening: what should have taken four days had taken six so far and they were at least another two hour’s march from the valley. They had six, count them, six big ox-drawn wagons for a simple expedition that shouldn't have required more than four light carts, and those damned garrison-soft footmen had been limping after the first hour and straggling an hour after that. They set up camp before the sun touched the horizon and never started the day’s march before the sun was fully clear of it. It was insane: the whole purpose to this operation was to get to the valley before the Harbingers could begin creating Direbreed, not after they had finished raising an army and were just tidying up.
At least the weather and terrain had been with them: it was smoothly rolling plains from the shores of the Ascendi Sea to the edges of the Thunderpeaks, and they traveled a fairly well maintained road. The weather had been balmy days and nights just cool enough to make a blanket comfortable; the few brief showers had been more refreshing than anything, and they had never had to sleep wet. The farms they had passed were prosperous, and the people had turned out of every dwelling they passed to cheer them on, which had buoyed morale and, if possible, given the nobles even bigger heads.
