Dark Key: Book Two of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  Dmitri led a mounted scouting force consisting of Henri, Kroh, and Johann up towards the pass, and in fact this scout party for the rear guard quickly passed the main body, which was moving without haste or concern.

  "If this was anything but Direbreed we were facing, they would be dead," Johann commented to Henri, jerking his chin at the glittering mass of the expedition a mile below them. The two were seated comfortably under a tree a mile from the highest point of the pass, waiting for the expedition to close up. Dmitri and Kroh were investigating a sinkhole nearby.

  Henri grinned. Direbreed were notorious for their complete lack of discipline and order, and their units almost never had sentries or picket lines. He saluted the force with his wineskin. "My countrymen: breeding is more important than brains, experience, skill, or knowledge. If your great-grandfather was a good general, than you are as well. It amazes me we've won any wars." He passed Johann the wine, and stretched out on the grass, hands behind his head.

  "There's nothing wrong with their courage," Johann observed. "It's just that they think that's all they need. I wish Elonia could have Seen something to give us an idea of what we're facing." He took a pull and passed the skin back.

  "That's the trouble with Seers: any strong magic in an area and it clouds the visions. I wish we could have let Starr scout around in the valley a bit more, but you just can't let Centaurs get behind you. This riding in blind is a fool's game."

  Dmitri and Kroh returned empty-handed. "How are they moving?" the Serjeant asked and then grunted in disgust. "You would think they would at least have left the wagons behind. This is the most... ah, well." He frowned, drumming his fingers on his felt-muffled breastplate.

  Kroh uncorked his canteen and gulped down several mouthfuls of dark Dwarven ale, then poured the rest into his helmet for his komad, or war pig mount, a grizzled, gray-muzzled sow named Iron Tusk who stood nearly as tall as he was and weighed in at three times his weight. The sadistic beast was feared by nearly all the Badgers, with the only exceptions being the Dwarves and Rolf, who had herded swine as a boy and had a way with most animals, especially pigs.

  "Johann," Dmitri thumped his metal-shod breast, a decision made. "Take the horses and ride to the main body; tell the Badgers to dismount when they enter the valley, then tell Starr to bring the light foot up towards the Orc fort until she reaches my marker, and hold them there until the wagons reach the fort. Tell Elonia to take the wagons directly to the fort. I'll take this bunch and secure the fort. Tell everyone to be alert, as there may be harpies or other flying creatures attracted to a Harvesting."

  Johann repeated the orders before setting off at a trot, leading Henri's and Dmitri 's horses.

  The big Kerbian studied his companions thoughtfully. "We'll go up to the pass, look around, and then make sure the old fort is empty."

  "We found where they had watered goats a few days ago," Kroh explained to Henri as the trio set off; the Waybrother fished a cigar from a small case in his belt pouch, and lit it off a couple coals he carried in a small baked-clay pot. The Dwarf remained afoot out of courtesy despite the fact that he had to maintain a much faster pace. "A big bunch of goats. Rams, I bet. The more aggressive the creature, the tougher the Direbreed."

  "Aren't we going to tell the Marquis?"

  "Not much point: I don't figure he's the type to get excited about livestock, and I bet he doesn't even know how Direbreed are made." The Dwarf shook his head in disgust, then brightened. "But, at least it'll be a good fight."

  Henri had been worried that even the followers of the Void would have posted a guard at such an obvious place as a pass leading into the valley they were quartered in, but the three Badgers and the komad entered without a challenge or alarm raised. The valley lay before them just as Starr had described it, a pleasant expanse of fertile-looking grassland cut abruptly by a leafy wall of trees just short of halfway up its length, its green, peaceful beauty marred by several pairs of stark obelisks flanking low altars in the center of the lower reaches, near the pass. Dark figures moved sluggishly on the valley floor; blackened circles that had been bonfires dotted the area. To Henri's educated eye the marks of the glacier that had cut this rift in the mountain walls were visible, badly faded over the centuries, but still there. The short ridge jutting out into the valley floor was a later addition, he decided, although the whys escaped him at the moment. The old fort was a squared-off mound, a lighter green than the surrounding scrub that coated the ridge, but not very noticeable if you didn't know what to look for. An overgrown road, now hardly a path, curled up the slope to the remains of the fort like an old scar on the ridge-side.

  "About sixty," Kroh observed. "Four or five Fists. Easy meat for the Arturians."

  The Direbreed below were typical of their nightmare breed, each the size and general shape of a man and covered in short, tangled fur, some being solid-colored in dark tones, others weirdly spotted and splotched. They were naked save for a simple harness to bear their weapons, with a few, presumably the leaders, wearing metal caps and carrying shields. Their faces were the worst, being a twisted parody of the host creature's, to the point of full sets of ram's horns or deer's antlers. Their hands were slightly larger than a man's, often clawed; those who had been Harvested from grazing animals usually had hooves and sometimes sported reversed knees.

  "And how many more elsewhere, since I don't see any goats or other livestock? They do the Seeding and Harvesting at night, and I don't think these are enough of those pointy pillar things; it seems to me Elonia said something about them, about how you need more for making centaurs, or leaders, or something." Dmitri scowled. "I wish we could see across the whole valley, there could be an army on the other side of those trees and we couldn't tell." He turned to Henri. "You're the wizard, are there enough of those pillar things?"

  Henri shrugged, embarrassed. "I'm not sure how it works, exactly, but I think you're right. The obelisks are used as a focus, cut and engraved for a specific purpose. They wear out fairly quickly, crack and crumble, that sort of thing; I'm sure you would need more than that to turn out a sizable force." He stroked his neat mustache thoughtfully, warming to the subject. "Additionally, I believe that the whole process is fairly inefficient, dampening-wise. That's why the obelisks suffer so, and the field distortion must be incredible. Even assuming most of the energy so..." He caught Dmitri’s darkening brow, and hastily stopped. "What I mean is, besides the obelisks wearing out, they would have to move the site if they wanted to create a Darkhost; that or wait a couple days each time they created a few score in order to let the ground, well, cool off in a magical sense."

  The Serjeant nodded. "So say they started in the north end of the valley three or four nights ago, by now they might be down here."

  "Unfortunately, yes."

  Dmitri nodded, studying the green mound that was the Orc fort and the curling trail. "We could get the wagons up there quick enough, it looks like. If the main body of Direbreed have left, the Arturians can clean up with no problem."

  "And if the whole Darkhost's here it'll be a stand to remember," Kroh chuckled, blowing a neat smoke ring.

  The magician sighed. Turning around and heading for cover would be the best idea in his opinion, but he knew it would not be well received. For one thing, the Badger's reputation would be tarnished, for another the Arturian's attack would have the same effect as kicking a hornet's nest: if the Darkhost was here, it would lash out at anyone in the vicinity, and Henri doubted they could outrun a troop of Centaurs. And in any case he doubted that Dmitri thought in terms of retreat.

  Moving as stealthily as they could, the Badgers followed the track upslope towards the fort, pausing here and there to clear away a deadfall or rock that could hinder the wagons. Dmitri was tying his kerchief to a bush as a marker for Starr when Kroh hissed in warning. The Dwarf was staring downslope with a fixed intensity; although he would never admit it, he had been keeping an eye on Iron Tusk, and when the war pig had begun staring in that direction the
Waybrother had followed suit, counting on the pig’s superior senses.

  Henri was gripping the hilt of his rapier so hard his fingers hurt and he swore he could feel each individual leather ring covering the weapon's tang. The waiting was always the worst; he crouched with the others on the narrow, overgrown track, listening so hard his ears tingled, but all he heard was the gentle sounds of the breeze in the brush and the busy noises of birds. It was spring, and too lovely a day to be fighting a battle in his estimate. Hearing and sight being unproductive, he tried an experimental sniff, but all he smelled was his own nervous sweat, the smell of oil on his studded leather shirt, and the crisp spring smells of the bush.

  "Centaurs," Dmitri breathed, pointing. Henri finally made out the enemy, vague shapes in the brush.

  Kroh grunted softly in agreement. "A bunch, at least twenty. Heavily armed, and with a banner. Could be a Talon." He referred to a Talon of the Dark One, a force led by a Champion of the Dark One and consisting of an entourage of creatures or followers of the Void, the size and composition based on the Champion's stature and reputation. While it was rare, Direbreed of exceptional longevity and cunning sometimes became Champions.

  "Bad news if they are," Dmitri whispered back. "They're supposed to be patrolling the south entrance, I bet. Slacking off, lucky for us. The problem is when the main body arrives-if they attack the cavalry from the flank it'll be disaster in short order. Worse for us is if they stay in place and hit the wagons on the way up."

  Henri swore. "It'll be a slaughter if they do! There's no way we could stand up to them with the light foot."

  "No, but they're not too likely to try very hard, either: the trail goes through brush the whole way, and Centaurs don't like it in brush, they don’t like to be where foot can attack from the side. Besides, we'll be right here watching them." He unslung his light crossbow and put his foot in the stirrup to cock the weapon; Kroh followed suit. "It's too steep up here for Centaurs; we'll fire down on them and take the edge off their appetite before they can close to lance range."

  The waiting was not long: soon Henri could hear the approach of the expedition and could see the Centaurs stirring. They were freakish beasts: a horse's body, hide now marked with weird, twisting colors by the unnatural forces that had transformed them, with a parody of a human torso sprouting from where the horse's neck should have been. The torsos were covered with hair like the rest of the horse, and a rudimentary mane ran up the spine of the man-part. The faces were bestial, cruel in the extreme; until then Henri wouldn't have believed that an Orc's face could hold more humanity than any other thinking creature. There were thirty-eight in all, all armed with long spears and morning stars; a third of them had bundles of javelins, and two had short bows. None but the leader wore armor, although most had shields and metal caps. The leader was a massive war horse combined with a torso that would have done a blacksmith proud, clad in gray-green armor decorated with eye-twisting swirls and markings. A pair of antlers like an elk's swept high over the leader's helmetless, hairless skull, and its face seemed more goat-like than human.

  A Champion of the Dark One, Henri realized, the first he had ever see: a Minion of Chaos and his retinue, the fighting arm of the Dark One. Call them what you would, it all amounted to the same thing: a thinking being who had so fully embraced the Void that, after certain ceremonies insuring that he was worthy and ready, he would be able to gain massively heightened powers by consuming potions laced with andern or rubbing a paste of andern and other substances into fresh cuts. The use of andern, the pure stuff of the Void, had the side effect of causing mutations in the imbiber, some adding to the Champion's abilities, and the rest just marking him as a true follower of the Dark One.

  "When we fire, go for the standard bearer," Dmitri whispered. Henri nodded, numb with horror. The centaurs were an obscene travesty and the very sight of them sickened him. Never before had he wanted to kill something so badly, to rid the world of something so clearly in defiance of logic and reason.

  The serjeant carefully manipulated a small steel mirror, sending three quick flashes at the rear of the expedition, and repeated it. On the third set, he saw Rolf stretch widely, the head of his axe out and at an angle from his body. Working carefully, he flashed the signal for north, Talon, and ambush. He waited until he saw Elonia casually toss three rocks off at nothing in particular, acknowledging his message. Over the years the Badgers had worked out a simple system of signals and code words for a variety of circumstances.

  Excited by the sight of his foes below him, the Marquis quickly formed his knights into a wedge and set off at a walk down into the valley, followed by the halberdiers and crossbowmen. The Arturians paid no heed to the wagons as they turned off the track and headed up the slope towards the fort.

  Even to Henri's informed eye the disposition of the group toiling up the track seemed natural. Starr rode on the second wagon, bow nocked while Elonia, Johann, and Rolf moved amongst the footmen on either side of the wagons, passing words of encouragement and, the magician summarized, the word that an attack was imminent.

  Holding his breath, he watched the Centaurs: for a moment they milled uncertainly, as if unsure of which target they intended to attack, and then the mass of horse-men sorted themselves out into a double line and began to creep forward to ambush the wagons before the path hit the full angle of the slope. The Centaurs were mere yards from the wagons before he heard the sudden snapping release of Dmitri 's crossbow, followed closely by Kroh's. Panting words of power, Henri thrust forward his arm and from the depths of his palm a bright flash of pure light leapt out to lick at the Centaur standard bearer's side.

  Lungs ripped open, the standard bearer collapsed, spraying bloody foam as it screamed in agony. One of its comrades dropped its lance and jerked the standard free as the standard-bearer died. With an explosion of bestial screams the double line of four-legged Direbreed burst through the brush towards the wagons.

  Dmitri and Kroh, presented with broadside shots, had dropped two Centaurs while Starr had dropped another with her yakici. With four Centaurs down, Rolf, Johann and Elonia charging from the front accompanied by a half-dozen footmen, and Dmitri , Kroh, and Iron Tusk whooping in from the flank, the Centaurs' cohesion was smashed just on the verge of launching the ambush. A brief flurry of blows were exchanged before the twisted horse-men pulled back to reform.

  Henri crippled one of the archers with a second beam of light, and then decided to conserve his meager store of energy. Sword-rapier in hand, he raced up the track to the fort and clambered over the earthen rampart, heart pounding from the exertions of spell-casting and running. After checking to ensure that nothing lurked inside the fort, he scrambled back onto the earthen rampart to signal his fellows.

  The Centaurs apparently had reformed and tried another charge, he saw: there were three more of their dead on the field. The horse-men had pulled back again, apparently content with having stampeded the noble's riding horses.

  As the wagons toiled upwards, Henri found himself with a perfect perch for the Marquis' battle. The first part was short enough: nearly seventy Direbreed formed up near the trees and awaited the cavalry, screaming war cries and defiance. The knights lowered their lances and swept forward at the trot, canter, and finally the charge as they closed. The glittering line rolled over the dark cluster of inhuman creatures like a well-oiled machine, wheeled, drew swords or axes, and leisurely mopped up. Elkhart, commanding the foot, ordered a halt midway to the 'battle' site. Henri grinned and shook his head, tossing off a crisp salute to his countrymen.

  The salute halted in mid-gesture. For the first time he realized he could see over the wild orchard, and what he saw froze his blood in his veins: obelisks, dozens of them. From where he stood he could count more than fifty pairs, most broken or crumbling, and a third as many altars. There were tents over there, for the Harbingers, he supposed, and pens for livestock, although he couldn't see any beasts left in them.

  It took a moment, due to distanc
e and the breeze, but it sank in that the movement in the orchard and the east slope of the valley was not due to the wind: scores of Direbreed were rising from resting places and hurrying to engage the Arturians, looking for all the world like a swarm of ants spilling from a kicked anthill. Captain Elkhart had a horn sounded in warning, and then reversed his men, sending them at a trot towards the fort.

  The Marquis hesitated for several agonizing moments, seemingly mesmerized by the waves of beast-men pouring down from the east. When the main body of the Direbreed reached the valley floor Henri was astonished to see the lances swing horizontal; the knights moved out at a trot, gradually increasing to a full charge as the distance closed. Durutte sent bolts of fire and eruptions of force into the flanking groups of Direbreed, slaying many and scattering more as the liner closed.

  With a shock that Henri swore he could feel the Arturians crashed into the Chaos horde. The first rank of Direbreed were simply crushed and the next two died on lance-points. The silver wedge drove deeper, and the flicker of sword and axe blades, gleaming wetly with the thin, brownish Direbreed blood, appeared as the heavy lances were discarded or broken.

  But the momentum of the charge faltered and slowed before the nobles could break through the mass of Direbreed. The Arturians were forced to stop, and one by one they disappeared beneath that heaving mass of warped flesh. It was over in minutes.

  The young mage staggered back, stunned at the demise of the brave band, and even more so by the number of Direbreed left: the Marquis' force had taken nearly five times their number with them and still the twisted creatures swarmed off of the east slope.