Dark Key: Book Two of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  The ambush was located on the brief stretch of flat ground between two slopes in defiance of normal practice; to its advantage was a small stream that ran parallel to the track, not large enough to impede a retreat but large enough so its noise would serve to cover any careless sounds made by the waiting Goblins.

  Her sense of smell had been diminished by her wound, and her hearing was muted by the noisy progress of water over rocks, but there was nothing obstructing her vision or her intelligence. Janna paused at the bottom of the slope and studied the innocuous stretch of road before her, frowning. It looked wrong, somehow. It wasn't the right place for an ambush, but on the other hand, its’ very illogic could be used as an argument for placing one there. She moved forward another dozen paces and crossed the road, then paused again, frowning.

  Arian slipped up alongside her. "What is it?" he breathed.

  The Silver Eagle shrugged and eased forward another dozen paces. If the threat was ordinary bandits they would not have been so careful; no profit-minded robber tangled with a single wagon escorted by a dozen professionals, but Cave Goblins were a different story: they fought all comers if the odds seemed in their favor.

  Cave Goblins in particular are masters of the ambush and surprise attack. Diminutive, the average warrior standing just under five feet tall and thin by nature, they lacked the bulk to engage in stand-up battles except where they had additional factors to tilt the odds in their favor. Ruddy-skinned, red-eyed from the dark, Cave Goblins are both repulsive to look at and dangerous to deal with, being both cunning and the best-organized of the Goblins.

  As Arian caught up with her again she held her left hand behind her back so he could see it, thumb and forefinger extended: ambush, followed by the thumb jerking across the road to indicate direction. Holding out the last three fingers meant to warn the main body. Returning her full attention to the road in front of her she tried to pinpoint the ambushers. It was the trash that had tipped her off: the Road was littered with junk from one end to another, the detritus of centuries of use. Broken wagon wheels, bones of horses, mules, oxen and dogs, wrecked carts and wagons, graves, junk dumped from looted caravans, rags of clothing cut from wounded. But this stretch was pristine, not a scrap in sight. She would bet a great deal that a dozen yards into the woods to either side would be mounds of junk, dragged there to hide the fact that ambushes had been sprung on travelers lulled into complacency by the unlikely terrain.

  She gave Durek a slow fifty count as Badger policy dictated, loosening the enchanted bastard sword she called Rosemist as she did so; breathing a silent prayer to Beythar, she eased to her feet and began moving slowly but surely back the way they had come, half-backing from tree to tree, her fellows doing the same. The Goblin leader, if there were Goblins, would have the choice of trying for the three scouts and risking a toe-to-toe clash with the rest of the Badgers, or pulling out now that his surprise was ruined, no poorer for the day's work. She wished she had brought a shield for this detail.

  They were further into the ambush's kill zone than she had realized: a half-dozen red-skinned warriors exploded from the brush all around her, making her heart skip a beat and drawing a blurted oath. Her throwing axe flashed from her hand to split an archer's skull, thrown by reflex as she spun to meet a charging jugata, or Goblin foot warrior. Unarmed, she twisted nimbly, deflecting the spear point with one bracer-clad forearm as she grabbed for Rosemist, only to have her foot slip on a loose rock, forcing her to release the hilt only quarter-drawn and fling her arms out for balance.

  Although strong for a woman, Janna had always lacked the bulk and especially the upper-body strength needed to win in the brutal dance of conventional melee. As with most warrior women (and slight male warriors) she had learned to use dexterity, balance, and movement to compensate; the Eight had at least granted her the height of five feet six inches which allowed her to carry weapons designed for men. As the Goblin closed, counting on momentum to impale, she deflected the spear point with one arm and grabbed the spear shaft with the other, dropping to one knee and twisting as she did so; the sudden shift of weight levering the jugata headlong into a tree trunk.

  Tearing the spear free from his stunned grasp, the Silver Eagle, still gripping it near the point, swept the shaft in a blurring arc, cutting the feet from beneath the next attacker. Leaping to her feet as she reversed her hold on the spear, she impaled its stunned ex-owner and ripped her black steel bastard sword free of its scabbard.

  There was no need for the sword, however: just as suddenly as they had attacked the Goblins withdrew, carrying most of their dead and wounded with them.

  Arian wiped his bloody sword on a handful of leaves and slapped Roger on the shoulder. "That's how it's done, eh?" As he passed Janna he winked.

  She smiled back, wishing everything in life was as easy as fighting.

  They reached the Tabir River, the dividing line of the Bloody Road, on the evening of the day after the foiled ambush, ten days after they started down the Road. The Tabir at what is called the Great Crossing is thirty yards of rushing, boat-killing water wide coursing at the bottom of a gorge two hundred yards wide and ninety deep. The bridge spanning the gorge was a slender Dwarven span arching neatly across the gorge, an elegant structure that seemed far too fragile to do the job it had performed for the last sixteen centuries.

  Off either end of the bridge were large cleared areas encircled by a ditch and belts of sharpened stakes, which served as a campground for travelers. The west site had a small tent city offering brothels, gambling, and ale; the east had a blacksmith, cooper, and wainwright. Each end of the bridge was also overlooked by a stout fort of Dwarven construction flying the gray eagle of Sagenhoft, a cohort of regular infantry being split between the Great Crossing forts and the fort at the east terminus of the Bloody Road. Mercenary companies manned the west terminus fort and some of the eight outposts spaced along the road, the size and number of these forces depending upon the current Duke of Sagenhoft’s concern with road security.

  There was considerable activity at the Crossing as travelers and caravans rested from the exertions and dangers of the west Road or prepared to brave them. The Sagenhoft officers were only interested in the security of the eastern road and stayed out of any dispute that broke out in the rest areas so long as they did not involve any of their men or reach riot proportions, making the camps rough places indeed.

  “They’re what?” Durek asked, eyeing the device the hawker was offering him.

  “A camp stool, good sir,” the peddler, a skinny man of indeterminate years, set his heavy pack down and mopped the sweat from his forehead before explaining his wares. “Most importantly, folding camp stools, light and convenient, just the thing for travelers who wish to keep their bottoms out of the mud. You have a good pine seat here, large enough to sit on, not so large as to be a portage problem, and two legs, thus.” The legs were rectangles of iron bar stock connected by a solid steel pin at their center. “Now, the one leg is permanently attached to the bottom of the seat with a hinge, and the other fits into a clip thusly, and can be unclipped and the whole folded flat.” The peddler snapped the second leg into place and placed the stool on the ground with a flourish. “Try that, sir, and tell me if it isn’t more comfortable than some insect-ridden log or chilly boulder.”

  The Captain sat down on the narrow seat, pulling a second stool from the bulging pack and examining the ironwork with a critical eye. “Good iron, fine workmanship; who makes these?”

  “My brother, good sir, we make our home here during the trade months and market all sorts of camp goods intended to ease the life of a traveler.”

  “Huh.” The Dwarf unfolded and refolded the stool several times as Janna came up to report that their camp was organized. “Here, look at this,” the Captain showed the device to the Silver Eagle. “Too big to carry on your saddle, but if you’ve a wagon or cart they would be just the thing.”

  “Clever.” The scarred Badger nodded.

  “How
much?” Durek hardened his visage, ready for difficult haggling.

  “Seven shillings for a worthy warrior.” The peddler grinned. “Six if you buy more than five stools.”

  Durek dug in his pouch and produced a gold five Mark piece. “This for twenty.”

  The thin man nodded and began counting the stools out of his pack. “There you are sir and lady, lasting items of comfort you’ll not regret purchasing.”

  The Badgers had secured a good camp site in the western camp ground, a clean patch of ground near the defensive ditch with an old stone trough for watering their mounts. A picket line had been established, the fire pit cleaned of old ashes, the stones better arranged, and the other myriad chores of camp-making attended to immediately upon their arrival as befits a well-organized Company.

  “Good day to you, traveler.” Durek looked up from the stools he was stacking by the front wheel of the wagon. The speaker was a slender man dressed in striped hose, soft shoes, a velvet doublet, and a matching cap sporting a gold hat-broach and a long pheasant’s feather, unarmed save for a long silver-mounted poniard hanging from the tooled leather belt at his waist. Two larger men with the marks of violence about them hung back a short distance, spiked clubs and short swords at their sides. “I am Anton Ansaldo, the unofficial Mayor of the western camp ground, and you would be...?”

  “Captain Durek Toolsmaster, Phantom Badgers,” the Dwarf straightened and nodded curtly. Janna strolled over from the fire pit, while Johann came around the other side of the wagon and seated himself on the tongue.

  “Well met, sir, well met indeed.” The Mayor smiled charmingly. “I wish to extend our welcome to this humble resting place, and to offer you the simple services such as we provide. There are the businesses yonder for your perusal, and if you should desire firewood, fodder, the services of water-haulers, grooms, or ahem, young ladies of enthusiasm and skill, you have but to say the word. We might find ourselves in the midst of a wilderness but there is no reason why your stay here cannot be a pleasant one.”

  “Thank you, but we brought our own firewood and can perform our own chores,” the Captain shrugged.

  “Ah, then I’ll leave you to your rest, then. Oh, damn, I nearly forgot: there is the matter of your site fee, a Mark for each day you intend to occupy this prime spot.” Anton smiled winningly.

  “A site fee,” Durek stroked his braided beard with his left hand. “I would have thought these camp grounds were freeholds.”

  “Ah, to the letter of the law, yes, they are, but there is a group of us here who have undertaken the maintenance of the perimeter defenses and the enforcement of order amongst the rougher sorts, the usual municipal functions. Hence the fee.”

  “I see.” The Dwarf grinned. “But we’re not interested in the defenses (which are poorly maintained) and we fear no unruly elements, so I’ll have to respectfully decline your application for a fee.”

  Anton smiled sadly. “I understand your point of view, my friend, but I urge you to reconsider. Our services are many and varied, and are so useful should accidents befall the unprepared traveler.”

  “Any accidents that befall me or mine generally result in a killing,” the Captain kept his tone light. “Killing is what we do best, you see.”

  “Then perhaps Luck will favor you,” Anton’s smile was narrower. “Good day to you, sir.”

  “And a good day and good luck to you as well.” The Captain watched the Mayor walk off, trailed by his two guards, before turning to Janna. “See to it that no one leaves camp except in pairs, three if one’s Kroh. Have you worked up a sentry roster?”

  “For night-time, but I believe I’ll extend it to daylight hours as well.”

  “Good. And tell Henri to find out where this Mayor lives in case we need to pay him a visit, say if bad luck should befall us.”

  The Captain found the Mayor at the entrance to the camp ground speaking with a short, graying man who had just climbed down from an ornately decorated coach-wagon whose painted sides advertised the Pajol Family Entertainers in four languages. Nodding to the two guards in passing, the Dwarf strode up to Anton, who had broken off his conversation with the newcomer and turned to face the mercenary as he approached, a faint smile on his face.

  Using the last step as momentum the Dwarf buried his calloused fist into the Mayor’s midriff, doubling the Human over; a full-body punch to the outside of Anton’s left thigh just above the knee tumbled him to the ground, where a stout boot pinned him to the dirt. The two guards stepped forward only to freeze in place as Dmitri and Janna stepped between them and their Captain, axe and sword in hand.

  “We have found we can’t buy from any of the shops in your camp ground,” the Dwarf advised the gagging Anton. “We’ve also learned that the law around here is thin on the ground, as if in a wilderness, as it were. Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t behead you now and be done with it.”

  “Twenty...men...in my... employ,” the Mayor managed to wheeze.

  “Not here there aren’t, and in any case I’ve eleven with me, any one of which is worth three of yours. Try again.”

  “I’ll...lift..the embargo.”

  “Good.” Durek stepped back. “Understand this, Mayor: bad lucks breeds more bad luck. You,” the Dwarf indicated the man Anton had been talking to. “Who’re you?”

  “Claude Pierre Pajol, good sir, head of a band of humble entertainers who wish no part in any quarrel,” the man smiled nervously.

  “Entertainers, eh? Well, master Pajol, this is your lucky day. For today and tomorrow you can camp here with no fee, isn’t that right, Anton? Good. I suggest you park your wagon over there, see the site with the single wagon and the Dwarf who’s...what the blazes is Kroh doing to that cat? Anyway, feel free to use the site to either side without fee.” The Captain looked down at Anton, who was beginning to recover his breath. “I hope you aren't the kind to hold a grudge, Anton, because otherwise I’ll have to kill you before we leave.”

  The Pajols’ gratitude for their toll-free stay (and Badger escorts about the camp) was expressed in an evening’s free entertainment, complete with a fine Arturian-style dinner, which was as welcome to the Badgers as was the entertainment. More important to the mercenaries was the news and gossip regarding the Realms that the players passed on over the course of the evening. Knowledge is an asset no veteran leader overlooked, and the Badgers were led by a clever and able Captain.

  The news they received was colored a bit by the personalities that recounted it, and hardly from the warrior’s viewpoint that they would have preferred, but both Durek and Arian were experienced at adapting what they learned to the tasks at hand. There was little of immediate application, but they did learn that while the Cave Goblins had maintained their usual level of raids and harassment, both the Felher in the mountains and the Orcs and Eyade on the Blasted Plains had cut back their activity to a shadow of the norm in the last few months. The ageing Master of the Fastness of Vasteras (the largest, if not strongest, of the petty states in the Realms) had arranged for the marriage of his son and heir (freshly returned from a stint as an officer in the Eisenalder Legions) to the daughter and only child of the Baron of Wesland. This union would, in time, unite the two realms under one banner and increase the stability of the Realms, as well as reshuffling the alliances and posturing of the twenty other mini-nations and city-states in the region. While this was hardly unique in the history of the area (the number of petty states had steadily declined as the centuries since the fall of Pernia Empire), it was an event of considerable local significance, if small importance to the Badgers.

  There was a further scandal the next morning when Henri was discovered in bed with both the unmarried Pajol daughters, a bit of embarrassment which caused Durek to fine the young Wizard a month’s wages, an action which did not visibly dismay the Arturian nor pacify the girls’ father.

  After two days of rest, during which Kroh got into five fights, which, given the environment, was not exceptional, the company moved on
down the Imperial Highway. The eastern half was considerably safer as logging had cleared the trees away from the road for distances ranging from a bowshot to over half a mile. Deprived of cover ambushes were practical only where gullies and other terrain features allowed. The Company made good time, reaching the eastern end of the Road in eight days.

  The leisurely five days spent zigzagging south across the rolling green hills and the frequency of farms and villages growing with each day's journey towards Sagenhoft was a relief after the claustrophobic confines of the Bloody Road and its never-ending risks. They took in those historic sites which they could reach without straying too far from their goal, so that late on the twenty-first day of Gleichteil (the sixth month in the Imperial calendar) the mighty city of Sagenhoft hove into view.

  The massive walled port straddling the Bercer River was the last real vestige of the Pernia Empire, now dead these six hundred years. The city, entering into its twentieth century, had been the staging port for the establishment of the Empire and had served as its first temporary capitol and its last provisional capitol. It had seen four great sieges, all of which had failed to carry the walls, and its gray, green, and gold banner had flown above countless battlefields. The Star of the East was the largest port on the land-locked Ascendi Sea, and the primary conduit through which trade flowed to and from the Border Realms.

  The city was a welcome sight after two months in the field. Beds, baths, hot meals, and cold ale beckoned, along with the promise of city living, privacy, and the chance of new conversation and new faces. Durek wisely saw to it that his Badgers had both money and time to themselves after entering the city, and that both Kroh and Henri were threatened with dire retribution if they excessively embarrassed the Company during their stay.

  Maximilian planned to spend at least three weeks studying in the city's libraries and archives, as well as surveying the city's defenses (two of the city’s sieges had taken place during the time of the Empire) before pressing on to the east. A single escorting Badger would be all that was necessary during the study within the city; otherwise the scholar could be left entirely on his own by the Badgers who threw themselves with considerable gusto into the various recreations the city offered.