Dark Key: Book Two of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  "Maybe you can tell me what killed Johann, then," Arian held out his shield: a bloody throwing star was wedged between the iron rim and the boards that made up the shield's body. "It didn't go in a half inch; sliced him across the face, in fact. He was alright for a couple seconds, and then he grabbed his chest and started gagging. He died a few seconds later, his heart, I believe. How do you poison a throwing star, for Baythar's sake!"

  Elonia examined the star without touching it. "Did you touch the star or the wound with bare flesh? Good. You see these broken quills set into the slots at each point? They're from a fat, puffy fish, I don't remember the name. It has these quills around its head and spine which contain a deadly poison. The Direthrell raise the fish for the quills; if they are taken off young fish in a certain fashion they hold their venom for months. A few weeks after they're harvested they get as brittle as glass. See, only one point hit but all four quills broke."

  She looked up to find Bridget regarding her oddly. "You certainly know a lot about Direthrell."

  The Seeress met her stare evenly. "Can you think of anyone better to hate?"

  Someone better to hate, indeed, Elonia mused as the little troop worked its way out of the mountains. She had spoken raw truth back there, raw enough so that all who heard believed. But what she felt went through hate and came out the other side, where a blind emotionless enmity lived. Opposing the Direthrell was her life.

  She had graduated from the academy with a firm determination that her life should be spent in opposition to the Direthrell but she lacked a clear direction in which to pursue her goal, and the means to achieve anything. Posted to the military she had been assigned to a cavalry troop of Remur -class (Nepas and Thane) soldiers that garrisoned a fort on the Inner Line, part of the intricate belt of defenses surrounding Alantarn, spending her time training and patrolling.

  Luck or the gods favored her less than two years after she graduated: an Orc horde backed by the Hand of Chaos boiled off the Blasted Plains and assaulted Alantarn, supported by Eyade nomads and Hand spell-casters. The fighting was heavy, and the barrel was scraped to field enough forces to defend the hold. Half of the garrison of her little fort were shifted to the areas where the main fighting was taking place, and were replaced by a scratch unit made up of recent graduates from various academies, disabled veterans, and anyone else available.

  Included within the ad hoc unit was a young Nepas named Moonsong (Elonia's name amongst the Direthrell was Skink, after the quick little lizards common in the hold) that she had known from the basic children's academy. Moonsong had just graduated from a higher academy than Elonia's, and had been assigned to the dreaded Pargaie, but had been swept up in the desperate call-out before she could leave to join her station.

  The Orcs put the little fort under a half-hearted siege, and the hours on the walls quickly turned to boredom. Moonsong was glad for a familiar face, and spent most of her time with Skink, the boredom and fear loosening her tongue in regards to her training and prospects. Carefully, without Moonsong realizing it, Elonia was able to draw out a mass of detail about Moonsong's background, training, and above all, her future assignment; the key element of the latter was that no one at the station she was going to knew her at all. It hadn’t been hard: Moonsong had only rudimentary military training, and had been very frightened at the sudden call to arms. She had gladly whiled away the hours talking about what had been safe and familiar with her newly-rediscovered friend; in fact, only Elonia’s green and red scarf stopped Moonsong from becoming her lover, hardly the first time she had blessed her mother’s cunning.

  Battle records record that the little fort's siege saw only minor sniping and artillery harassment until a lucky shot from an Orc ballista somehow set off a chain of fires that ignited the fort's main store of hecla, the explosive burning liquid that the Direthrell use to such effect. The explosion and fire destroyed a section of the fort’s outer wall; but for quick action by Moonsong, who slewed a repeating bolt thrower around and hit the assaulting Orcs with a volley of javelins bearing flasks of hecla just as they surged through the breach, the fort might have fallen. Even so, the losses were heavy in the close-quarter fighting that ensued; most of the garrison were killed or wounded, the latter including Moonsong, who suffered light burns to her face and hands that required heavy bandaging, the sole Healer having far more serious wounds to tend to. Skink and her entire section were killed, and her troop as a whole was decimated.

  Thus Elonia left Alantarn, now bearing a new name and a decoration for valor, a member of the deadly Direthrell spy corps. And if anyone checked, Star Brightchild's half-breed daughter was buried in a mass grave near an Outer Line fort, having died defending her mother's killers; not incidentally, buried in that same grave were nearly every member of the military who knew Skink by sight or who had seen Skink and Moonsong together. It was the first active deception of her life, her first betrayal of her hated masters, and the first installment of revenge to be weighed against Arbmante’s debt.

  Chapter Seven

  The return to Sagenhoft was a grim one; Johann's death and the setback of the Nepas officer’s escape was a blow to a unit not used to losing engagements, much less comrades. Arian took the loss the worst, having been with Johann in the rearguard; Bridget was nearly as upset, feeling guilty over having lost a comrade while in command.

  All were downcast as Johann Helbrit had been rescued from a cult slave line two years ago and had fought in both the Draktaur and Orc-Fort fights, the Badger's hardest fights to date and actions in which nearly all on this mission had participated. He had been a solid comrade, a loyal Badger, and a friend to most. After shared dangers, battles, hardship and the privation of field service comrades became closer than family.

  They buried him the day after he died, on a peaceful slope near the eastern end of the Imperial road.

  The party split up half a day's ride from Sagenhoft, entering the city in two groups separated by several hours so that watchers, if any, would not easily notice the absence of one Badger. Durek took the blow well on the surface, but those who knew him saw the pain it caused. He simply ordered Elonia and Arian to closet themselves with the panniers of captured documents and for the rest of the Badgers to hide Johann's death from Maximilian for the time being. He then left alone to visit Johann's grave.

  Arian sorted his notes, frowning: there was a lot of material to summarize. Six days had passed since the raid and Durek had convened a war council to examine what had been learned and to determine the Company's course in recovering the Torc. Present were all member as this mission had been manned by the best the Company had to offer and there was no reason not to keep all members informed. All surviving members, Arian corrected himself, and mentally winced. This mission was a bigger risk to the Company than any they had undertaken for years: the heart of the Company was here, the inner circle of veterans who made the decisions and knew the secrets. Should disaster befall them the Phantom Badgers might not survive as a unit.

  "All right, let's get started," Durek growled from the head of the table. The Badgers had borrowed a room in the temple of Baythar for secrecy. "The purpose of this council is to share what we learned from the raid, and to start work on a plan to accomplish our goal, which is to get the Torc. Firstly, in a day or so we tell Maximilian that Johann was killed in a bar fight on the docks, and to keep it quiet as we killed a couple of local underworld kingpins in the brawl."

  "Won't he wonder why there aren't any rumors about the killings?" Henri asked.

  "He would, except that there was such a fight, only without our involvement." Durek took a long drink of ale. "Any other questions? All right, Arian, tell us what we've got."

  Arian took one more look at his notes and addressed the Company. "You all know how the raid went. The ruins were being used, and had been for at least fifteen years, as a station for the Direthrell spy corps, the Pargaie. There was a small guard force whom we killed, a single slave servant whom we interrogated and then hanged
for cultist affiliations, and one Nepas intelligence officer who escaped after killing Johann. The good news is that she didn't get close enough to identify the attackers, namely us. With Elonia's advice we burned and damaged the ruins in such a way as to make using a Seer to determine the origin of the attack unprofitable. Hopefully Janna's and my auras will lead them to believe that it was a routine operation by Beythar's forces."

  "The station was used as a control point for watching the Imperial Highway, a liaison point for Direthrell advisers serving with friendly area Cave Goblins, and a post station for messages to Alantarn, a Dark Threll hold on the eastern slopes of the Thunderpeaks about seven hundred miles northeast of here, north of the end of Malker's Wall."

  "The deeply secret documents were kept in an enchanted lock-box which burned up despite our best efforts to disarm its defenses. We did capture several hundred pages of less confidential documents, including a number of messages awaiting passage to Alantarn. Elonia and I have been spending the time since the raid translating them and charting what they tell us. We have not done a complete job yet (that will take weeks), but we have a working knowledge of the resources that are available to us."

  Kroh slammed his mug down, making the monk jump. "Quit driveling around! Where's the Torc and who do we have to kill to get it?" the Waybrother bellowed. "I'm sick of all this..." Starr was up and whispering into his ear; sullenly the Dwarf sat back down and let her pour him more ale.

  Arian waited until the little Lanthrell had the Dwarf calmed, and then continued. "We have found direct reference to the Torc. The Cave Goblins captured it and traded it to the Direthrell. Currently it resides in Alantarn."

  "Which is one of the best-defended holds in this part of the world. The defenses were designed and overseen by Fortren and constantly improved," Durek observed gloomily. "It's basically a fortress-city with an extended belt of defenses a couple miles out; a real tough nut to crack."

  The assembly considered this for a few moments. "Does this mean we're giving up on the Torc?" Janna wanted to know; her tone indicated that she was ready to oppose the idea.

  "Not entirely," Durek ran a finger along the curved edge of his axe blade. "But it does change things. Raiding a Goblin stronghold is one thing; getting into the toughest Direthrell fortress in Alhenland is another thing entirely."

  "Think of the loot if we pull it off," Kroh banged his mug for emphasis, or perhaps because he liked the sound.

  "Think of the Direthrell coming after us if we did pull it off," Roger observed. "They're known to hold grudges, at least until the people who have crossed them have died horribly."

  "If we do hit them, we'll do it in disguise," Durek agreed. "This will have to be an incredibly secret operation, if we try it. There's more, though: Arian, tell them what else was learned."

  "Well, besides a lot routine information that is of no use to us, there was quite a bit of data on the various followers of the Dark One in the area, the overt groups, that is; the secret cult information must have been in the lock-box. There were two items of special interest to us if we decide to try for the Torc: firstly is a fairly detailed description of the defenses of Alantarn, including maps. It’s about fifteen years out of date, but would be still accurate in the main. The Direthrell are a large and bureaucratic body so security procedures as they are now will be similar to that in the past, and the fortifications will have hardly been changed. It is unusual for such documents to be at such a station, much less not in the lock-box, but from supporting documents I believe that several station-chiefs ago the information was needed to determine if a particular spy was telling the truth. For one reason or another the documents were never used, and were not destroyed. They've been sitting in the files ever since, and I would guess that the current station chief did not even know they were there. Some of the files date back to when the station was established"

  "Sell 'em," Kroh banged his mug again.

  "Too risky," Durek shook his head. "They could be traced back to us."

  "Secondly, and most importantly, was a sealed package that was being held for delivery. The sender had disguised it with seals indicating that it was a routine bundle of expense accounts, which explains why it wasn't in the lock-box, but this deception was to hide the truth from other members of the Pargaie. The primary contents was a journal kept by a senior Direthrell on the various intrigues and activities of the power blocs within Alantarn; in short, it is seventy-one pages detailing plots, assassinations, coup attempts, and all sorts of treasonous activity by Direthrell against their own power structure, in-fighting done for self-advancement. This senior Direthrell fled the hold after a coup attempt of some sort, and was located and killed by a station chief in Navio. The station chief sent the journal back to a superior in his own power-bloc rather than reporting it through channels, keeping it secret from the Pargaie establishment by marking it as routine documents."

  "Exactly what use is it to us?" Janna asked, leaning to catch Kroh's mug as it made a forceful decent towards the table top. The scarred Eagle ignored the Dwarf’s grunt of indignation.

  "The journal is a mass of blackmail material to the right Dark Threll. Properly used, it would be currency for negotiations with key Direthrell."

  "Could we trade it for the Torc?" Bridget asked, having just enraged Kroh by casting a tiny silence charm centered on the base of his mug.

  "No, as that would require too much official notice. But it is a tool we may find a use for, after careful study."

  "Even if we could blackmail our way in and grab the Torc, there's no way we could fight our way out, no matter what's in those papers," Roger pointed out. "There's no way it can be done."

  That cast a pall over the table, but Arian shook his head. "Not true, at least that it can't be done. What we'll need, besides a disguise and a tool to enter, is a means of getting out. A diversion, or political leverage, a ruse of some sort..."

  "All right, Arian, work it out on your own time," Durek rumbled. "The point is we've still got a chance. We know where the Torc is, we know quite a bit about how it's being held, and we might have a way in, via this book of secrets. What we need to do is figure out how to get back out again; Eight knows we've done tougher things..."

  "Not lately," Roger muttered.

  "... and we can do this if we come up with the right plan. Otherwise we go back to the rest of the Company with our tails between our legs and admit that we lost the summer and Johann for nothing. I'm not ready to do that while we have a chance. Understood?"

  "The last time we did something like this we got chopped up bad," Roger's voice was twisted and his face was flushed. Everyone knew the fight he referred to, in which they had lost three Badgers including Roger's lady-love.

  "But we won, and we rescued three innocents for every Badger we lost. That's why we fought that battle, and the Torc is why we'll fight this one. We need something to offset the White Necromancer's superiority in magic so we can put the bastard down for good, before he does it to us." The Captain's gaze speared Roger to his chair. "You know the rules: we don't require your presence, just your silence. If you don't want part of this you can just walk away. That goes for everyone here." He paused to look around the table. "Any more objections? No? Good. Elonia, tell us what you've gotten out of your reading."

  The Seeress took a sip of wine. "What Arian has presented is accurate. All I wish to add is the primary reason for Alantarn's existence, and a specific nature of the foe we face. There is a substance that is at the heart of all major rituals employed by the followers of the Dark One: andern. Andern is the pure stuff of the Void; it is drawn through a portal know as a verax much as the Breedstones are drawn forth in a Seeding. Verax occur naturally, and must be modified to be used to create andern. There are seven types of andern, each known by its color, the best being black andern, which is the most concentrated, the 'purest'. The trouble is that the higher grades of andern require special verax, to the point that black andern can only be produced at two sites,
one controlled by the Hand of Chaos in the Dark Lands, and one controlled by the Dark Star in the Northern Wastes. These sites are known as anverax and give those two cults enormous power over their fellows."

  Kroh expressed his boredom by banging his forehead on the table and making a weird screeching howl until Starr managed to shush him, lighting a cigar for the Waybrother to give him something to do.

  "Seems to be reverting further back in maturity than usual," Janna muttered to no one, ignoring Kroh's glare.

  "The Direthrell of the nation known as Arbmante, located far to the southeast," Elonia continued as if there had been no interruption, "discovered a potential anverax site at what is now Alantarn. They first secured it with a massive fortress-city, and then began the effort of gathering the materials and expertise to activate the anverax. This process will span centuries and cost more than several field armies, but if completed will make Alantarn the most valuable fortress Arbmante has."

  "You're not suggesting that we try to eliminate the anverax site?" Henri asked.

  "No, but knowing the reason that Alantarn exists is important. The ‘site’ (as the anverax is called) is the reason the fortress was built, ensuring that the Direthrell will assume that every attack aimed at the fortress is intended to disrupt their progress towards making the anverax active, and a mindset that rigid can work to our advantage. Additionally, creating the anverax requires vast amounts of rare substances and items so there is much more commercial traffic to Alantarn than is normal for a fortress. This too works to our advantage."

  "You said one of the natures of the Direthrell is of interest," Janna prompted as Elonia took a drink of wine.

  "Yes, that of the Direthrell's few numbers. Like all of the Threll, their birth rate is much lower than other races; this is a pressing issue for them as they are a race which desires vast power and extended conquests. To make good their manpower shortages, and to preserve their own numbers, they make heavy use of other races to do their dirty work. Despite its importance as a future base of power the vast majority of Alantarn's defenders will not be Dark Threll. The Direthrell use Nepas, Thane, slave, and vassal troops in their military, and virtually all ordinary labor is performed by non-Direthrell slaves. The Direthrell themselves will man a few elite military units, and occupy all positions of power and real authority."