Dark Key: Book Two of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  The people of the Realms are tough and accustomed to hard living as they live on the very edge of civilized human existence, with the constant threat of the various forces of Darkness hanging over their heads. It is an area that draws adventurers and opportunists looking for a new start away from the tradition-bound lands further west; some limp away after a few years, and more end up in the ground, but a portion of each emigration sticks it out and adds to the melting pot of the Realms, slowly filling the land with villages and farms. In the Realms more than anywhere else a man or woman was judged for what they could do, rather than who they were.

  The ‘Realms was divided politically into a patchwork of small baronies, kingdoms, and similar holdings, twenty-two in all, down from forty-two immediately after the fall of the Pernia Empire. Twenty-two nations and city-states, a constellation of national stars that drifted ever closer together, bound by marriages and the ever-present threats from the Blasted Plains and the hostile races of the Thunderpeaks. And hanging like a central sun in that small galaxy was the common hope that someday the Realms would once again be reunited and the borders truly secured. Besides the pending union of the Fastness of Vasteras and the Barony of Wesland in the north, five Dunhalls in the southern reaches were easing towards a central union.

  Fighting between the nations is rare as there was still more land than people, and Eyade and Hand raids off the Blasted Plains are common; while the ‘Wall made invasion difficult there were many ways to get raiding groups into the ‘Realms. Thus, the regular militaries and militias had plenty to keep themselves occupied without looking for adventures beyond their borders.

  The Border Realms are the west’s front line for any threat from the Hand of Chaos and Arbmante in the east, Alhenland’s two greatest foes of the Light. Only the hardiness of the locals and prompt aid from the western realms have held the Void followers to the east of Malker’s Wall, and that only after heavy fighting.

  The land itself was gently rolling, once wild grassland now subdued by Man and set to produce for him. Neat fields were bordered by double lines of trees as a windbreak, and large tracts of pasture land were fenced with carefully pruned hedges of tornweld, a hardy thorn bush that grew to a height of five feet and was considered inedible even by goats. The roads were hard-packed dirt, well-drained, but frequently lacking bridges; traffic was light and patrols of alert, veteran warriors were common.

  Those farms encountered were often built in a 'box' pattern with the buildings erected in a hollow square with all outer walls were pierced with shuttered firing slits and fitted with stout doors. The farmers were cautious but glad to see strangers and eager for news of the outside world. Friendly warriors were welcome in this part of the world, and invitations to stay the night and share the family meal were common.

  The villages were neat stone structures set on streets that 'dog-legged' frequently to make things tough for attackers, surrounded by a well-maintained ditch and mound, with belts of tornweld to harry attackers, and whose perimeters were studded with fighting towers. The town militias kept a section under arms at all times, and these part-time warriors watched the Badgers with bold, measuring eyes when the mercenaries came into town to purchase supplies. Militia they might be, but all but the youngest were veterans of numerous sharp skirmishes.

  The Badgers found their reception to be a warm one as fighting types were welcome in lands that never were truly at peace. Nor did their mixed company elicit much surprise for in many of the small cities they passed they saw guard companies and military units with a small portion of their numbers made up of female warriors. Rolf discovered to his delight that half-Orcs who were openly dedicated to the Eight were treated with less contempt than was usual further West, a unique experience for him outside of the Badgers.

  The Badgers slowly moved north as Maximilian examined the buildings and city defenses that remained from the Empire, spoke with those scholars who studied the days of Imperial rule, and perused the libraries, public and private, that the area offered, in order to get substance and depth for his history of the long-dead Empire.

  Durek stumped through the night-camp, checking on the various details needed to make things safe and comfortable. Spotting Maximilian, he pulled the scholar aside. "Here's where it gets sticky: the Golden Serpent group is two day’s ride to the west, in the foothills. Figure three days to get back because of the extra gear, so say six days all told. Are you ready?"

  "Pretty much: the wagon's tongue joint breaks, then the staff, Roger and I ride to the nearest town of sufficient size, which is Lagaza. We buy a new one, and plan to return here for the rest of our gear, but suddenly I get a belly-ache that keeps me bed-ridden. Roger rides back with the wagon part, the staff stays with me, and the rest of you ‘catch up’ with us later, having repaired the wagon."

  "Right. Remember: check to see if there is a priest of Terana or some other Healer in town first; if there is, get sick near a farmhouse halfway back. We'll break down on that ridge to the east of here, about an hour after starting. Be interested in the view to slow us down as there's no point in having to double back too far. We've only got one shot at this, so make it count."

  "Not to worry; Bridget brewed up a concoction that'll make me sick as a dog for a few hours, and I'll stuff myself good just before I take it so I can spew aplenty. Nobody will ever believe I was faking." Maximilian grinned. "They never mention things like this in the ballads, do they?"

  Chapter Eight

  Durek eyed the building warily as they approached. It looked innocuous, but of course the headquarters of a proscribed cult would hardly hang its dark master's symbol from the roof beams. He hoped the Direthrell spies had accurate information or this raid was headed for an abrupt and bloody end. For what it was worth they had scouted the place the previous evening and watched it all day, waiting until just before dark to make their approach. There were twenty-two occupants, which were long but hardly impossible odds for ten Badgers attacking from a position of surprise. Two of the occupants, hard-eyed fighting men, lounged on a wood pile near the double gates that led to the interior courtyard of the ‘box’-style compound-building; they were unarmored and lightly armed, but each had a mean-looking bull mastiff on a stout leash.

  The building was a two-storied roadside inn that now served as the headquarters of the Gilded Wagon Trade and Drayage Company, whose livestock pens and wagon yard were both empty at the moment. Apparently the Gilded Wagon did a lively enough business to keep all its rolling stock out and hauling.

  Durek and Kroh were mounted on their komad and Rolf rode on the wagon, all in full combat array, sans insignia. Arian drove the wagon dressed in teamster's garb with an ordinary broadsword at his hip and a cocked light crossbow to hand. In the wagon were Starr, Bridget, and Elonia, all shackled to a chain that was bolted to the floor. Bridget and Elonia wore dresses appropriate to a fairly prosperous merchant or farmer's family while Starr wore a Lanthrell minstrel's outfit, and for added effect a cased harp hung from the driver's seat. All three females were dirty and appeared the worse for wear: Starr was sobbing quietly, and Elonia had a distant, glazed look about her that spoke of a mind badly shaken by events. The floor of the wagon was covered in a thick layer of straw with a few cheap blankets on top.

  The Captain surveyed the wagon and his companions a final time; thorough reconnaissance, careful planning, and extensive use of surprise, deception, and general dirty fighting were hallmarks of the Phantom Badgers' approach to warfare. Like all good mercenaries the Badgers were primarily interested in loot, not fighting; they approached combat with the intent of keeping it short, simple, and fatal to the foe.

  "Ho, the house," Durek bellowed a hundred feet from the building. "Traders come for a bit of the bargain and haggle!"

  One of the guards waved to come ahead while the other stepped to a chain hanging next to the doors and pulled four times; the tinny ringing of a distant bell could be heard from within the converted inn. As the Badgers drew close a balding, wal
nut-brown man in loose, bright-hued clothing emerged from the tavern entrance and moved to meet them, while several more armed men came out the courtyard gate.

  "Suflander," Kroh muttered as they drew close. "Long ways from home."

  "Greetings to the Den," Durek called, flipping a coin to the balding man. All Golden Serpent cults were called Dens, according to former cult hunter Arian. According to the captured paperwork, this particular Den used passing a Opatian coin as a recognition signal to reveal, if not outright allegiance to the Dark One, then at least a willingness to deal with its followers. The coin the man nipped out of the air was an engraved and milled crescent of gold, a one-dinar piece from the reign of Sultan Ranouri I.

  The Suflander thoughtfully bounced the coin on his palm as he surveyed the newcomers. "Welcome and greetings. I am Struma Toranda, master of the Gilded Wagon Trade and Drayage Company."

  "Baydek Oreson," Durek nodded curtly. "My cousin Gareth Lodestone, and two of my employees. I am interested in doing some business, and you were recommended to me as a worthy Tradesmaster." Tradesmaster being the outsider title for a Den's leader, according to Arian; Struma had further been identified in the captured papers as a renegade from Opatia who had risen to command this particular Den.

  Struma studied them for several long moments before smiling and tossing the coin back. "Those three what you have to sell?"

  "That's right. We took some horses and ordinary loot, nothing very special. I didn't think it would interest you, but these, now, are prime merchandise. A careful trader could make a fortune."

  The cultist nodded. "Step inside and we'll have a drink while we discuss this." He stepped to the wagon and studied the three. "Although if they've family after them I can tell you right now..."

  "Not to worry, it was a wedding party." Durek swung down from his mount and tossed the reins to Arian. "Young one's the bride, older one's the aunt and chaperone, and the Threll’s for the dance. We caught them on the way from the chapel, as it were. They're the only survivors, and we dumped Goblin trash about, cut up a few bodies, you know the sort of thing. What with it being so warm, by the time they find the party it'll be hard to figure out if anyone was missing. No, there's no comebacks on these three; they're as free as the breeze, so to speak."

  "Fine, fine. Take the wagon into the courtyard," Struma gestured for his men to open the gates. "Where's the rest of your men?"

  Durek grinned. "Waiting for us to come back."

  Arian eased around on the wagon's seat, casually getting a feel for the place. They were in the inn's inner courtyard, a cobblestoned rectangle roughly twenty feet by ninety. They had come in through a covered passageway in the southwest corner; the rest of the south side was a stable with a hay loft and smithy. The east side was an old coach house on the ground floor, the doors now secured with a lock; the second floor had apparently been made into a cellblock with three stout doors barred from the outside accessible from a stairway in the southeast corner. The north side was a kitchen and warehouse area. The west side was the inn proper.

  'So far, so good,' he thought, idly tapping his fingers. A crossbow was in his lap, and Rolf had left his on the bench before going off with the Dwarves. The odds weren't too bad: a heavyset cook, Opatian by his coloring stood in the kitchen door, unarmed save for a mug; the smith had taken a break to eye the newcomers, hammer and bar stock still in hand. One guard sat on the foot of the steps with two more mastiffs, and another sat in the hay loft's open haygate.

  A laugh and a whimper behind him drew his attention. The other two guards were leaning up against the wagon; one had grabbed Elonia's hair and pulled her to the wagon's side, his other hand busy inside her dress. The Seeress kept her head down and batted helplessly at his ministrations, blubbering.

  "You can look, but don't touch the goods," Arian warned. "And don't tear her dress until she's paid for."

  "Relax, reins-puller, relax," the guard grinned. "Get yourself a mug of ale while we see if they're worth buying." When Arian didn't turn away, he scowled and pushed Elonia aside, the Seeress crumpled into a fetal ball on the floor of the wagon. "Damn little red-haired eunuch," he muttered in Arturian to his comrade, who laughed.

  "Eisenalder marks are the preferred currency, although I'll take Arturian francs," Durek took a swig of ale. He was seated at a long table in what had been the inn's tap room, Kroh to his right and Rolf leaning against the wall a half-dozen feet behind him. Across from the Dwarf was Struma and a pudgy Opatian he guessed was the cult's Spiritual Guide, or high priest. Struma had introduced him but Durek hadn't caught the name; the little man looked on the verge of falling asleep. Leaning against the bar was the guard captain, a tough Navian who was introduced as Felix. Two clerkly types stood to one side, the chief accountant and a helper, Durek figured. The room itself was large, with a massive oak bar that had seen considerable abuse running the length of the west wall; they had come in through the door in the south, and through a door in the north Durek could see a dining room that had been converted for storage. Two stairways led up from the west side to a balcony that circled the room and provided access to the living quarters above. Men's voices and the faint sound of dice cups indicated that the rest of the guard force were relaxing in their barracks, although one or two could be crouching in the shadows of the balcony without him knowing.

  Worse than that was the two man, two dog outside patrol that had resumed its duties after the wagon had entered the courtyard. The Captain was all too aware that the alarm could be raised at any time.

  "That should be acceptable," Struma nodded. "I can make up the purchase price between the two currencies. So, tell me, are you going to be doing business in this area from now on, or are you just passing through?"

  "We've got business in the mountains, but we won't pass up any choice morsels like that wedding party. No commercial jobs, you understand; you never know whose toes you step on when you hit a merchant caravan, but nabbing a burgher's daughter makes for a nice bonus at the end of a day."

  "Mountain work, eh?" The Tradesmaster studied him intently. "Ores and stone?" The pudgy priest stirred and frowned, peering vaguely to the north. He started to whisper to Struma but was waved away.

  "Bones," Durek took another drink. "We've a buyer for all the humanoid bones we can deliver, full sets and partial. There's Goblins and Goblin tombs aplenty in the Thunderpeaks."

  "Ah," Struma nodded. "Lucrative, no doubt. Some more ale? Now, for the three. The girl, had the nuptials occurred yet? A pity, massive depreciation after that first night. Still, she's an attractive wench, in her own way. Say, twenty marks?"

  "Twenty? The girl has spirit, you saw so yourself. With the proper indoctrination she'll be a gold mine. Clean her up a bit, give her that country glow and you can reel those jaded blue-bloods in like a hooked pike! A hundred and fifty."

  "A hard winter out here and you get twenty willing girls just as pretty. Thirty-five."

  "I'm told this is going to be an especially mild year. One hundred."

  "Mild or not, gold will have to come down like snow before I pay a copper penny more than forty-five."

  "Done. Now, the chaperon is older, but not hard-used and robust of figure as well. Shall we say forty?"

  "I think twenty is closer to the mark as her spirit seems gone. Robust or not, she'll not hold her value."

  "Twenty-five, then." Durek had heard a noise up on the balcony; Kroh indicated he had heard it too by slurping his ale loudly.

  "Done. Now, the Lanthrell is a different proposition entirely. Dealing in Threll is risky; let it get out you’ve trafficked in their kind and they hunt you to the ends of the world. I would have to say one hundred marks, and feel generous with such an offer."

  Durek threw his eyes skyward and groaned to cover a searching glance along the balcony. He spotted a tiny blue light at the northwest corner, behind and to the right of the seated cultists. Good- things were moving along. "Surely you jest. The girl is a beauty without peer and moreover she is rem
arkable short for a Threll and a minstrel besides," the Captain continued without missing a beat. Beside him he could sense Kroh watching the cult warrior like a hawk. "Triply valuable. Say, six hundred marks, and a bargain at the price."

  Struma's shrugged. "Two-fifty, then, in order to attract your future business."

  "Four hundred, and she'll sing to cinch it." Durek took a deep drink to cover drawing his dirk, holding the naked blade ready under the table. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kroh's left hand drop off the table top.

  The Tradesmaster pondered this for a minute, absently swirling the ale in his mug. Durek caught the faint red light in the northwest corner and began to count to himself. He reached forty just as Struma opened his mouth and lifted a finger to indicate a counter-offer. Without changing his expression Durek leaned across the table and drove the point of his dirk through the Opatian's eye and into his brain.

  Kroh's axe nearly severed the Spiritual Guide's neck as the pudgy cultist swept an oddly-carved amulet from a voluminous sleeve-apparently he was not as sleepy as he had appeared. A flash of light flickered across the rafters overhead and in the guard's room confused shouting erupted, partially drowning Janna’s war-cry. The shouting turned to screams and the sounds of steel meeting flesh.

  "Courtyard!" Durek yelled at Rolf as he swept up his axe; from the corner of his eye he saw Kroh's axe doing its impossible flight to smash open Felix's chest and return. Kroh needed no orders: his first priority would be Starr.