by RW Krpoun
True to his new position as Historian he began interviewing each of the Badgers in turn as to their date of recruitment, positions held within the Company, awards received, and campaigns they had participated in. When that was accomplished, he began researching the eight years the Company had existed prior to his enlistment while building up notes on the operations he had observed.
Pursuing this task, the scholar wandered across their evening camp, writing kit in hand. “Anyone seen Janna?” he asked Elonia, who was sitting on her camp stool sharing the light of a storm lamp with Starr, who was sitting on the ground and using the seat of her stool as a workbench.
“She’s out scouting,” the seeress waved vaguely into the darkness with the pestle she had been using to grind up berries in a small bowl.
“Oh.” Maximilian watched Elonia for a moment. “What’s that you’re making?”
“Glue.” The lovely Badger drew a throwing knife from her belt and handed it to the historian. “To keep those quills we captured in place.”
The throwing knife was a single piece of unadorned, balanced steel without hilt-covering or crossguards, single-edged and wickedly pointed. Examining it closer, Maximilian saw that there was a two-inch groove set into the steel on each side of the blade beginning just behind the point and running back towards the hilt, the size of the channel suggesting that it could contain a toothpick. “You’re going to glue two of those poisoned quills in these slots?”
“Yes.”
“What did you put in the slots before we captured those quills?”
“A resinous paste-poison, with waxed paper over it to guard against accidental contact.” The Seer waved away a moth, one of a score which had converged on the lantern.
“I was wondering why you bothered with throwing knives.”
“Yes, they don’t do much real damage and they require as much regular practice as a bow, but with the right substances on the blades they can be useful.”
Maximilian eyed the Seeress’ wide leather belt, which supported her twin yataghans, fighting nets, and several odd-sized pouches. “You carry a wider variety of weapons than anyone else in the Company; however did you come to use such a mix?”
Elonia shrugged with a smile. “I’m not much of one for armor, and if you don’t wear it you’ve got to be fast. I don’t care much for a quarterstaff or a sword-rapier so that left the Opatian art of knife-fighting, which includes manoples, yataghans, and the use of a cloak in the off-hand. Later I saw weighted nets being used in a gladiatorial fight, and adapted it to my knife styles. Many towns and cities have rules about weapons being carried, but knives and daggers are normally exempt, leaving me with my usual range of arms.”
“Clever,” the scholar nodded. “Strange how such things develop over time, a piece here and a hint here, to create a whole. That’s what makes history so fascinating. Starr, what are you doing?”
The lovely Lanthrell looked up from her carving. “I’m making a maztil; that is, I’m carving a wooden plate for my belt.” She passed the historian her belt. “When people of my Lana, my Forest, go out into the world they wear an amaden, or Wanderer’s Belt; the belt is made up of plates of wood from the fauces tree, very hard and light. These blank plates are called patiks; when such a traveler has a significant experience they inscribe a representative drawing on a patik to record the event. An engraved patik is called a maztil. I’ve come up with a design for the battle at the Orc fort, and am carving it on a patik.”
“I see, how interesting. And you cover the plates with a leather cover; I always thought your belt was simply oddly-shaped. I suppose this cover is to protect the carvings?”
“Yes, and to reduce noise if something strikes a plate.”
“But you only have five plates in your belt; what happens after your fifth adventure? Do you go home?”
“No, when I have a sixth adventure I simply retire one of the earlier maztil.”
“How many maztil do you have?”
“This one will make the sixth, as a matter of fact. I’ve one for the fight north of the Ward where Kroh saved my life, before I joined the Badgers, three for the foray into the ruins at Gradrek Heleth, one for a fight Rolf and Kroh and I had with cultists in Hohenfels not long after Gradrek Helleth, and now one for the Orc fort battle.”
Maximilian passed the belt back. “Fascinating, art as a medium to record history. Will you retire the first maztil, or just keep the ones you’re most proud of?”
“You wear the ones that you have the strongest emotional attachment to, although tradition calls for you to wear the first maztil made for that particular belt, and the most recent. I’ve a problem in that with my waist, I’m pretty limited in how many I can wear.”
The scholar patted his waistline, now much reduced after weeks of field living. “Yes, I can sympathize,” he observed drily. “Why not just loop it around yourself twice, a girdle-type belt like Elonia wears?”
The little Threll stared at him for a moment, then eyed her belt. “I don’t know, I’ve never heard of it being done that way.” She absently slapped a moth away from her face; the thrashing insect splashed down squarely in the middle of Elonia’s bowl. Muttering, the mixed-blood Badger extracted the struggling moth from her glue.
“There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? You would have to make a new leather cover if you go with a double row, but that wouldn’t be hard to come by in any decent sized town. Ah, here’s Janna now, I want to ask her about Hagen’s Landing, good evening to you both.”
Starr rubbed her face, scowling. “What do you think, is a double belt a violation of tradition or simply a new artistic form?”
“How should I know, I’ve never lived in your Lana,” the Seeress pointed out irritably, trying to separate her index and second fingers. “It’s just a belt.”
“It isn’t just a belt, it’s a valuable record of my adventures and achievements,” Starr said hotly. “Really, you could be a bit more civil about this, I just asked a question.”
“Blast,” Elonia fumed, having managed to separate her fingers only to discover that a drop of glue had landed in one of her nets. “Look, I don’t know any more about that custom than Maximilian does, and you just explained it to him. Either stick with a single belt or try something new, it’s all the same to me.”
“Well, I won’t waste anymore of your valuable time with my problems,” Starr huffed, gathering her things together and stomping off into the darkness.
Two of the hemp lines in her net tore while she was getting the strands separated; while she was brooding over whether to try to repair the net herself or wait until the Badgers stopped at a town large enough to have someone skilled in fine cord-work, Bridget walked up.
“Are you almost through with that lamp, Elonia? We’re out of wicks, and I need to fix a strap on my bridle.”
“Just about, let me re-fold this net and it’s yours.”
“Thanks...oh, hold still, you’ve something in your hair.”
“Wait...”
“Odd time to get a haircut,” Maximilian observed to Janna as the two passed the lantern’s circle of light where Bridget was wielding a small pair of scissors around the Seeress’ head. “Still, I suppose a bit of primping is good for morale.”
Chapter Nine
The next planning council included Maxmillian; his staff were given the night off to enjoy what diversions the nearby farming town could offer in order to keep them out of the way.
Durek regarded the circle of faces in the firelight. "Let's keep this short. The raid worked perfectly: we took out the Golden Serpent without a hitch, and proved that the Pargaie reports we’ve got are likely to be accurate. We've all got authentic Golden Serpent disguises, and the staff are none the wiser. Step one completed. Arian, tell us about what you learned from the paperwork we took from the Serpent."
The monk consulted his notes. "We extracted additional details out of the two we captured before we hanged them, and from all this we are ready for
the next steps: firstly, for the surety we planned to give the Felher to prove our sincerity and authenticity, there’s a Hand caravan that should pass to the north of us loaded with valuables, andern amongst others. We'll raid it and use some of the andern as the surety; the rest will give us considerable trading leverage in Alantarn. We'll get the transport from the same source, and rotate details to travel with it under the excuse of visiting shrines or running errands for Maxmillian."
"The Hand of Chaos is going to be a lot tougher than the Golden Serpent," Roger pointed out. "That'll be a full-scale battle."
Arian shrugged. "We'll ambush them; if it turns out to be too much, we'll back off. The caravan is a regular run that distributes supplies to friendly cults, sells goods to Golden Serpent Dens, and the like. From previous notes, we can figure around forty to fifty guards, the bulk of whom will be Orcs."
"Long odds," Roger grumbled. “Every step is a bigger hurtle in this plan.”
"Long odds my butt," Kroh jeered. "I hate Orcs, killed dozens, I have. Orcs couldn't fight their way out of a torn sack."
"A pity we don't have any Direthrell gear," Janna put in before Roger could reply. "The Hand and the Dark Threll hate each other."
Durek shrugged. "They'll blame them anyway, proof or no. We kept the gear of those Thanes from Beydar's Way, and planting those should stir them up a bit. Arian, finish up."
"We also have the information on the methods used to contact the Felher tribe we need. We will pose as a new Den encroaching on the one we hit and go from there. As a bonus, the group we hit, which was called the Third Scarlet Den of the Outer Circle, had done a few errands for Alantarn in the past; nothing significant, but it does give us an idea of the general protocol for business and the sort of things that the Dark Threll are interested in. Another significant reason to hit the caravan is that when we enter Alantarn we'll have to have goods for sale, which is our cover for the Direthrell leader we’ll be dealing with. We did pick up some items in the raid, but we'll need more to be convincing."
"Let me get this straight: we are going into Alantarn to get the Torc; to do that we pretend to be a Golden Serpent Den selling the journal to a Direthrell leader. He or she gets us in pretending that we are just ordinary Gold Serpent traders with goods to sell; meanwhile, we are also pretending to be a Golden Serpent Den who is going to help the Felher raid the complex." Henri was ticking off the points on his fingers. "I'm afraid that after this mission I'm going to find out that we're not really the Phantom Badgers, but actually the enforcers for the Ingress Brothers Brewery out of Aldenhof."
"If we were, do you think we would get free ale?" Kroh was interested.
"Shut up," Durek snapped. "Yes, it's about as convoluted as an Opatian family tree and about as simple as Navian politics, but it's what we've got. As Starr pointed out before, the beauty of it is that we can pull out any time short of the grab for the Torc. We could even sell the journal and walk out of Alantarn if need be. Anything else? Look to your arms; there's fighting in our future. Roger, stick around. Janna, post sentries; the rest can go into town."
When they were alone the Captain fixed Roger with a steely stare. "You want to talk about it?"
"Talk about what?"
"Why are you dragging your feet on everything? You didn't have to come on this mission; there were plenty back at Oramere who wanted to volunteer. Now that you're here you act like it's a suicide run. Why?"
The burly warrior shrugged. "I don't...damn it Durek, you keep after every mission no matter how the odds stack up or what the prize is. We're going to go one step too far and nobody will come back."
"Roger, I was over a hundred when you were born," Durek kept his voice easy. "I was a warrior then, and I can live a lot longer than you even with that lead time. Don't think I'm careless with lives as my neck'll be in the noose too. I ponder the odds all the time, but the key to our plans is that we choose whether to commit or not; there's always a way out. I've been Captain for just over eight years, since the Company was founded, in fact, so you have to learn to trust my judgment or part ways with me. You know that you can't lead by committee; one person has to make the final decision and weigh the costs."
Roger shook his head. "I've been too long with the Badgers to walk away, Durek; you know that. It'll be eight years for me in a few weeks. You know I'll follow orders; just get used to me questioning them in council. That's the best I can do."
The Captain nodded. "I can live with that." The Dwarf watched him walk away and shook his head. Arian had explained some of it and he had filled in the rest himself: Roger had always been disinclined get involved with leadership or planning; he had objected only when Durek had pushed forward with the assault on a major Talon in order to rescue captive children, and the result had been three dead Badgers, Nulia, Roger's love, amongst them. Now Roger opposed all fighting as if by doing so he could bring her back.
What Roger didn't understand is that put in the same place again he would have given the same orders as he had had the first time. They had gotten the children out and with fewer losses than might have been expected, most of whom having died because of the fortunes of war rather than bad planning. He was no saintly do-gooder rushing about battling for the rights of one and all, but neither could he walk away from evil while he had any chance to do something about it. You had to do what you could or the Dark One would take the world.
It was a war between Light and Dark, a war that began with the Sundering and had continued to this day. It was this war that had led him from his home in the Mondschien Mountains as a young adult after serving his required years in the clan's battle ranks. He had seen that the Dwarves could not stand alone in this conflict, no matter what others said. Kroh and the other Guardians were right to a degree, but what they failed to see was that Dwarves suffered if the nations of Men or Threll fell to the Dark; what affected one affected all.
He was not alone in his views, of course. Every Dwarven stronghold produced arms and armor that they sold for a pittance to those Mannish realms that were most threatened, and loaned gold or warriors when the danger pressed their allies. There were those amongst his people who saw that more had to be done: the Umherr, the Ones Who Leave. Dwarves who left home and clan to live amongst Men, teaching them and aiding them in their struggles. It was Men who would hold back the Dark, Durek knew; Men and those amongst the Dwarves and Threll who chose to guide them. The traditional Dwarven and Threllian communities were too inward, too focused on their mountains or forests to pay enough attention to the larger problems that beset the world. The Akur, the lizard-men, where too hopelessly wrapped in their unfathomable mores to ever be more than they were now. Only Men were sufficiently rootless and hasty to deal with the Dark in the manner required.
He had left home and lived amongst Men, first as a weapon smith, then as a trader, military advisor, and finally as the founder and Captain of the Phantom Badgers. He had returned home many times; his family still welcomed him, and his clan still recognized him. His path was neither forbidden nor dishonorable. But his returns were merely visits, to refresh his soul and to advise his Fuar of the events outside their fortress. Always he returned to his lonely struggle against the Dark, his solitary crusade against the Void-Master. The Badgers were mercenaries, but their gold and their fame were purchased with the blood and shattered ambitions of minions of the Dark One, and would always be as long as he held the reins of leadership. The Badgers were home and, in an odd way, children to him.
There had been a proper Dwarf maid waiting once, long ago. But the visits were too far apart, and the dangers outside too pressing; another called her wife now. Durek could not fault her; the Dwarves are patient, not eternal.
Sighing, he levered himself to his feet with his axe. His choices had been made long ago, and there was no turning back. If only Roger could see that, he might be happier: sometimes having accepted the past and moving on was the best cure of all.
The rain had been coming down steadily for well over a
n hour, further drenching an already soaked landscape. Kroh cursed into his beard and crept forward a dozen yards, taking up position behind a scrubby tree. It was the fifteenth day of Zahmteil, the ninth month in the Imperial calendar, and the rain had a chill bite to it as it came off the ramparts of the towering charcoal clouds overhead. It was, as far as he was concerned, a cold, wet, miserable day that should have been spent drinking ale somewhere warm and dry instead of prowling about the muddy countryside scouting, with nothing better than a cold and wet camp to look forward to at the end of it.
The Badgers were twenty-two days out from their last planning council; after caching their disguises and trade goods in a safe place, they had begun leaving in pairs and threes on various 'missions' to 'locate' sites of significance for Maxmillian, who had left his staff in a stout farmstead collecting local legends about the Perniains while their paymaster ‘visited’ a local noble. The Badgers had reformed, located the Hand caravan, and spent the last two days scouting and trailing, counting numbers, noting habits, and watching for any weaknesses in the cultists' dispositions.
Crouching miserably under the tree's dripping branches in a soaked poncho that had long since ceased to be protection and simply become a clammy weight that oozed water down his neck, coated with mud from the knees down and liberally daubed everywhere else, the Waybrother was a picture of misery. Underground-dwelling by nature, Dwarves liked rain the same way cats did: falling on someone else. Balancing his axe on thigh and shoulder, Kroh dug his too-light canteen out and took a couple fiery swallows. Good Dwarven dark ale was his preference, but given the limits of the quantity Durek would let him bring along and the misery of the weather, he had switched to Arturian brandy, which was his smartest move so far on this stage of the trip.
