Dark Tide: Book Five of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  Her wait did not last long; the Thulan barked several words in his guttural tongue and the three rankers eased forward a step, weapons ready. Janna would have preferred them to hold off until help could reach her, but doubted they would be so obliging. She side-hopped at sudden movements from the two leaders as the three rushed; one mungal missed completely, while the other swept in at her eyes and then glanced away, deflected by her torc. Swinging low she caught the first fodra on the outside of its right knee, shearing halfway through the joint and spilling the Hobrec onto the ground.

  She had to jump back, awkwardly dodging one swing as a varka bit through her bracer and opened a deep gash on her left shoulder. A buckler caught Rosemist’s point, the steel biting into the soft wood with enough force to trap the blade for a second, leaving her wide open, but her bare head was too great a temptation and the reaver wasted the chance by swinging at her face, only to have its blade deflected away at the last second.

  Twisting her blade free as a varka crashed into her armored belly, denting the metal and wringing a pained gasp from her, Janna slapped a blade aside with the flat of her weapon and riposted, slamming the blade through the reaver’s throat. Twisting as she withdrew, she howled as a well-aimed mungal slammed into her left bicep just below the earlier wound, immobilizing the arm. Awkwardly shifting her grip on Rosemist for one-handed use, the Serjeant side-stepped a wild swing and stabbed the fodra in the left thigh. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the crippled Hobrec dragging itself along the bench behind her, a curved dagger in hand, obviously intent on hamstringing her, only to catch the point of Eithne’s hanger in the armpit, the narrow blade angling in past the armor and sinking deep.

  Both leaders joined the fight as the wounded fodra hopped away towards the pier, and the three warriors eyed each other for a long moment. Janna could hear the fighting raging behind her, and knew that the outcome of this fight would depend upon her own actions, as help wasn’t going to be quick in coming. Lunging forward without warning, she dropped to one knee as the Thulan’s varka swept harmlessly over her head, Rosemist’s point punching cleanly through his cord armor between two bone plates, sliding under its ribs to transfix a lung. Releasing her sword’s hilt as the screaming Hobrec collapsed, Janna drew her dagger as a varka-point found the narrow gap between her breast and back plates and arrowed in, grating across her ribs as she drove the narrow blade into the forearm of the wielder.

  Catching the hilt as the reaver released it and hopped back, the ex-Silver Eagle eased the weapon free of her flesh and armor, tossing it aside before she leaned forward to drive her dagger into the Thulan’s eye socket and on into its brain as the reaver sprawled on all fours, helpless with the pain. Pulling Rosemist free of the twitching corpse as the Thul charged back in with a varka snatched from a fallen comrade, Janna ignored the dizziness and flashing colored lights that hindered her vision, not to mention the flaming pain in her left arm and side. That she was badly wounded went without saying; that she was finished was far from certain. As the scar on her face attested to, she had survived far worse wounds in the past.

  The Thul swung first, aiming for her throat, but she tucked her chin as she thrust, letting the torc’s enchantment deflect the blow (which jarred her badly) as she drove Rosemist’s point into and through his calf, ripping the great muscle apart as she twisted her blade. Howling, the reaver collapsed, flailing madly at the Badger as he fell, the blows scarring her breastplate but inflicting no more than bruises as she tiredly drove the point of her sword into his chest, levering up under the breast-bone to reach the heart.

  Slumping to a sitting position, she dragged her weapon free of the dying reaver and leaned back against the bench’s seat. The Hobrec she had crippled earlier was dead, the hanger embedded to half its length in his torso. “Are you all right, Lady Eithne?”

  “Yes,” a small voice answered from directly behind her; the Duke’s daughter had yet to quit her hiding place.

  “Good. Get your sword back.”

  “I can’t, it’s stuck, but I’ve his knife and my two.”

  “That should do, then,” Janna pressed a bandage around the mungal’s blade where it entered her arm and took several deep breaths to hold back the dizziness the pain was bringing. The fighting was moving away from where she sat, and hidden under a bench was as good a place as any for Eithne to be. All but two of the Lifeguards on the pier were dead, but so were all the Hobrec within view. Behind her the fighting continued, but none close enough to concern her.

  She eyed the tumbled corpses scattered before her and smiled tiredly: she hadn’t needed any help after all.

  Arian had loaded his plate, gotten Janna’s bread, and was turning from the buffet to return to the bench when Duke Sorgen had stopped him for a brief exchange of polite small talk. The screaming and sounds of battle from the pier had caught both their attention; as Arian had flung his plate aside and started towards Janna’s bench he saw the Duke stagger and fall out of the corner of his eye. Turning back, he urged the graying nobleman to lay still as he examined the quarrel jutting from his chest with expert eyes. The bolt had missed the heart and lungs, but the point was moot; even as the monk tore open his medical kit the poison the shaft had been coated with took the Duke’s life.

  Rising from the dead man, Arian was faced with two charging Hobrec, who drove him back to the buffet until he managed to kill one and wound the other. Joining up with Rolf and his girlfriend, Veda Sligh, the Serjeant charged into the thick of the fighting, using a dead Hobrec’s buckler in place of the shield he had left back at the barracks. Getting back to Janna was foremost on his mind, but he was confident that she would have withdrawn to the main body at the south end of the Amphitheater, so it was just a matter of surviving the fight and finding her later.

  Durek, Dayyan, Bulldog, Bridget, and Axel formed an island of security in the center of the Amphitheater; the Serjeant and his two comrades joined them, followed shortly by Kroh, Mad Dog, and Henri.

  The reaver assault ended as quickly as it had begun; there were too many armed soldiers in the Amphitheater to make theirs an easy slaughter, and in any case a pitched stand was the not what their orders called for. Breaking off their attack, the surviving Hobrec retreated to the piers in orderly groups, dragging their wounded with them, and headed west along the stone walkway. The sounds of fighting and the smoke of fires coming from either side brought home the fact that this was a full-scale assault on the port, not merely a raid upon the reception.

  He found her sitting on the ground with her back against their bench, Rosemist’s bloody blade across her lap, and Hobrec dead strewn in front of her. One look at the mungal in her arm and the blood-soaked bandage in her right hand told him everything; blinking back the burning tears, Arian laid his sword on the bench and knelt beside Janna, carefully resting her head against his chest as he unfastened her bracers.

  Durek came up on his left. “By the Eight, is she alive?”

  “Barely. Get Bridget or the Doctor here,” the monk carefully cut runes alongside the mungal, then drew the weapon free without affect the flesh. “Better still, get both of them.”

  When Starr scrambled up the ivy to join her, Elonia used a portion of her slender stock of spellcasting and cast a brief enchantment that allowed her to jump down into the alley without injury. The attackers had operated in pairs from five firing slits, each pair having three crossbows, one attacker firing while the other reloaded crossbows. Three of the assassins were dead, one slain by the Seeress, one by Henri, and one being the female Kroh had knocked unconscious; her loader had slit her throat before fleeing. Elonia recovered her net and knives before searching the dead. None of the three had anything on them that identified them or their employers; indeed, none had anything out of the ordinary.

  It was dim in the alley, which stank of urine, rotting trash from the inn’s trash bins, and fresh blood; Elonia rose from the last body, the female, and brushed off her knees. She had dragged this last corpse away from th
e pool of blood, and as she turned to leave she noticed that the woman’s hair, which was worn in a tight coiffure, had come undone. Frowning, she knelt back down and moved some of the dark locks aside and hissed a curse, rising to drag the corpse further out into the light to better examine her features. Muttering, the Seeress laid out three crystal disks and began a deep-breathing exercise.

  “What are you doing?” Starr called down.

  “I’m going to try to get a reading off of this body,” Elonia replied, positioning the crystals.

  “She’s dead,” Starr objected.

  “I know, but sometimes you can get a reading off a person, or a fresh corpse, in the manner you can off of an item or place.” ‘If there is a connection between the scryer and the corpse, that is,’ she added mentally. This woman was a Nepas, that is, a mixed blood who had a Direthrell as one parent; in this case Elonia guessed the other parent was Human. The Nepas had hidden her mixed blood through expert use of makeup, precise positioning of her hair, careful attention to her clothes, and by staying at least twenty pounds over her normal weight, all directed as passing as pure Human. When Alantarn rebelled, nearly all of Arbmante’s intelligence agents that served in Human lands were cut off from the homeland. Some would have banded together and made their way home, or made contact by various other means. But some, particularly Nepas agents or operatives whose careers had faded, would have taken advantage of the break to market their skills and knowledge to other powers, or to simply make new lives for themselves. Elonia was guessing that this woman was such a defector.

  Ten minutes later she repacked her crystals. “Did it work?” Starr called down eagerly.

  “Yes, in the main,” the Seeress nodded tiredly. Standing, she found Maxmillian waiting at the end of the alley with Dayyan. Seeing that she was done, Dayyan began gathering up the crossbows discarded by the assassins in their flight while the historian gave Elonia a glass of wine.

  “Thanks, I really needed that.” She kissed his cheek.

  “Did you learn anything?” The historian was tired and there were new scars on his armor.

  “A bit, where she lived, that sort of thing. How did it go in the Amphitheater?”

  “Bad. Janna’s hurt bad. She might not survive.”

  The seeress stopped in mid-stride and stared at Maxmillian. “Janna?” She shook her head. “That’s like....Kroh getting killed, or Rolf; you think of them as indestructible.”

  “They aren’t, and she isn’t. She slew about a dozen Hobrec and saved Lady Eithne’s life in the process, but now its touch and go.”

  “How’s Arian holding up?”

  “Better than most would.”

  “Any other losses?”

  “Not in the Company, just the usual cuts and bruises, but they got the Duke and both his sons, would have gotten Lady Eithne if Janna hadn’t made a stand. A bunch of the local nobles were killed, along with twenty-three Lifeguards and a couple officers who had been invited to the party. The Hobrec were a distraction, these alley-assassins were the main show, they got all three males of the House Sorgen in the first volley, and one of the Lord Protectors, too; good thing they didn’t get a chance at much more. You, Kroh, and Henri shut them down before they could get anyone else.”

  “I suppose, although I only killed one, and the rest were already running when I got onto the roof.” Elonia brushed at the caked bird dung that clung to her clothes.

  “Things didn’t go as they intended,” the historian shrugged. “I don’t think they counted on the military officers and mercenaries being invited, much less in war gear. Still, things are going to be very bad, given that the Duchy rests in the hands of a sixteen-year-old girl.”

  “What’s all that smoke?”

  “The Hobrec we were hit by were just part of a larger group; apparently they’ve been picking off cogs for months, and then used the captured ships to bring at least five hundred warriors into the port. About a sixth hit the Amphitheater, while the rest fanned out across the port cutting out loaded ships and setting fires. No doubt the Hand put them up to it.”

  Rolf dumped out the dead Hobrec’s pouch. “Six coins and some junk.” He put the coins in the canvas satchel and dumped the rest back into the pouch. The Badgers had volunteered to clean up the Amphitheater, tossing the Hobrec dead into a barge that would be towed out to sea and dumped by a Navy vessel later; naturally the mercenaries were busy stripping the corpses of any valuables while they disposed of the dead. Blue Platoon was tasked with the job; while the rank and file did the body-carrying the two Corporals sorted the loot.

  “We’ve a bunch of weapons that only Hobrec use, small change from every nation in this half of the world, a little gold and silver jewelry, and some fairly nice leather work, mostly pouches and traveler’s satchels,” The Waybrother observed, packing a half-dozen of the latter into a sack. “Mind you, there’s some fair steel in the varkas.”

  “The armor’s junk, but perhaps were can sell some as novelty items,” Rolf examined a chan. “You know, some taverns like that sort of thing to hang on their walls. The swords and mungal can be sold as scrap metal.” He tossed the weapon back in the hand cart. “I miss Janna already. I keep expecting her to step around the corner and chew you out for something.”

  “Yep.” Kroh spat on a dead Hobrec that was being dragged to the corpse-barge. “Hard as stone and quick with a blade. Did you see the orange bastards piled up around her? She cut her way through a ship’s crew, sure as sunrise. Blind luck is all that got her, she could have done for another dozen but for a lucky cut.”

  “It’s true,” Rolf nodded mournfully. “She was with us in the Gradrek Heleth fight.” He fingered the first stud on his bracer. “Not many of us left from that one.”

  “Not with two killed during it and another before we saw daylight,” Kroh nodded. “But she’s not dead yet.”

  “We’ve lost a lot of friends, though.”

  The two sat in silence for a while. Finally Kroh stirred. “Come on, the bodies have been shifted. Let’s get this junk stored and the money to the Doctor.”

  “We haven't gone through that sack of bags and belt cases yet.”

  “We’ll do it later. I need a lot to drink, and soon.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bernian Chaton faced the men in the room squarely, no trace of fear on his sun-burned face. “The situation before us is extremely clear,” he stated in a tone that brooked no argument.

  “Actually, I would say that it was most unclear,” Lord Protector Alexus Staifon drawled from where he lounged at the foot of the table, one long leg hooked over the arm of his chair. “And I don’t believe I am alone in this thought.”

  The Lord Chancellor studied the handsome nobleman whose temples were just showing a touch of stylish gray. Lord Staifon was well known for his hunting, dancing, and dalliances; he had close ties with the Arturians and a strong lust for the title of Duke. “Frankly, sir, I was under the impression that thinking was not your strong suit.”

  Lord Staifon cocked an eyebrow. “Really, Chaton, you are such a dreary little commoner.”

  “A commoner who, I would like to point out, could purchase the entirety of House Staifon’s holdings from his personal funds and still have enough money left over to purchase two-thirds of either remaining House,” the Lord Chancellor shot back. “I do so despise poverty, Lord Staifon. But to business, gentlemen: the Duke is dead, and we must complete the routine legal steps of secession.”

  “That is the point Lord Staifon wishes to be examined,” Hanns Kornig VII pointed out. “It would seem the secession is not very clear.”

  “The secession is extremely clear: it belongs to the oldest Sorgen male, and if none live, the oldest Sorgen female, family lines to be judged in the manner set out in the College of Heraldry,” the Lord Chancellor patted the thick tome on the table in front of him. “The sixteenth Duke of House Sorgen is dead; no male heir survives him, so the title and power devolve to his oldest female heir, Lady Eithne, who
will be the seventeenth Duchess of House Sorgen.”

  “That is the point, good sir,” Hanns persisted. “She is not of age, and but a girl.”

  “I admire your courage in indulging in affairs of state when your father, the late Lord Protector, is dead but two hours,” Chaton smiled at the husky, pallid young man. “Might I remind you that the rules used to choose Dukes also apply to the manner of choosing replacement Lord Protectors? You have an older sister, do you not?”

  Hanns flushed and looked away, muttering.

  “I see.” The Lord Chancellor nodded shortly. “The laws of descent also cover the conditions we find ourselves in, gentlemen: the Lady Eithne will assume her rightful title on her seventeenth birthday, just over six months hence. Until that time a regent shall be declared, to act with all powers of the Duke save that of a life term. The designated regent as set out by the late Duke in his will is the Lord Chancellor, to wit, myself. Such is the law, and so it shall be.”

  Lord Staifon smiled. “Laws are merely dusty old paper, Bernian. What gives them force?”

  “The Army gives it force,” Lord Captain Hergo Pittmann pointed out. “And the Army is loyal to House Sorgen and Lady Eithne.” The fat, red-faced old soldier did not have to try and look fierce; he might be past the age of field service, but Captain Pittmann had killed many a foe in his time, and had this very day slain three Hobrec.

  “As does the Navy.” Fleet Captain Michel Letort was a small man well-marked by wind and sun and who shaved his amber scalp as bald as an egg; like Lord Captain Pittmann and the Lord Chancellor, he was of common ancestry promoted by the late Duke on the basis of personal competence. “My Marines and ships’ crews did not serve in the east, but they are eager to prove their loyalty in any manner required.”

  “And so the matter seems quite clear,” Lord Protector Hans Ademet spoke into the strained silence that followed. “The Lady Eithne will be the next Duchess; until then the Lord Chancellor will be the Regent for House Sorgen, and Hanns will be made Lord Protector. But we come to a new, and important point: whom shall the future Duchess marry? Obviously the line requires a quick marriage and plentiful heirs.”