by Krpoun, RW
The passage she had been following ended a dozen yards from the site of her battle, terminating in a shaft which rose fifty feet straight up into the mountain; despite its impressive height, there was only the one way in. Starr marked it on her map and idly poked around the fifteen-foot wide chamber which was littered with the bones of countless cave rats. It took a bit for the longer bones to register; alerted, she began to hunt more carefully, a growing fear rising within her that was confirmed when she found the skull wedged in a side-crevice: a yellowing orb whose bone structure lacked the massive structure of a Orc or the smooth rounded dome of a Human: a Threll had died here.
She sorted patiently through the litter of bones, carefully sorting out the rat skeletons, and binding the Threll’s remains into a bundle with silk thread from the spool in her pouch. At least she could remove this unfortunate from the black confines of the mountain and intern them properly on the surface in the traditions of their people. As she searched out the remains she found age-ruined remnants of a leather tunic and trousers, a leather belt gone wood-hard with mildew and age, a rotting pouch which contained a few worthless odds and ends, and a rusting steel chisel (most likely loot from Gradrek Heleth) whose business end showed signs of heavy wear: she had found the maker of those elaborate marker-arrows. Starr had to stop and wipe away hot tears before she could go on, for although years if not decades had separated her from this nameless Threll, the lovely markers had made her feel less alone.
Pulling herself together finally, she finished her search, uncovering a scabbarded sword in one corner whose blade was cemented in place by years of limestone dripping, the concrete-like substance coating the hilt and crossguards as well. Giving it only a cursory glance, Starr added it to the bundle of bones and bound the entire assembly tight.
A bugling egg sac the size of a pumpkin half way up on wall had caught her eye; after a dozen tries she managed to knock it to the ground with a thrown rock. Hefting the biggest stone she could manage, the diminutive Badger crushed the sac and stomped on any eggs which survived that assault. On her way back to the intersection, burdened by the bundled remains, she paused to cut the venom sacs from the dead spiders; the poison would only remain potent for a few days but she thought it likely that there would be a use for it before then.
Kroh was waiting for her, his faced pressed to the narrow gap that had forced her into this mess in the first place. It touched her deeply that he cared so, even though he tried to cover his concern with a show of gruffness as she levered herself through the bottleneck, pushing the bones and sword before her. “About time you showed up, a one-legged Goblin would’ve been quicker about it. What’s that on your tunic?”
“Spider guts.” Starr couldn’t stop a maniac grin. “The bastards are thick in there.” The Waybrother barked laughter and clapped her on the shoulder, staggering her.
The news she brought back was electrifying: the right branch of the fork whose left branch led to dead end where she had fought the spiders was an opening into the bridge cavern, specifically, an opening into one of the slave pens. Durek and Kroh queried her about the route and studied her map, finally concluding that it must be one of the north slave pens.
Half the ‘day’ used up, the four Badgers returned to the camp site to eat and prepare to clear away the choke point. Starr hadn’t brought any spare clothing along on a mission where every pound counted, but Gabriella had a long-tailed tunic in her bedroll that she had brought in case it was cold inside the hold; Starr borrowed it, asked Kroh to clean the limestone off the sword she had found, which under Company bylaws was hers as she was on a authorized scouting mission, and went wash her clothes in a nearby pool.
Garments washed, she scrubbed herself clean, gasping at the icy touch of the water. Hurrying back to their camp cavern, she laid out her clothing around the brazier that had been lit for their midday meal.
Bridget walked over while she was propping her leggings up with a couple rocks to dry. “Kroh says you were wounded in the arm; let’s have a look.” The Advocate opened her bag and cut the bandage off, the swift removal of the wrapping bringing a gasp from the shivering Lanthrell. “Mandible bites, eh?” Bridget prodded the twin wounds, ignoring Starr’s yelp. “Filthy, but no poison, thank the Eight. Here, Gabriella, pour me a cup of the hot water, thanks, and another so I can wash my hands.”
With expert hands the serjeant washed out the mandible punctures before breaking the seal on a set of medical instruments that had been boiled and then sealed in waxed paper. Using a sharp scalpel she carefully cut two small runes into the flesh next to each wound; gripping the short Badger’s arm in both of her hands, Bridget closed her eyes and whispered a short cant. When she removed her hands the only marks on Starr’s arm was the runes Bridget had made, shallow scratches that would leave no permanent scar.
“That’s done, then,” Bridget grinned. “Try to use your bow next time.”
The rest of the ‘day’ was spent opening up the bottleneck and then carefully scouting and marking the route to the crevice in the bridge cavern, while each Badger spent some time spying on the Talon going about their business. Arian, aided by Kroh in his spare minutes, labored to put the finishing touches to his model, which was perhaps more elaborate than was absolutely necessary, and Bridget continually updated her notes on the various aspects of the Talon. It was a shame, she was heard to say, to waste such excellent intelligence files by killing the subjects they covered.
The entire raid force was called in to the camp site for the evening meal; the braziers were lit, the guard roster was set, and Durek advised that the raid on the bridge cavern would take place on the morrow after a through explanation of the plan and various preparations. Bridget issued out four more day’s rations, and Kroh repacked both pack saddles, the loads now much diminished with the removal of the ropes, chains, and tools, not to mention four-tenths of the provisions and fuel. The Badgers lolled about the cavern as their individual natures moved them, resting, talking, and attending to domestic chores.
Starr came over to where Kroh was engaged in a game of Whack The Komad On The Snout Without Getting Knocked Off Your Feet (score: Kroh three, Iron Tusk two) and watched silently until an opportunity came to pose a question. “Kroh, where’s the sword I asked you to clean up?”
“Gave it to Bridget when I was finished,” the Waybrother rumbled, climbing back onto his feet. “So she could check it for anything bad. Too light and not a bit of honest steel in it, more’s the pity, but maybe we’ll find you a decent blade on the way back out.”
“Thanks.”
Bridget wasn’t obviously visible in the camp area, but the cavern had several sizeable niches which the Badgers had used for sleeping areas and storage. The first was empty, the second had a blanket across it and the sound of Nuilia giggling coming from within, setting Starr’s pointed ears to burning. Being around Humans was difficult to handle sometimes, especially if you were a young Threll maiden with more battles than beaus in your past. Not that Starr had fought in many battles.
Arian was explaining something to Janna using elaborate hand gestures, one of the burning black sticks he had gotten from Kroh stuck in his mouth; the scarred Silver Eagle was as impassive as ever, combing her freshly-washed hair and occasionally nodding at what the monk was saying. Janna soundlessly pointed towards an alcove at the back of the cavern with her comb as the little Lanthrell walked up, which left her wondering how the red-haired warrior knew who she was looking for and why she didn’t want Arian to be interrupted.
The advocate was lying on a blanket in the alcove with her feet propped high on the wall, trying to balance a stylus on the end of her nose; when she saw Starr she tossed the pen aside and rolled to her knees. “Just who I need to see: Starr, that sword you found, did you get a look at it?”
The diminutive Badger shrugged. “Not really; it was covered in the stone drippings, and I had other things on my mind. It’s not as long as the one I’ve been carrying, and seemed a bit lighter, s
o I’m hoping it is useable.”
“That it is: it’s a Lanthrell blade, made of that crystal your people work.”
“Girmek? Really? That should make it very light and handy.”
“That it is, although I prefer a narrower blade,” the serjeant commented as she rummaged under her blankets. “The key thing is that besides being pretty, the weapon is enchanted.”
“Enchanted! And it’s mine,” Starr gasped. “Imagine that.”
“Making crystal out of sap is not much of a surprise,” Bridget comment, producing the sword. “But how you get it to be other colors is what amazes me-after all, amber comes from old tree sap, but, well, it’s always amber in color, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand what you mean, but I haven't a clue as to how they do it,” Starr commented, examining the weapon. “Of course, I don’t understand how Dwarves takes a bundle of wire and turn it into a sword blade, either.”
“Out in Carmeia they take a sheet of metal, heat it up, pound on it, fold it, pound it some more, fold it again, and so on, until they have a sword,” Bridget observed. “You’d think it would unravel after about three hard strikes, wouldn’t you?”
With all the accumulated grime removed the workmanship was clearly Threllian: the scabbard was lacquered wood in a green-black sheen, the surface specially treated so it would wear like iron. The hilt was milky white girmek, the grip covered in wire-bound sharkskin for a dry firm surface, the pommel carved into a snow leopard’s head in repose and the down-swept crossguards shaped into striking leopard’s paws. The blade, when she drew it, was crystal as well, a transparent blue so deep it looked like seawater, the cutting edge outlined on both sides of the blade by tiny Threll letters. A six-inch leaping snow leopard was engraved in the blood gutter on each side of the blade near the hilt, followed by several letters.
Both women studied the weapon for long minutes before Bridget spoke. “What does the engraving say?”
“The big letters are its name, Snow Leopard; the small words along the edge are a poem to the snow leopard.” Starr read it aloud. “Of course, it loses something in the translation.”
“Poetry is best in the native tongue, although that one is still pretty in Pradian. Quite a find, Starr, quite a find.”
“You said it was enchanted; what exactly does that mean?”
“That there are enchantments, magical power that are, well, embedded in the physical shape of the sword. An enchanted weapon never rusts, chips, bends, blunts, or anything else, unless it hits another enchanted device. It’s sharper and stronger than an ordinary blade, that sort of thing. This particular weapon can deliver a blast of very intense cold when the blade strikes, although it uses stored energy to do that; you’ve seen Kroh’s axe, haven't you, the way it can be thrown and come back? Same thing with the wave of cold.”
“How do you store energy in it?”
“You don’t, not directly. What the weapon does is draw energy from you, from being carried and handled. It’ll take about a day’s worth to charge it up, and about twelve hours or so between uses, so don’t waste them. Kroh’s axe is bigger, and the main enchantment is more complex, so it takes a day or more between uses for him.”
“How do I make the cold?”
“You just will it, once you’ve handled the blade long enough for you and it to be in tune, say a week or so. I would freeze a few practice posts before I counted on it in a fight, if you know what I mean. It truly is a beautiful weapon.”
“Thank you, and thank you for your help, Bridget.”
“No problem, it’s a very straightforward device. Now I’m going to get some sleep; we’ve a battle on the morrow.”
Starr shuddered. “I’d forgotten.”
Bridget laughed. “Keep in mind that the way we Badgers fight is to make sure we face a battle while the other side faces a massacre.’
Chapter Seven
Arian finished explaining which markers represented whom, a task made difficult by Kroh, who took exception to the fact that the five-pence coin used to represent him was of a newer mintage than the five-pence coin used to represent Robin, even though he was several decades older than the Human. Starr finally settled the matter by pointing out that Robin had longer service within the Badgers, an explanation which the Waybrother reluctantly accepted.
Durek stepped up with a sheaf of notes as the monk moved to rejoin the assembled Badgers. “All right, we’re moving the attack forward to today. It seems that the spells that pull the water from the mud are temporary, need renewing, and that right soon. So we hit them before they get around to the entrails-pulling, finish this business up and head for daylight, or starlight as it turns out to be. Arian has devised a cunning plan, and I’ll let him explain it in just a moment, but first Bridget will go over these notes she’s complied so that we’ll all be digging the same shaft.”
“Just so long as we’re not digging our own graves,” Robin muttered to Nuilia, who nodded sourly.
“The numbers are as we first saw,” the advocate announced in her clear, high voice. “The Dark Dwarves...”
“Black Dwarves, if you’re going to call them that,” Kroh interrupted. “On account of their smelting methods, too much burunmek and far too little...” Starr’s whispering finally caught his attention and the Waybrother scowled. “Anyway, their metal’s very dark in a grainy way, that’s why they’re called Black Dwarves.”
“The Black Dwarves, so called for the color of their metal as caused by their smelting processes,” Bridget began again in the tones of one who is doing the best she could under very difficult conditions with damned little in the way of thanks or appreciation. “Are very well armed and armored using their traditional metals; each wears mail, and has shield, war mattock, and side arms, plus crossbows, but these latter are racked and unlikely to be brought into play at first. The Direbreed are well equipped, some of their equipment bearing the grainy dark color characteristic of Black Dwarven handiwork. Armor is of lighter types, usually studded leather tunics and jacks, with a few suits of mail. Arms tend towards polearms and impact weapons. Few bother with shields, and there is a distinct lack of missile weapons, which is quite normal with Direbreed, as they prefer their killing up close and personal. It is unusual that the Champion hasn’t bothered to include some non-Direbreed archers in his Talon to compensate, but I for one am not complaining. The spellcaster, whose proper title would be Bloodmaster in this case, is unarmed and unarmored, but should have plenty of enchantments to use if he still alive after the start of the battle, which he had better not be. The Minion of the Void, the Draktaur, is wearing a very complicated suit of armor that covers all but his lower legs and is almost certainly Void-blessed; he carries an axe bigger than Rolf’s and looks like he could whittle a bull into canapés with two swings of it.”
“What is ‘Void-Blessed’?” Starr asked.
“Andern is mixed into the molten metal to enchant it for better service,” Bridget explained.
“Oh yay, huzzah, it won’t be one of those boring fights where we just stomp over the opposition like they weren’t there,” Robin jeered.
“I like a good brawl,” Kroh nodded, missing the sarcasm. “Does you good to work up a sweat and practice the defensive maneuvers.”
“In any case,” Bridget plowed on, “the Direbreed are mostly from goats and sheep for reasons of economy, although there are a number Harvested from dogs or wolves, and a few from deer. I know some of you disagree, but there is no connection between the type of host creature and the fighting ability of the Direbreed.”
“Balls,” Trellan shot back. “A Direbreed hatched from a carnivore is quicker and tougher than one from a sheep, no matter what you say.” Gabriella and several others nodded in agreement.
“Whatever. In any case, the Direbreed are split into three equal sections, one bunking in the dirt in front of each slave pen. Sentries are posted outside the gates to the two adult slave pens but they don’t usually bother staying awake. The slaves
are worked for about ten hours, then get a five-hour rest period, then work ten hours, and so on; they get fed every third rest period, with food bonuses if they find anything. Most of the slaves are Human, with a number of Cave Goblins and a few Orcs mixed in, and they are all a half-starved lot whose life expectancy is just minutes longer than the time it takes to finish looting the pit and carry everything out to wherever they’ve left the wagons or pack animals, and it is likely they are aware of that fact.”
“In conclusion, the enemy is numerous, well-armed, largely fearless, and completely under the control of their leader. On the other hand, they are not very alert and poorly disposed to resist an attack from outside, apparently having bought off the Bronze Hydra and anyone else who might be in the area. Are there any questions?”
“What are they doing with the dirt?” Trellan asked. “If the slaves are sifting it, what are they doing with it once it is sifted? After all, the whole point of the exercise is to shift all the dirt to get to the buried loot. I always watched them during rest periods.”
“They’re searching the dirt by digging narrow shafts in a tight pattern; once the hole is deep enough, they dump the dirt back in and dig another. Since what they’re looking for doesn't appear to be much smaller than, say, a helm, there’s no need to actually move all the dirt around.”
“A very good briefing, Bridget,” Durek thumped the serjeant on the shoulder. “Now, Arian will go over the plan; I don’t need to tell you just how important it is that everyone knows what to do.”
The monk stood and sighed. “We have to operate under one central objective: we must kill every member of the Talon. Nothing else will serve, so there are no quick and easy solutions before us. On the other hand, we have surprise and the ability to choose the time of the raid, as well as detailed information about the foe. As always, the first minute or two of the attack will be the crucial period, and the time when we must do the utmost damage to the foe; hurt them bad enough, and they will never recover. The main preparation will begin one hour after the start of the next slave rest period, which is in about two hours. Firstly myself, Durek, Kroh, Bridget, Trellan, and Gabriella will crawl through the various crevices to the north slave pens, where Durek and I will negotiate with the slaves to include them into our plan. Should they not be receptive as a group or as individuals, Bridget will use her enchantments to keep any noise from escaping while we kill those slaves who will not cooperate. We will arm those slaves who will cooperate, and Bridget and I will return here.”
