Dark Obligations: Book One of the Phantom Badgers

by Krpoun, RW

  “How are you going to get into the slave cage to kill those slaves who won’t cooperate?” Trellan asked. “Kroh said that the crevice in question has a couple iron bars wedged across it to keep the slaves from escaping.”

  “Before the rest period starts Kroh will go through the crevices to the north slave pen and saw the bars through to the point where a single sharp blow will break them, using the noise of the slaves at work to cover the sound. We’ve a good metal-cutting saw along and the bars are soft iron.”

  “Clever.”

  “Now, the attack will be launched in the third hour of the rest period, time candles being used to keep everyone working together. Our force will consist of three groups, Group One in the north slave pen consisting of Durek, Kroh, Gabriella, and Trellan; Group Two will consist of Janna, myself, Robin, Nuilia, and will begin in the tunnel at the south end of the bridge; Group Three will consist of Bridget, Rolf, and Starr, who will start at the same point as Group Two.”

  “At the onset, Group Three will crawl out onto the bridge as quietly as they can and prepare for their mission, which will be to support Groups One and Two with spells and missile fire; Rolf will have his crossbows and Arian’s. When ready, Bridget will make a ramp appear from the bridge down to the top of the children’s pen while Starr slays the Bloodmaster. Group Two will them charge across the bridge and down the ramp, insure that the Bloodmaster is dead, and take on the section of Direbreed resting there. Then Group Two mixes it up with whoever’s still standing from the Talon.”

  “Using the ropes and the block and tackle, plus bolts sunk into the stone by Kroh at the same period as he cuts the bars, Group One jerks the floor out from under the Fortren’s feet, dumping them into the slave pens where they will be easy meat, after which Group One and what slaves are willing spill out and mix it up with the Direbreed and Draktaur.”

  “Will the pen come down all that easy?” Nuilia asked in a pouting voice.

  “Yep,” Kroh rumbled. “I had a look while the slaves were at work. It’s just propped together, the weight from above jamming it all in place. With the gear we brought to winch the chest out of the mud we’ll not have any problem.”

  “What about weapons for the slaves?” Janna asked. “We can’t really spare any of our own.”

  “We’ve a couple pry bars and mallets in the tools we brought,” Arian explained. “And we’ll cut three-foot lengths from the chains we brought for fishing for the chest to make primitive flails. Plus once the pen collapses there will be plenty of iron bars lying about. Those slaves who survive the first couple minutes will be able to loot weapons off the dead Direbreed.”

  “Cor, it’s going to stink down there,” Kroh suddenly observed; the others nodded: shortly after a Direbreed is slain, its physical being reverts to a state of corruption as if it had died when Harvested.

  Durek had Arian go over every detail of the plan again, and then went over the plan Group by Group and individual by individual, spending the better part of an hour drilling the concept into his raiders’ heads, as well as drilling them in the rather basic maneuvers involved.

  When Durek was satisfied that they were as ready as planning could make them, he ended it. “Kroh, you and Trellan see to the bars and bolts; Janna, pick three people and go about working up those flails. There’s fifteen slaves in that pen, so have that many weapons less two: the bars across the opening of the crevice will arm the two Goblins.”

  “How many of the fifteen are Human?” Trellan asked.

  “Nine, plus four Orcs and two Goblins,” Durek studied the group. “Any more questions? Then make your peace with the Eight and look to your preparations; we join battle in less than four hours.”

  The soft click of the oil-drenched lock releasing told the Badger Captain that another task, a minor one, was accomplished. It had been a risk to pick the lock rather than to simply smash it when the attack started, but he had been concerned that the blow might simply jam the thing and cost them precious seconds. Crouching in the deep shadows of the slave pen he eased the hasp free of the links of the chain wrapped around the crude door and set it aside; one sure jerk on the chain and the portal would be open.

  The time candle in the hooded lantern had scant minutes left to burn before the attack began; working swiftly and surely in the dark he replaced his lock picks into the leather roll and stowed it in his belt pouch. The block and tackle was rigged, and the slaves (less the two Cave Goblins, who had insisted on escaping back through the crevices rather than fight, and a Human with cult tattoos; these three were safely dead and tucked away in the crevice that led to this place) were armed with the flails, pry bars, and mallets the raiders had brought with them.

  While Trellan and Gabriella watched the slaves for any last-minute change of heart, the Captain studied the armored mound on the roof-platform across the cavern. He had seen illustrations, of course, but they didn’t prepare one for the reality of such a monstrosity. It was somewhat bigger than a large ox about the body, with the armored hulk of the humanoid torso sprouting from the front like an obscene tumor, the whole swaddled in green-gray plate armor covered in twisted runes and strange symbols that positively reeked of occult power and deadly enchantment. To his eyes the beaast looked less like a living creature and more like as mighty engine of war given a life and mind of its own. Killing it, Durek knew, was going to be no easy task even were it by itself.

  He eyed the scattered figures of its sleeping servitors, some of whom were wearing their armor while at rest in emulation of their master, whose armor was likely bonded to his very flesh. Direbreed were only partially of this world, single-minded and deadly; when the alarm sounded they would be up and ready for combat in the space of a heartbeat, fully prepared to fall on this field of battle in the confidence of being re-Harvested for another fight. They were twisted creatures, man-sized and man-proportioned, covered in short thick fur in dark hues splotched here and there in strange patterns and conflicting colors. Their faces were obscene mixtures of the host creature and some unnamed predator, with faintly glowing eyes which reflected no shred of life beyond a wild slathering hatred. Some were topped by ram’s horns or stag’s antlers, a few sported wolves’ tails, and here and there a goat-born Direbreed had backward-facing knees inherited from its host creature.

  The Captain reminded himself that if all went well the section by the children’s cage and the Fortren dozing above him would he slain or disabled in the initial rush the battle, leaving twenty-odd Direbreed caught between nine Badgers and a few armed slaves, with an archer and slinger on the bridge overhead. But for the Draktaur it would not been much of a match.

  Lying on the dusty stone of the tunnel a few feet from the start of the bridge, Starr inventoried her quiver yet again for something to do. The accounts hadn’t changed: five broad heads coated with Titan venom and the heads sealed in wax paper to preserve the poison, one enchanted broad head that was supposed to split into a half-dozen when released, twenty broad head arrows whose razor edges inflicted terrible wounds, and ten bodkin-pointed shafts, the business end being a simple steel needle to give it the ability to drill through armor or heavy bone. They were all there, a fresh bowstring was on her bow, and she was as ready as she was going to be. With all her being she was grateful that she wasn’t going to have to charge onto the cavern floor, sword and buckler in hand, to engage in the bloody melee that was sure to come.

  She was badly frightened and knew it; to date her experience of warfare had entailed some long-range sniping at Direthrell raiders and Titan spiders, the battle with the Undead (where she would have died but for Kroh), the skirmish at the ‘pavilion’, and killing the spiders while rock crawling, a level of experience which hardly qualified her as a veteran warrior, especially in the realm of hand-to-hand combat. Drawing a shaky breath she focused on the realm of archery, striving to control her fear and to achieve the inner peace that Threllian accuracy was built around. The Badgers were counting on the expertise of a Lanthrell archer on
the bridge to even the lopsided odds against them; she was to rain death and confusion into the ranks of the Direbreed and prevent them from organizing. It was an awful weight upon her shoulders, a terrible responsibility that threatened to crush her spirits. Not for the first time did she wish that she had not agreed to help Elonia by joining the Phantom Badgers.

  Axe ready at his side, crossbow cocked and loaded, the inner fires of his fighting spirits stoked and ready, Kroh leaned against the cool stone inside the slave pens, gnawing on a chunk of cheese (while wishing it were a cigar) and idly wondering where on his hands he would place the victory rune for this battle.

  Bridget lay on the cool stone at the sill of the tunnel, the thick, rough planks of the bridge just inches from her face, hugging a hooded lantern and wishing she was someplace else; a fight like this was something that came along only rarely, and often at the very end of one’s life. Sighing, she eased open the well-greased light port on the lantern and looked in; beyond a doubt, the candle had burned down to the blue line, and through it, to be precise. Time for the attack to begin. Extinguishing the tiny flame with a shaky puff, she carefully set the lantern aside where it wouldn’t be underfoot, and moved a reluctant arm in the signal for the attack to begin.

  Behind her Group Two and Rolf slowly eased back on the ropes tied to grapnels (brought along to fish for book-chests in the mud) which were hooked into the support chains of the bridge. Carefully, inch by inch they pulled the slack out of the bridge without making a noisy production of it and tied off the ropes to a pair of Robin’s javelins which had been wedged into convenient cervices. When the chain-and-plank structure was rigid from the strain, Bridget signaled again and she and Starr crept onto the planks, their progress producing no swaying or jangling chain links.

  When the two were in position Bridget waved the rest of the Badgers onto the bridge, slipping forward a plank at a time. The strain induced by the ropes had held the bridge motionless for two slender women, but the addition of five more bodies was another matter entirely. By moving three abreast across the bridge very slowly Group Two covered the necessary distance with only a modest amount of swaying; enough swaying to have been noticed by anyone on guard below who was even halfway alert, but not enough to attract the attention of the sleeping Direbreed or their dozing master.

  Down in the slave pen Durek saw the bridge being cinched up tight and the motion that indicated Group Two was moving into place. He signaled Trellan to be ready, and looked over the rigging of the block and tackle one last time. The key to this would be the timing: he would have to launch the attack out of the pen at just the right moment, just as the Direbreed and their master were committing themselves, but before Group Two found itself being overrun. That was going to be tricky.

  A poisoned arrow was nocked, and another was tucked behind her belt buckle for fast loading; bow at quarter draw, Starr peered over the west edge of the bridge and studied the scene below. There were eleven prone figures scattered across the dirt floor (the Direbreed), and the crude pen for the children consisting of a timber framework with iron bar stock rammed into the dirt to keep the captives within, and planks laid across the top to make a roof and walking space. A half-dead Goblin could have escaped from it in a minute flat but for the absolute lack of places to escape to, not counting the guards lying just outside the cage.

  A plain wood altar had been set up at the west end; the Bloodmaster, an indistinct figure swaddled in a garishly decorated robe, was wandering between it and an open chest nearby, apparently preparing for the rite to keep the dirt dry. When the advocate touched her on the shoulder Starr did not turn to look; instead, she pulled smoothly to three-quarters draw and aimed, waiting for the right moment. There was no hurry in this shot: Group Two was in place with no alarm raised, giving her time to make this one count. No archer’s ego, Durek had warned her, ‘put two arrows into him and both with poison on, we can’t afford to bugger this one up’.

  A true archer never takes their eyes from the target; she completed the draw, steadied, released, plucked the arrow from her lap, nocked, full draw, steadied, released, all without shifting her eyes from the man below. The instant the second shaft leapt from her bow she was slipping to the east side of the bridge, drawing another poisoned arrow from her quiver.

  The first arrow caught the Bloodmaster in his midsection, knocking him back a step and driving all the air from his lungs in an agonized croak; while it is axiomatic that persons with severe intestinal or stomach wounds do make a great deal of noise while expiring, it is a fact that must be tempered by the observation that they only do so if they get their breath back before they die. The second arrow sliced through the wounded man’s upper lip, shattered three teeth and was slightly deflected by same, struck the inside right corner of the jaw with enough force to crack the shaft and fracture the bone, then slid over the bone and ripped through the muscles and flesh to emerge just below the ear, finally coming to a halt with the arrow’s fletching just inside the spellcaster’s mouth, which was filling with blood, saliva, and measurable amounts of Titan spider venom.

  The impact and shock of the second arrow’s impact sent the Bloodmaster staggering backward to collide with his altar, dazed and confused, his eyes instinctively locked shut against the white-hot pain in his lower face. But one does not tread the pitfall-studded path that is the Dark Arts for long without quick wits and the ability to function under pressure and adverse conditions. The cultist had seen the first arrow jutting from his stomach and understood by that observation what had struck him in the face. Gagging on the blood, he allowed himself to drop to a sitting position while he pawed at his mouth, which ached horribly and would neither open any wider nor close completely. Shoving on the notched base of the arrow, he found the protruding head under his ear (cutting his hand in the process) and pulled the shaft through, allowing him to spit out the mouthful of clotting blood and sharp fragments of tooth that had been gagging him.

  When the second arrow leapt from the Lanthrell’s bow Bridget murmured a lengthy cant, tracing symbols in the air with a finger which left behind a trail of sparks that continued to glow after the digit moved on. As the wounded Bloodmaster below managed to pull the arrow from his face a puff of smoke leapt from the edge of the bridge and darted down to the lip of the plank roof covering the children’s pen, leaving a slender arch of pale gray stone. Janna immediately leapt the bridge’s low chain ‘railing’ and raced down this ramp, followed closely by Nuilia, Arian, and Robin. No battle cry was uttered; the only sound was the wounded spellcaster’s frantic gasping and the scuff of feet on the pale stone of the arch.

  A couple Direbreed were sitting up and looking about, alerted more by the smell of blood or by the sixth sense of a veteran than by any concrete alarm when Janna leapt off the stone and landed amongst them, the blade of her partisan ripping the open the nearest beast-man’s throat. Booting the dying creature onto its back and out of the fight, she impaled a second as Rolf dropped another with Arian’s crossbow.

  Howls and screams erupted all around her as the Direbreed swarmed to their feet, seizing their weapons and raising the alarm, which drew a chorus of screams and wails from the children in the pen. The Silver Eagle heard Arian land behind her and engage a Direbreed as she caught a sword blade on her shield and riposted, cutting a deep wound into her foe’s calf.

  The enchanted great sword Moonblade’s blade was a bar of silver in front of him as Robin raced down the ramp and leapt onto the warped wooden planks of the platform, Nuilia close behind. The Company had acquired the enchanted blade less than a year after it was founded, and he had been awarded it after dicing for it with Janna, the other claimant to the weapon; winning it had spawned bad blood between himself and the ex-Silver Eagle, a dislike which had never faded. It seemed like he had spent his whole life chasing this blade into one action or another, a thought which had occurred to him in every fight he had been in for the past five years.

  The Bloodmaster was on his knees and one
hand, frothing blood from his torn mouth as he gurgled an incantation while drawing the arrow out of his belly with his free hand. ‘It takes more than a couple poisoned arrows to drop a wizard,’ Robin observed to himself as he swung his long blade; the lanky Badger leapt off the platform and joined the fray below even as the spellcaster’s head rolled off the boards and onto the dirt. Bridget’s stone span had dissolved into mist already, but no one was in a position to notice or care as the cavern rebounded with shouts of alarm, howls of battle-lust, and screams of pain.

  Dropping the first of his own pair of crossbows, Rolf snatched up the second, admonishing himself to be more careful: the quarrel had caught the Direbreed in the shoulder, wounding but not slaying. It was essential that the section to the west of the bridge be eliminated before the main body could respond. Steadying himself, he sighted carefully and released, dropping the Direbreed cleanly. Stepping into the iron stirrup at the head of the bow, he slipped the bowstring into the iron hook riveted to his belt and straightened his leg, cocking the bow. Slapping a quarrel in the slot, he shouldered the weapon and sought another target.