Dark Obligations: Book One of the Phantom Badgers

by Krpoun, RW

  Blinking his eyes open to a soundless world, Robin saw a gore-spattered Nuila catch the small axe on her buckler as she drove her sword-point into the beast-man’s chest; wrenching the blade free, she finished if off with a mighty chop to the head that put a nasty nick in her sword’s blade where it met one of the creature’s horns. As the feeling began to return to his arms and legs Robin saw the dark-haired woman turn and kneel over him, her lips forming his name.

  ‘Look around, look around, ignore me,’ he shrieked silently, the words tangling into a useless moan in his numb mouth. ‘No, no, no, NO!’

  Nuilia never saw the badly wounded Direbreed stagger up from behind, its studded maul held before it in a two-handed grip. The impact of the lovely young woman’s iron cap slamming into Robin’s forehead as her body was driven forward by the force of the savage blow made his darkness complete.

  The Draktaur came through the crumbling tendrils of the dying mist like a siege engine rumbling towards a city wall, one ponderous step at a time, its warped and twisted features bearing no more expression than that of a half-finished statue, the shimmering axe held easily before it. The last of the Direbreed in the east side of the cavern perished at Gabriella’s and Kroh’s hands as it stopped to hurl the disk at the bridge, but the loss of its followers did not appear to concern the creature, and to look at the size of the thing Durek couldn’t fault it for overconfidence.

  The Captain stood ready, axe at low port, Kroh, Gabriella, and Trellan in a line to his left. A Human stepped up on his right with a Black Dwarf’s helm on his head and a war mattock in his hands, pale-faced but determined. He glanced over at the Captain and tried to grin. “Now would be a good time to initiate that part of your brilliant plan where you cunningly dispose of that beast.” His Pradian was that of a native.

  “Actually, the brilliant bits are all done,” the Dwarf confessed. “Now we just slug it out.”

  The slave shook his head ruefully. “I was afraid of that. Johann Helbrit, by the way, and before it’s too late, my thanks for getting me this far.”

  “Captain Durek Toolsmaster, Phantom Badgers. And my apologies for not making it a better rescue.”

  Johann shrugged. “I’ve recently learned that there are worse things than dying, and being in that pen was rapidly becoming one.”

  “Walking slow won’t save you,” Kroh suddenly roared, startling everyone. “You’re about to die, but some of us have work to do afterwards, so step it up you uncooperative bastard. We haven't got all day to waste.” The Waybrother leaned his axe against his side in order to free both hands for a series of obscene gestures.

  The Draktaur ignored the Dwarf’s jeering, stepping with majestic precision over the bodies of its Direbreed, moving its bulk with an eerie grace, ignoring the blue-black fluid trickling from the arrow-wounds along its side.

  Without warning Kroh’s axe flew through the air; caught off guard the Draktaur reacted too slowly, its parry missing completely. The enchanted weapon struck the Champion a hard blow on the left shoulder, shearing through the armor with a terrible impact before reversing course and darting back into the charging Waybrother’s hands. Durek and the others charged in an effort to take advantage of the very slender element of surprise Kroh had created for them, leaping over dead or dying Direbreed and abandoned weapons.

  Kroh was the first to reach the Champion; deftly sidestepping a vertical chop that hacked a six-inch deep trench into the dirt, he expertly struck at the Draktaur’s left arm, penetrating the forearm armor and drawing a line of dark blood forth. As the massive creature recovered from the force of the blow Gabriella darted in and struck the tree-stump-like front leg nearest her with her long war hammer, leaping back as the huge axe sung back up into the ready position.

  The Captain struck just after Gabriella, badly denting the baroque breastplate without actually penetrating; he was backpedalling when the Draktaur suddenly erupted into a surprisingly quick movement, spinning sharply to the its right, axe lashing out in a vicious horizontal arc. Durek saw the slave Johann trampled while in the act of leaping in to attack, the captured mattock smashed from his grip. Trellan, sabre blade black with blood from a wound on the Champion’s right rear leg, threw himself to the ground and rolled desperately. Kroh crabbed sideways in mid-charge and struck a blow that glanced off the gray-green armor.

  For a moment the Captain thought that the beast’s maneuver had failed, but as the creature came back around to face him he saw the splash of blood on the blade and saw Gabriella’s headless corpse toppling onto the dirt. The pain that roared through him was sharper than any wound, and cold water filled his bones. Roaring, he rushed the foe, axe ready, battle senses dulled under the pulsing waves of his anger and loss.

  The Draktaur skipped back for range, stumbled a half-step as it did so, belching an annoyed roar, and struck, the accuracy ruined by its misstep, tearing another trench in the floor as the Badger Captain hacked a rent in the Champion’s side and Kroh’s axe bit through the left forearm-guard again.

  Durek scuttled backward from the Draktaur as it brought its axe back up, hoping to put distance between it and himself, only to see the massive enemy hesitate and shuffle sideways. Fearing a trick the Badger Captain continued backing up, although Kroh did not; howling, the Waybrother swept in and hewed another rent into the weirdly inscribed armor. The Draktaur’s strike sent the Dwarf tumbling across the floor, saved only by the awkwardness of the blow.

  Charging as the enemy recovered, Durek struck hard, penetrating the side armor and racing away, seeing for the first time why the Draktaur was suddenly so uncertain: Johann was astride the creatures left rear leg, his arms and legs locked about it in the fashion of a man clinging to a tree trunk in a storm. The Draktaur’s bulk and heavy armor prevented it from bucking Johann loose in the manner of a horse, and its centaur-like physical shape and armor prevented it from reaching back to cut the Human off without exposing its front to the waiting Dwarves. Unless there were Direbreed still alive on the east side of the bridge that it could recall, Durek realized, the Champion was effectively hobbled by the weight and unbalancing effect of Johann’s perch.

  An arrow whipped in to shatter on the massive being’s helm, a distraction that Durek used to dart in and strike; the Draktaur was expecting this, however, and as the Dwarf leapt back its axe caught him on the side, sending a breath-stealing wave of pain through his body and peeling his breastplate from his chest like an oyster being shucked. Fortunately, his momentum and the impact sent him sprawling outside his foe’s now-limited reach.

  Lying on the dirt, clutching his throbbing (but unbloodied, thank the Eight) side, Durek could see Trellan behind the creature, taking advantage of its limited mobility to dart in and slash at its lower right left and lighter-armored belly. Kroh made another rush from the side and chopped at the thing’s armored flanks while yelling some incoherent battle cry; the Champion swung at the battered Waybrother but missed, perhaps distracted by an arrow that ripped into its unarmored lower left front leg.

  That scene was repeated a half-dozen times: Kroh leaping in, Starr peppering the Draktaur with arrows that shattered on its armor, Johann hanging on for dear life; Trellan seemed to have disappeared. The lunge and rush of the fight had caused the Champion to slowly turn until its left flank was towards Durek even as the Captain regained his equilibrium. Carefully planning each move before he made it, the Badger officer regained his feet and brought his axe up to the ready position. He had one or two strikes left in him and timing was going to be everything.

  It took a moment to register what he was seeing, but eventually he realized that Trellan was circling behind and to the side of the Champion pushing a wheelbarrow with a keg in it, a heavy banded keg that looked as if it had been full of nails at one time. Waiting until the Draktaur had lashed out at Kroh, who was now bleeding from several wounds, the ex-sailor charged behind his strange load, pushing the wheelbarrow to the massive creature’s armored side and then leaping to its back using t
he barrow-mounted keg as a stepping stone. Seizing the Champion around the neck from behind, Trellan raked a dagger’s point across the Draktaur’s helm front, trying for the vision slit.

  Roaring like an ox with its tail in the millstones, the Draktaur staggered backwards, stumbling over the wheelbarrow as it scrabbled behind its shoulders with first one hand and then the other, trying desperately to dislodge Trellan. Durek shook himself free of his shock and trotted carefully in, mindful of his throbbing ribs, and delivered one massive, double-handed swing that would have shattered the haft of an ordinary axe, the enchanted edge biting deep through the joints of two plates. Wrenching the weapon free, Durek trotted back out of range as Kroh bored in and struck again.

  Trellan had managed to get the point and two inches of blade through a slit in the helm and was rocking it in for all he was worth when a hand the size of a kettle clamped on his shoulder and flung him through the air like a man hurling an annoying child. Years on the rigging in storms had taught him well: he let go of the dagger to avoid spitting himself and curled into a ball, landing hard enough to drive the air from his lungs but with enough roll to keep from breaking any bones.

  Durek hit the Draktaur on its unarmored knee just as it was throwing Trellan; it was a risky strike, even for one as short as a Dwarf, but he counted on the distraction being enough. The edge of his axe splintered the kneecap and ripped deep through sinew and muscle; blue-black blood spouted as he ripped the weapon free and scrambled away.

  Breathing heavily, axe at port arms, the Draktaur faced its foes, blood trickling from the right vision slit of its helm. One leg was crippled, another was wounded by Trellan’s attacks, and a third had an adult male Human hanging onto it for dear life: the Champion had no mobility left and all present knew it. The bloody helm turned and Durek risked a glance over his shoulder: Janna and Rolf were coming from under the bridge, which meant that no Direbreed were left on that side of the battlefield. Without his minions to guard his long flanks, and without the mobility to keep his foes in front of him, the great armored beast was dead, and it knew it. It stood and waited, hoping for the chance to take another of its foes with it into death.

  Kroh came spinning from behind the Draktaur, twirling like a child playing on a summer’s day, gripping a length of stout rope whose end was tied to a rock the size of a loaf of bread. Timing it well, the Waybrother released the rope, sending his ten-pound projectile through the air to slam between the motionless Champion’s armored shoulder blades with a great clang and an impact that sprayed rock fragments like shrapnel. The impact lifted the armored bulk onto its toes; before it could recover from its shock Durek had charged forward, ignoring his aching side, and slammed his axe into the bloody left forearm whose armor had been ruined earlier by Kroh’s vicious attacks. The Draktaur’s one-handed riposte struck his helm with enough force to split the metal and turn the Badger’s knees to water, but the Captain managed to stagger back into Rolf’s waiting arms. Without a pause the thin half-Orc dragged the Dwarf well away from the battle.

  Kroh circled to the creature’s left and bored in again, forcing the Draktaur to turn to bring his weapon into play, each movement keeping fresh runnels of blood bursting through the crusty clots. Janna and Trellan, lacking enchanted weapons, feinted to distract the massive creature, striking at its unarmored lower legs when the opportunity presented itself. Slowly the Draktaur lurched in a circle as it struggled to face the darting Waybrother, blood spattering into the dirt from the growing number of rents in its armor.

  Durek had blacked out for a short while after Rolf began dragging him, but he returned to awareness and found himself lying near the cavern’s north wall, Bridget kneeling over him, waving a sprig of a very strong-smelling herb over his nose. “Put that ‘way,” he gagged. “How long?”

  “A minute or so,” the advocate held a cup to his lips. “Now be still and let me get a better look at you.”

  He grunted and gasped as her fingers gently probed his side and head. He could see the Draktaur’s painful lumbering as Kroh led it in circle, slashing and hewing for all he was worth. It was down to a match of endurance: barring a lucky blow, the fight would continue until Kroh ran out of energy or the Draktaur bled to death. Looking at the armored bulk, Durek was struck by the amount of work and winching it must have taken to get the Draktaur into this cavern from the bridge, unless the Bloodmaster had been able to make ramps as Bridget could.

  The Priestess was cutting symbols into his skin now, the painful progress of the sharp blade making itself felt over the harsher pain in his side. Finished, she laid her hands onto the new ridges and hummocks in his side and chanted in a low, carrying voice, filling his chest with a cold tightness that made it impossible to breathe and filled him with the sensation that his heart was stopping. Finally Bridget stopped speaking and removed her hands, letting the cold fade and his heart pick up to a normal rhythm. He had taken two deep breaths before he realized that the pain was gone.

  “You were lucky,” Bridget commented, her face deathly pale. “The ribs were fully broken and working themselves inward-much more movement and they would have started slicing you up from the inside.” She rolled the bloody instruments up and stowed them. “You’ll be dizzy and sluggish from the blow on the head; when you next sleep I’ll mix you a brew that will put you out for a few hours and clear it all up.”

  “How much more Healing can you do?”

  “Not much.”

  The Captain raised himself on one elbow and watched Kroh harry the Draktaur. “Save it for Kroh; he’ll be hurt worse than he looks. Send Rolf over here.”

  With an abrupt suddenness the Champion’s crippled front leg gave out and it crashed awkwardly forward, catching itself with its crippled left arm and the haft of its axe. Before the Draktaur could regain its footing Kroh roared in and buried his axe into the now-exposed base of the creature’s neck with all the force he possessed. A blow that would have decapitated an ox only penetrated a bare few inches, but that was enough in the right spot. Slowly, even majestically, the armored monolith toppled forward into the dirt. Wrenching his axe free, Kroh repeated the strike again and again, severing the Champion’s head from its body in the manner of cutting through a tough old log with a dull axe.

  “That’s it, we’ve won,” Durek observed quietly. Unbidden, his eyes found Gabriella’s body. “Most of us, anyway.”

  Chapter Eight

  There were a thousand and one problems that beset the Captain even as the Draktaur fell. His force was scattered, the slaves in the south pen were enthusiastically digging out the bars of their pen, there was the danger of the noise of the battle attracting attention, and many other issues demanding attention. Ignoring his fatigue and the residual pain in his side, not to mention his throbbing skull, Durek pulled himself to a sitting position and confronted the challenges.

  “Janna, Rolf, come here.” When they arrived the Captain addressed the Silver Eagle first. “Where’s the rest of your Group?”

  “Nuilia’s dead, took a hit on the back that snapped her spine. Robin was knocked out, and Arian was wounded; Arian has Healed himself and is looking after Robin when we came across to help you.”

  The Captain eyed the bloody woman. “Any of that blood yours?”

  “A little; nothing bandaging won't deal with until there is Healing available.”

  “Right, now, Rolf, get up on the bridge, tell Starr to remain on guard, and to especially keep an eye on the tunnels in case anyone heard the battle, then you go and bring the komad here. I hate to send you alone, but we’re very short handed. Gather up the crossbows and give Arian back his after you bring up the pigs.” The half-Orc tossed a casual salute and trotted towards the rope ladders.

  “Janna, go keep the slaves in their pen until we have time to do something with them. I don’t want them wandering around picking things up, whether it be loot or weapons. Send Trellan over here once Bridget is through examining him.”

  Smoothing a patch of dirt, Dure
k wrote out a list of things to do, wrinkling his nose at the stench beginning to roll through the cavern as the Direbreed corpses began the transition from freshly-killed to final corruption in the space of two or three minutes. Fortunately, most were old enough so that when the process was complete all that remained was a pile of twisted bones and the Breedstone.

  “What a stench,” Trellan gasped as he came up. “And we had to be where there’s no air flow, too.”

  “It would gag a Goblin,” the Captain nodded, wiping his streaming eyes. “Good job the fight is over or we would be in real trouble. Are you wounded?”

  “Bruises, no more; a day or two and I’ll be as good as new.”

  “Good; now, go tell Bridget to examine that ex-slave, Johann, the one that hobbled the Draktaur. Tell her to check him for cultist tattoos and such, and if she’s satisfied with him, she’s to bring him here. Then go and check on Arian, help him to bring Nuilia and Robin over to this side of the bridge. Put her and Gabriella near the rope ladders, wrap them in blankets, there’s plenty over where the Fortren were camping. Then report back.”

  A weary Bridget, an even more exhausted (and mostly-Healed) Kroh, and Johann trudged up a short while later; Durek sent Kroh to rest on the bridge where Starr was standing guard.

  “Bridget, make sure the Bloodmaster and all the Black Dwarves are accounted for and truly dead, then get me a count of the Direbreed; it’s very possible one or two wounded may have slipped off during the fighting.”