by Krpoun, RW
“The beauty of the stars mirror the purity of your eyes,” the minstrel murmured, the soft-toned words (spoken in Comhla, the Lanthrell tongue) sending shivers up her spine.
The little Badger blushed and struggled for a reply, being saved an awkward moment by a sudden outburst of shouting and the noise of a fight erupting at the Fisher Hawk, the sounds carrying clearly in the night air, even more so for keen Threll ears. Dwarven oaths and battle cries were clearly audible.
“I see your Waybrother has made the acquaintance of the town’s best blacksmith,” Halabarian smiled. “The latter is another of the hunched persuasion, and where there are Dwarves, can violence and absurdity be far behind?”
“Perhaps I should go break it up,” Starr ventured. “After all, I am their leader.”
“I shouldn’t think so, it’s merely a brawl, do them a wonder of good. The wee folk get restless whenever they’ve not turning a mountain into gravel or hacking Cave Goblins apart. Perhaps a stroll along the river?”
Circling warily, Kroh studied his opponent. Hergar was a Juran, a skilled Dwarf who worked outside of the clan for the betterment of his people, a worthy undertaking. Kroh had purchased the first round despite the fact that his Fuar was clearly superior to the smith’s, and had been perfectly willing to overlook the other’s lowly origins in order to have an intelligent conversation for a change. When the three river boat men had made the rude comment about height, he had even given Hergar the honor of charging first, a noble gesture, Kroh felt. The break had come when Hergar had had the audacity to suggest that he deserved full credit for disposing of the third sailor when it was obvious to anyone that Kroh had inflicted all the significant damage.
“C’mon, pretty-boy,” Hergar sneered around a broken nose. The two closed with titanic blows, grappled wildly, and broke apart without either having gained an advantage. Hergar suddenly hopped to one side. “NOW, Gremheld.”
Instinctively Kroh sidestepped to counter the smith’s move, yelling for Rolf to watch his back in case there really was a Gremheld. It was only later, after he had run the smith into, and through, a full rain-barrel, that he realized that he had called upon the half-Orc to help in the fight, and trusted him to do it, an act which established more of a bond than the Waybrother ever wanted to have with the big Badger.
Chapter Three
The two murderer-hunters stopped at a fork in the trail while Kroh, who was still in a poor humor regarding his interaction with Rolf in the fight (all the more so when it turned out that Gremheld was both real and about to jump on him from behind-Rolf had dropped the husky Human apprentice just in time), consulted the notes he had taken on the directions to Lang’s homestead. “This way,” the Dwarf indicated the right fork. “We’re finally getting close; bastard likes his privacy, doesn't he?” The two Badgers had left Hohenfels at sunup, and it was now close to noon on a leaden-skied winter day. An hour after they departed snow had begun to drift down.
“At least we know why the killers ran, or at least a possible reason why,” Rolf observed cheerfully as they trudged along the narrow trail. “Not only would they not have the advantage of surprise, but Lang is a big man, as tall as I and a lot stronger, and traveling with his son who’s nearly as large. Both were heavily armed, as is their custom, and capable of a good fight.”
“I was there when Sleiger’s wife told us all that,” Kroh reminded the half-Orc in a peevish tone. “And that he was a prospector and trapper who lived with his family deep in the forest. What I didn’t know was that we would waste the whole day just to get to talk to him.”
“We should be close,” Rolf murmured, rubbing his hands together for warmth.
“Real close,” Kroh nodded. “That fork is supposed to be a couple hundred paces short of Lang’s steading, but I don’t smell any wood smoke; a man would have to have his fireplace going, this time of year.”
“You would think,” Rolf nodded, eyeing the leafless brush and trees to either side with greater suspicion.
Fifty paces further on the half-Orc suddenly motioned for his companion to stop. “What was that?”
The Waybrother listened intently. “Sounds like foxes squabbling about something.”
“Foxes, this close to a farmstead?”
The Dwarf shrugged as he unwrapped the rags that protected his crossbow’s string from the snow and cocked the weapon. “One way to find out.”
As described, Lang’s steading wasn't far along the trail: five minutes careful walk led them to a good-sized clearing hacked out of the forest, the trees felled for building material, the stumps dragged free of the ground and lashed together to form an encircling fence which was reinforced by stones dredged up when plowing. The clearing, a hundred paces on a side, held a stout cabin, outhouse, two open-sided storage sheds, and a half-filled trash pit on its north edge; the rest, save a narrow trail in front of the buildings, was a plowed field, the family’s garden, no doubt, the furrows neatly turned over and every stalk carefully harvested.
No smoke came from either of the cabin’s chimneys, and the front door stood open; on the edge of the field nearest the building five stout hide-racks had been set up, with a long table set out in front of them, fresh snow coating every horizontal surface.
The two Badgers, crossbows ready, slipped across the clearing to the cabin’s sagging front door; Kroh listened intently at the opening, then pointed at his own chest and into the door. Pointing at Rolf, he indicated the outbuildings before slipping through the doorway.
Emerging from the cabin a few minutes later, the Waybrother glanced over the five racks before looking for his companion; he found Rolf standing on the edge of the trash pit lining up five bodies who had been mutilated beyond recognition. “Found ‘em in the pit,” the big half-Orc mumbled. “That’s what the foxes where making such a fuss over.” He jerked a hand towards snarls of fresh scavenger paw prints surrounding the pit. “I checked the sheds and privy.”
“Cabin’s empty of people, stuff thrown all around, place’s pretty well wrecked, to tell the truth.” Kroh hopped down into the pit, which was chest deep to him, and poked around.
“I found Goblin symbols scratched into the shed walls, and everything is messed around, broken up, the little bastards.” The venom in Rolf’s voice made Kroh look up in surprise; naturally, half-Orcs raised in Human communities hated Goblins and Orcs with a passion unmatched by anyone else, but it was still a shock to hear it from someone as easy-going as the big Badger.
“Gimme a hand. Goblins are bastards all right, but they didn’t kill Lang and his family.” Out of the pit, Kroh wiped his hands clean with a handful of snow, drying them on his pants.
“I saw the marks cut into the walls, and some arrows with Goblin fletching, and some beads...” Rolf’s voice cracked and he shook his head hard. “Killed the little children, the youngest only around six or seven, Goblin work.”
“Nope,” the Waybrother shook his head. “Supposed to look like Goblins, sure enough, but it wasn’t.” Seeing Rolf’s confusion, he grinned sourly. “Find any tools in the sheds? How about food or other supplies? Same in the cabin, everything’s strewn about, but nothing’s taken; if Goblins had hit this place, there wouldn’t be one piece of metal here, nor anything to eat. A Goblin’ll spend a week melting down shovels to make spearheads rather than process a little honest ore. For that, why are there even still buildings here? Goblins love a big fire.” Kroh jabbed a finger towards the pit. “And look there: there’s Lang’s dogs, four big ones, right in the pit under the people. Goblins would’ve had a meal of them, not throw them neatly away; think a Goblin would miss a nice meal of dog? Not on your life.”
Rolf took several deep breaths. “The murderers. Emil’s.”
“Yep. They wanted to make sure that Lang didn’t tell any stories.” Kroh squatted to examine the corpses, moving the bodies to get a closer look at one wound or another.
“But why kill his family?”
“Because he might have told them something,
I suppose. Makes you wonder why they went to such a production with them now, though: flaying their skin off, burning out their eyes, breaking so many bones; they must have spent hours here. I wouldn’t be surprised if this wasn’t the work of a Void cult when all is said and done.” The Dwarf stood up, scrubbing his hands with snow. “Looks like they’ve been dead for a while: they’re starting to loosen up again. Go find a pick and shovel-we might as well bury them while we’re here. I’ll get some blankets to wrap them in.”
When they had finished the Waybrother cleaned the pick and shovel with a Dwarf’s thoroughness and instinctive regard for tools before stowing them in the shed; Rolf spent the time marking the graves with lengths of firewood.
“Now what do we do?” The big half-Orc asked as they climbed back into their armor and settled their weapons comfortably.
“I want to take a careful look at those racks and table, see what we can see, and then it’s back to Hohenfels. I gotta rethink this whole thing: if we’re up against a cult, we need more bodies on our side. Two to four isn’t bad, when it’s us two and four sneak-killers, but a cult could be twenty or more. Go get a hand broom from the cabin, and a sack or two in case we find something.”
Kroh began at the east-most rack, sketching the structure, examining the wood, carefully sweeping away the snow around the foot of the rack. Done, he repeated the process at each of the others.
“That was a complete waste of time,” The Dwarf remarked, washing his hands in a bowl of water Rolf had heated over a small fire. “Still, you gotta crawl into every crevice. Let’s see what we’ve got here with the table. Hmmm, burn marks from a brazier, some blood, bunch of knife-marks and cuts on the surface, but some will be from Lang’s wife doing kitchen work. Nothing. I thought cultists left marks and symbols, runes, that sort of thing, to show everyone who did it.” Kroh got down on his knees to sweep away the snow around the table.
“That’s what I thought, too, but I don't know much about cults,” Rolf nodded. “I’ve seen a Sundered Gate cult, their main area, anyway, back when I was with the Scarlet Raiders, but necromancers wouldn’t leave the bodies behind. They didn’t seem to cut ‘em up much, either,” he added thoughtfully.
“Yeah,” Kroh grunted absently. “Now, what’s this?”
“What?”
“Some stuff, plant stuff, here by this leg; it’s been cut up, maybe fell off the table.” Using a twig, Kroh raked a dozen yellowish pieces of vegetable matter into a sack. “Looks like they shaved it off a larger piece, like a potato or something. I guess it might have been on the table when they brought it outside.”
“We should have come here yesterday,” Rolf observed mournfully.
“Maybe, but Lang might not have seen anything in the first place, and now we know that there’s a bigger game afoot.” The Waybrother opened the sack and pulled the long twig from his belt. “Here’s some more of that stuff; might be important, you never know.”
Rolf abruptly walked off, returned a few minutes later as Kroh was drying his hands, the search under the table complete. “It might’ve been cultists that did this,” the tall Badger shrugged. “But these are Goblin work.” He held up two brown-fletched arrows and a string of beads.
The Dwarf took the items and examined them closely. “You’re right, these are the genuine article, but there weren’t Goblins here. All right, the cultists are carrying around Goblin gear to put the blame on them, so what? Any member of the Militia around here has got some Goblin stuff lying around, souvenirs from old fights. The tavern-keeper mentioned regular skirmishes.”
“But the markings on the walls, those’re authentic, too. I’ve hunted Goblins before, and these are the real thing, exact: not many militiamen would’ve got them just so.”
The Waybrother scowled at his companion. “So what are you saying?”
“The cultists, the killers, have ties with Goblins, enough so that they know Goblin sign first hand. Only way you know the signs is if you hunt ‘em or trade with ‘em.”
“Trading with Goblins is illegal,” Kroh observed automatically, with a Dwarf’s regard for rules and points of law. “And the most common trade is weapons, the little bastards never work steel correctly, and in any case they can’t get good metal except by trading with Cave Goblins, who don’t have much ore to spare, or capture it in raids, which is expensive in lives. So you think the cultists know how to imitate Goblin sign because they have trading ties with the Purple Spider?”
Rolf shrugged. “I think it works.”
“Yeah, more’s the pity. So if they do, why don’t they get the real Goblins to carve up Lang and save themselves the trouble?”
“Goblins might miss one, or maybe... I don’t know.”
“I do.” Kroh grinned evilly. “Because these bastards like to carve people up, people who aren’t in a position to fight back.” He hefted his axe thoughtfully. “I would like a few minutes of their time, up close. Anyway, we better get back to town, talk to Starr about this. Things are getting beyond Emil’s murder and rapidly becoming Company business. The Empire pays a bounty for uncovering cults, and for catching bastards who trade with the Goblins.”
“And then they hang the cultists and traders,” Rolf added with relish.
The snow was picking up as the two murderer-hunters trudged back towards Hohenfels, cutting visibility and wrapping the woods in the deep hush that only falling snow can create. The Badgers pushed hard for two hours before they stopped to eat their midday meal.
Carefully lighting a cigar from a small pot of coals he had carried (wrapped in a thick layer of rags) from Lang’s steading, Kroh leaned back against the tree trunk and blew a perfect smoke ring. “Nothing like a cigar after a meal, no matter how poor the meal.”
Rolf grunted absently, frowning into the forest as he worked through his sausage-and-cheese sandwich. “I wonder just how much the cultists know about this area.”
“Why?”
“Because there haven't been any murders in town, nor disappearances either; they killed Lang and his family to keep what he saw secret, but they didn’t worry about anyone in town that he might have told.”
“You heard what Slieger said: Lang was a close-mouthed sort, never said two words if a grunt would do.”
“Yes, but his son was along, he was with Lang when they found the body, and him nearly full-grown.”
“Full-grown or not, he wouldn’t speak if his father wasn’t saying much: they said Lang kept the boy under his thumb.”
“Not to people in the trading post, no, but I wonder if Lang’s boy had a sweetheart in town, or just some girl he was sweet on. He would tell her what he had seen, to impress her if nothing else.”
Kroh hesitated, as the Human glandular response to breeding was a complete mystery to him, as were the ages they began courting at. “Would that be likely?”
“Could be.”
“We’ll look into that, then.” The Waybrother heaved himself to his feet. “Time to water the snow and get on our way.”
“Hello, what’s this?” Kroh observed cheerfully, kneeing in the trail to examine tracks that crossed the path at a right angle. “By my beard, Goblin tracks.”
“Fresh, too: you can still see the nail marks on their boots,” Rolf agreed. “About a half-dozen I would guess, a small Odular.”
“So what’s a light patrol doing out here?” Kroh mused unwrapping a fresh crossbow string from its waterproof waxed paper.
“Nothing good, I’d bet,” Rolf stepped into the stirrup of his freshly-strung crossbow and cocked it. “Want to take a look?”
“Might as well.” The Waybrother checked the surface of a lead ball before loading it into his crossbow. “I hate Goblins, killed dozens, I have.”
“So have I,” the big half-Orc nodded slowly. “Maybe we’ll get some more today.”
Moving carefully and doing their best to be quiet, the two Badgers followed the tracks through the woods, weapons ready, senses alert. They were at a disadvantage, they knew: the
forest was their foe’s natural element, but they also knew from experience that Goblins tended to be careless and undisciplined.
Goblins are also noted for their tendency for ambushes. Somewhat ill-advisedly the Pa, or corporal, in charge of the Goblin patrol had put his only archer in a tree where he had an excellent view of the patrol’s back trail, but where he was without supervision. The rest of the patrol, which had heard the Badgers and circled back, crouched in the brush and waited for the signal to attack, scarves wrapped around their mouths and snouts to prevent their exhaled breath from creating a mist in the cold winter air.
Rolf halted the instant he spotted a tree wide enough to hide a Goblin whose lower branches were completely free of snow (the archer had knocked the snow off climbing into position). Kroh instinctively stopped when his companion did; panicking, the archer screeched the battle-alert and leaned around the tree, drawing his bow to full nock. Kroh’s lead bullet slammed into the tree trunk six inches from his head, causing the archer to start in surprise, throwing him off balance just as Rolf’s quarrel caught him in the lower chest sending him crashing to the ground.
The seven Goblins who burst from the bushes yelling wool-muffed war cries wore thick wool trousers, floppy pointed wool caps, and wool shirts under cord-armor tunics, all decorated with strings of stone and glass beads, skulls of small predators, teeth of larger beasts, and feathers of predatory birds. The six jugata, or ordinary foot warriors, had spears, shields, and stout clubs, while the Pa had a spear and shield, plus a leather helm and a small axe. All wore guta, thigh-length camouflage smocks with elbow-length sleeves and hoods. These guta were bleached linen, snow camouflage, although it was a bit early in the year for them.
Hurling his crossbow into the legs of the nearest Goblin, tripping the jugata up, Rolf ripped his dirks from their scabbards, knocking a spear point aside with the left one while thrusting in to drive the other dirk’s point through the throat of the next Goblin. Twisting the blade as he ripped it free, the big half-Orc skipped back a pace as the wounded jugata flailed madly down the trail, blood jetting in long blue-gray jets from his wound.
