Dark Obligations: Book One of the Phantom Badgers

by Krpoun, RW

  Kroh sidestepped a spear thrust and drove the thick iron cocking-stirrup on the end of his crossbow into his attacker’s snout, the impact of the iron bar crushing the Goblin’s nose and cheekbones, and popping both eyes out of their sockets. Dropping the crossbow, the Waybrother seized the blinded Goblin, holding the stunned, mewling jugata in a headlock in front of him as a living shield while he ripped his axe free with his other hand.

  Knocking the spear-thrust into his breastplate, whose curved steel surface deflected the point away from his body, Rolf rammed his right-hand dirk into the center of the Goblin’s shield and levered the blade down, holding the barrier immobile long enough for him to stab the jugata twice in the chest. Leaving the dirk in the wounded Goblin’s shield, Rolf skipped back two steps, dropping his other dirk as he brought his axe off his back.

  Releasing his dying shield, who had taken a spear point in the chest from an over-eager comrade, Kroh whipped his axe through a blindingly quick series of figure-eight swings, disemboweling one attacker and smashing the shield of the other. The Goblin promptly dropped his spear and turned to run, but Kroh was quicker than he looked, catching up with his prey after a half-dozen steps and slamming the blade of his axe into the jugata’s spine, decapitating him with a second swing for good measure.

  The Goblin he had tripped with his thrown crossbow was closest, with the Pa just behind; Rolf gauged their charge and swung, catching the lead Goblin’s shield, splitting the wooden boss and nearly severing the arm it was strapped to. The Pa bulled into the screeching Goblin, driving him forward; seeing what was coming, Rolf buried his axe into the jugata’s chest and let go, diving forward to tackle the Goblin leader before the Pa could bring his spear to bear, jerking his boot-knife free as he did so.

  The Pa was smaller, much lighter, and hampered by his shield, but despite that he was no novice to a fight: dropping his spear even as the Badger cut his legs out from under him, the Goblin clawed a knife free of his belt while flailing at his foe with the rim of his shield and both legs. The two twisted and struggled on the snowy forest floor for several seconds, but Rolf’s superior strength, length of reach, and prowess came to bear: winding up astraddle the Pa’s chest, he ended the fight with a savage blow to the Goblin’s temple with the pommel of his knife, and then slit the stunned creature’s throat, flipping the thrashing corpse over to avoid most of the blood. Wiping the blade clean, the big Badger sheathed it and recovered his axe, noting that all seven jugata were down and Kroh was nowhere to be seen.

  The Waybrother emerged from the bushes dragging the archer’s corpse by a leg just as Rolf had finished ensuring that all the Goblins were in fact dead and not shamming. “Bastard was hurt bad, but determined,” The Dwarf grinned as he kicked the corpse into the center of the path. “He crawled better’n three hundred yards before I caught up with him. I’ll get the ears and gather the weapons-you check the pockets and pouches.”

  The Dwarf finished bundling the spears together and leaned them against a tree. “All the spear heads and most of the belt knives are Mannish work, could be captured, but none bear any armory or makers’ markings.”

  “Contraband?”

  “Could be. The arrows definitely were: Human smith-work but too light for a Human archer.” The Waybrother shrugged. “But who can say how many times the ‘heads have changed hands? The Direthrell employ Human smiths and sell arms to anyone who harasses any Human realm, the Dark Star nation-cult does the same. What did you find?”

  “Some gold dust and nuggets, probably about a Mark’s worth, some coins adding up to less than a shilling, assorted junk, and this.” Rolf handed a tanned squirrel-pelt to the Dwarf.

  “A map?” Kroh eyed the designs branded into the skin side of the pelt. Grabbing up a shield, he laid the pelt on its surface and fastened it in place with a pair of tarnished plated-silver hairpins a Goblin had been wearing as tunic decorations. Slowly rotating the shield, the Dwarf muttered to himself for a bit, finally stabbing a finger at a solid line. “Here, this is the trail we were on; this thing must point the directions, but it seems off.”

  “Goblins navigate from the southeast the way Humans do from north,” Rolf shrugged. “Something they believe in about where they came from; their map-compasses have only two other primary directions.”

  “Well, I wish the bastards would go back to wherever they came from,” Kroh shifted the shield again. “All right, that fits.” Using his pen, he inked in a north-based compass. “Yeah, I’m still right, this is the trail, fine, this is a stream or river here, what the blazes is this?”

  “Forest or grove,” Rolf offered.

  “Could work.” Kroh measured with his fingers. “Goblins know about scale, drawing maps to scale, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, this makes no sense. Anyway, let’s get moving before their buddies show up to see what all the yelling was about. Hang onto the gold and coins for now, we’ll divvy up later.”

  Bundled spears in one hand, map-bearing shield in the other, Kroh led the way back to the path, and on towards Hohenfels. After a half-hour’s walk, he suddenly halted and gestured with the spear-bundle towards a rock formation, offering the shield to Rolf. “Look at that: up there near where this trail ends on the map is a three-dot symbol with the center dot largest; just south of it’s a dotted line which means creek. We just crossed a creek, and here’s three boulders, the center one twice the size of the other two.”

  “That seems to be the case,” Rolf nodded carefully. “We’re running out of map, then,” he added helpfully.

  “That’s the point,” Kroh snapped. “Here’s where we ran into the Goblins,” a tattooed finger jabbed the pelt’s center. “And here we are at the end: pretty damn small map, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Rolf said, frowning in thought. “And the Purple Spider have always claimed this area, so they wouldn’t need much of a map to get around.”

  “That’s right, and why would anyone make a map that’s only what, three miles by four if they held to scale?”

  “I don’t know,” Rolf shrugged. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, either,” Kroh kicked an old branch peevishly. “And I’m getting sick of things that don’t make sense.”

  “Do you think these Goblins are tied in with the killers, the cultists?”

  “Maybe.” The Waybrother scowled at the map-pelt. “Although how, I wouldn’t know. What good would a half-dozen Goblins with a small map be to anyone, except to other Goblins, maybe.”

  Frustrated, the two set off again.

  “... the tents and cordage must be stored both off the ground, and with two or three inches of space between each folded tent or coil of rope to allow air to circulate, preventing mildew from forming; I’ve ordered pallets for this purpose, but they’re in short supply as the fur traders buy up so many, so I’m having some made to order.” Starr prattled on while Halabarian idly strummed his harp. The two were seated on a log not far outside the eastern side of Hohenfels, just inside the cleared ground that surrounded the town’s defensive palisade.

  “So you are having a series of small sack-beds made for each tent?” The minstrel adjusted a finely-carved string-post.

  “No, silly, a pallet is also a wood framework around three feet by three feet, a box-frame with spaced plank siding,” Starr punched Halabarian’s arm in mock anger.

  He smiled and resumed his playing. She was young, no further along in her life than a Human girl of nineteen or twenty, a third younger than himself, but she intrigued him. It was more than beauty, although she was both beautiful and somewhat exotic in Threllian eyes because of her height; rather, it was what she had become. She laughed and prattled about from one subject to another like any young maid, but she wore a finely crafted (and, he suspected, enchanted) sword of Threllian make, as well as two daggers. Threll preferred to fight within their forests by means of a combination of superb woodcraft and deadly archery, wearing down their foe’s will and numbers through ambush a
nd sniping, so spears, swords, and other close-quarter weapons were considered weapons of an emergency nature, used only when circumstances demanded. Yet Starr wore her blades with an easy familiarity that spoke of constant practice and more than a little battlefield use.

  There were other oddities about her that could only be put to Human and (Eight save us) Dwarven companions: she swaggered like a Legionnaire when she moved about town, dressed in trousers and tunic as if that were the most natural garments for a proper young Lanthrell maiden, and spoke in terms that were both direct and, occasionally, rough; it was his duty, Halabarian assured himself, to offer the lass a bit of cultured companionship ere she was lost to civilized people forever. The burdens one assumed for the sake of one’s people, the harpist reminded himself, are the most noble of all.

  Snowflakes began to sift out the growing twilight. Halabarian looked up and caught several on his tongue before carefully casing the harp against the wet. Plucking a slender leather tube-case from the recesses of his tunic, he produced a richly carved ivory piccolo and played a few experimental notes. “Seems fine weather for a terfi,” he smiled at Starr, referring to a style of lively winter tunes.

  Starr laughed, a high, happy noise that sent prickles down Halabarian’s ears. Before she could reply, however, both Threll turned towards the road leading into Hohenfels a hundred paces to the left, their keen ears having caught the clink of metal and the sound of heavy footsteps.

  “Two, one tall, one short,” the minstrel murmured. “Moving briskly enough.”

  “Rolf and Kroh; they said they were going into the woods today.” Inserting the first two fingers of her left hand into her mouth, Starr produced a whistle of such ear-stabbing volume and pitch that her companion jumped in surprise. Smiling sheepishly, the little Badger clapped her hands sharply three times; in the growing twilight the two figures abruptly changed course and trudged over.

  “You’re filthy and bloody,” Starr observed as the two murderer-hunters stomped up. “Goblin blood, at that. What have you two been up to?”

  ‘Where these two go, can death and mayhem be far behind?’ Halabarian thought to himself, noting the ugly glare his proximity on the log to Starr drew from Kroh, and, more uneasily, the hard look Rolf gave him as well; he knew from Starr that Kroh was protective of her from some absurd point of Dwarven honor, but he hadn’t been sure that Rolf held interests towards the young Lanthrell. The Waybrother was explosive and short-tempered, but also short of attention as well, and could likely be diverted from most rages by a quick-witted Threll, but Rolf was the quiet type, the kind who would take weeks of careful thought to come to the decision to beat a minstrel to a bloody pulp, and who, once embarked on such a course of action, would take killing to stop. “Bagging the odd scout or two?” the minstrel kept his voice light and unconcerned, and used the pretext of stowing the piccolo in his quiver to put a polite distance between himself and Starr.

  “Bagged a whole damned Odular.” Kroh dangled a length of cord, suspended from which were the right ears of the dead Goblins.

  “Seems like a small patrol,” Starr observed, dancing her fingers in the air as she counted. “Eight.”

  “A Pa and seven rankers,” Rolf observed, studying Halabarian. “Killed the lot.”

  The Threll smiled carefully as the two smelled of old smoke, sweat, and Goblin blood; the air about them fairly crackled with the feel of violence and anger. One misstep here could bring him a beating should Starr not intervene quickly enough. “Well done, my friends, very well done. You must tell me all the details so that I might compose a short ballad about the affair, both to endorse your fame and to reassure the locals, as Goblins are a constant scourge in this area.”

  “Yes, do,” Starr exclaimed. “Come sit here, you two, and tell us all about your adventures.”

  Rolf sat beside Starr on the log while Kroh dragged a boulder up to use as a stool, positioning himself before Starr in such a manner that Halabarian had to scoot another foot further down the log away from the little Threll.

  “We were sleuthing; at least, Kroh was and I helped,” Rolf announced proudly.

  “Solving the murder, are you?” Halabarian muttered, digging into his coin purse; buying the two a couple rounds in the nearest tavern would be the best way to get rid of them.

  “Murderessss,” Kroh drew out the last like a snake’s hiss. “There’s five more, now: somebody butchered Wilhelm Lang and his entire family.”

  “And you think it’s all connected somehow?” Halabarian asked absently, sorting coins by touch in the nearly-complete darkness.

  “I think the same people killed Emil and Lang, or at least the same group,” Kroh shook his head. “I figure them for a cult: they used choke-poles on Emil, and tortured Lang and his family to death in ways that would gag an Orc. Two murders, two murder-sites, and all done with strange methods rather than honest steel, that says connected to me.”

  “Yes, that would seem to be of interest.” The Waybrother had the minstrel’s attention now; the shilling he had dug out idly rolled across the backs of his fingers, smoothly diving between the digits as he listened.

  “And they tried to make it look like a Goblin raid, leaving behind Goblin junk and marks,” Rolf offered. “And Kroh figured out that the Goblins we killed were acting strange, too.”

  “Acting how, Kroh?” Starr asked, a frown line dimpling her brow.

  “The patrol was so small: usually you see twenty at least, even for so beat-down a Keiba as the Purple Spider,” the Waybrother shrugged. “What was really odd was this map they had: it’s only about three miles by four, Goblin work, not captured or stolen.” Rolf lit a stub of candle so they could examine the map, which Kroh oriented for them. “So why have such a small map in an area they already know real well?” the Dwarf concluded. “Strange behavior.”

  “Not strange,” Starr shook her head emphatically. “They didn’t have the map to keep them from getting lost: instead, it’s to keep them in a specific area.” Halabarian nodded thoughtfully. Seeing Kroh’s scowl, the little Badger explained. “They were part of a search party, Kroh, probably a Serao split into between eight and twelve of these patrols. Each patrol leader has one of these maps, only each map is for a different area. If you took all these maps and put the drawn edges together, you would have a large area completely covered.”

  “So each patrol zigzags over its block until they’ve searched all of it,” Rolf clapped his hands with excitement. “That way they could search a whole forest, step-by-step. Clever.”

  “More than clever,” Kroh stroked his beard. “Bad, too: they’re looking for Trella.”

  That stopped all three in their tracks. “But the Goblins aren’t the killers, you said...” Rolf began slowly.

  “No, but they have contacts with the cultists, probably through weapon-sales,” Kroh tapped the bundle of spears for emphasis. “Think Goblins like going into a fight wearing cord armor? Protection made of fiber woven into cords that are woven into a tunic, and which won’t stop much? It’s better than nothing, which is the other choice they’ve got, but it is still second-rate, and they know it. Now, Humans come along and sell them good spear heads, knife blades, arrowheads, and probably a few leaf-mail tunics for the leaders, gives at least some of them a better chance. That brings more than gold, it brings goodwill, too. The killers sell weapons to the Goblins, and they want Trella. The Goblins find and kill the old lady, nobody knows otherwise. Last person who knows anything is dead.”

  “And they called in the Goblins because they know you two are looking into the matter,” Starr observed. “This map was made very recently; I bet the Goblins didn’t start looking until the last day or so.”

  “So we’ve got ‘em worried, anyway,” Rolf grinned tiredly. “That’s something, I guess.”

  “We need Trella,” Starr announced decisively. “This is more than just a simple murder of a tinker. Halabarian, how well do you know this area?”

  “Fairly well,” the minstrel si
ghed inwardly.

  “Good; two Lanthrell ought to be able to winkle out one Human madwoman in a single night, Goblins or no Goblins. You two go into town and have some ale, look like you would on an average night; Halabarian and I will slip into the woods and find Trella. We’ll meet back at the cottage later. It’s a good thing I brought all my weapons; pity about my armor being back at the cottage, but it’ll be best if we don’t go back to town. Ready, Halabarian?”

  “Of course,” he smiled convincingly. Five winters here running down hints and shadows while these two buffoons stumble across the entire business in two days, and now he would spend a snowy night tracking down a madwoman while dodging Goblin patrols. Things were not going according to his plans in any particular.

  The Bondsmaster was out of breath when he reached the meeting point; he paused to take a few deep breaths and to gulp down a cup of dark ale before making his report. “The two went to Lang’s holding and buried the dead. Our Knotsman stayed a good distance behind them, but from their tracks the Badgers examined the steading very carefully. On their way back to town they encountered one of the Goblin patrols and wiped it out, slaying eight.”

  The Master Guide tapped his fingers angrily. “Damn them, will those meddling fools never drop the matter? How did our friends take it?”

  “With some grumbling—we will have to make compensation. Meanwhile, despite an impressive effort, they have failed to locate the woman.”

  Silence deepened as the Guide stared at the closed shutters. “And what did the two learn at Lang’s?”

  “Apparently nothing, Master Guide. They came into town, cashed in the ears of the slain Goblins for the Imperial bounty, sold some spears to the trading post, reported the murders, and retired to the Fisher Hawk for ale after washing up and storing the more warlike of their gear.”