Dark Obligations: Book One of the Phantom Badgers

by Krpoun, RW

  “So our secret is safe. Safer still for the Goblins they killed: inadvertently they have made the Langs’ death by Goblin-raid a much more plausible story.”

  “What shall we do now, Master Guide?”

  “Keep in close contact with our friends. When they find old Trella you are to cut out her tongue, blind her with hot wire, and give her to the Goblins for their entertainment, with a provision to them that nothing of her corpse should be left where it might be found. All would seem to be back in order, at least for the short term. And remember, Bondsmaster, the short term is all we’ve left to concern ourselves with.”

  Chapter Four

  The Fisher Hawk’s common room was a warm and cheerful place, very near full and lively. The news of the two Badgers’ victory over eight Goblins got them a free round of ale from Becker and considerable acceptance from the locals. Rolf ordered dinner (stew, bread, cheese, and sliced raw potatoes with salt and vinegar) while Kroh brought his book of notes up to date with what they had learned. For the first few minutes they fielded numerous questions about how Lang and his family died; as Starr had instructed the two put it off as a Goblin raid, and the questions quickly tapered off.

  Meal finished and the book up to date, the two leaned back in their chairs, Kroh with his third tankard of ale in hand and a cigar jutting from beneath his mustaches. “Makes you wonder how many in this place are here to watch us,” the Waybrother gestured to the crowd around them with his cigar, leaving a faint ribbon of blue smoke in the air.

  “Who, the... Them?” Rolf’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Yeah, Them. Obviously we’ve made ‘em nervous; stands to reason they’ll be watching us, probably been doing so since they found out we’re, I’m solving the murder.”

  “Huh.” The big half-Orc gave this some thought. “Too bad we can’t spot who’s the watcher.”

  The Dwarf shrugged. “Anyway, we gotta keep in mind that we’re watched from now on.”

  “That’s why you hid the plant-stuff we found at Lang’s in the Doctor’s woodpile on the way over here,” Rolf nodded with sudden comprehension. “So they wouldn’t see us handing it to him.”

  “Half the stuff, anyway; I kept the other half in case something goes wrong. Now all we’ve got to do is get to talk with him without being obvious.”

  “But what if he’s a cultist?”

  “That’s why I kept half, Anyway, I’m guessing he isn’t since he’s not a local, and if he were a cultist I don’t think he would have told us so much about how Emil died. Same thing for Claus Becker: if he were a cultist he wouldn’t be asking so many questions about the murder.”

  The two sat and drank in companionable silence, answering the occasional latecomer’s questions about Lang. About an hour after their meal luck favored them: Doctor Drewes came in, medical bag over his shoulder, shaking snow from his cloak. Spotting the two Badgers, the young man detoured to their table. “I understand that you found the Lang family murdered.”

  “Yes, all five.” Kroh nodded, gesturing to an empty chair.

  “I also understand that the killings are being blamed on a random raid by the Purple Spider, which is absurd.” A tankard of wine and a bowl of stew were set before the Doctor by Becker himself, who exchanged a few words of greeting before returning to his bar. “Lang’s steading was isolated, but not so much as to be a prime location for a single raid. Either other holdings would have been hit, or the Goblins had a specific target in mind.”

  “The Goblins didn’t do it,” Kroh nodded, keeping his voice low enough that no one away from their table in the noisy room could hear. “That much we know; we guess that Lang was killed because he found Emil’s body, and that the killers are a cult of some sort.” He sketched out the manner in which the Langs were killed.

  “I agree with your estimates,” Drewes nodded thoughtfully. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “There’s a leather pouch hidden in the second layer of wood in your firewood supply, nearest your back door. In it are some shavings, plant stuff we found at Lang’s place. It might have fallen off the table the killers were using to store their implements upon. Could you try and find out what it is?”

  “Yes, of course.” Drewes finished his stew and shoved the bowl aside. “And I’ll keep it a secret, as well. I don’t think we should be seen together until I have found something out.” Standing, he wished them good night and moved to another table, this one occupied by several farmers, and was welcomed into the conversation there.

  Two hours later the common room was nearly empty; Kroh finished off his tenth tankard and sighed. “Good, for Human brewing. Here, take this and go pay our tab, and ask Becker about the Lang boy; I’ll wait outside.”

  The Waybrother paused in the frigid night air just outside the door to light a cigar from one of the flanking lanterns, and then wandered over to where a trader was unpacking his wagon. “Kind of late to be setting up shop,” the Dwarf observed as the burly man took a break.

  “What? Eh, no, not that at all. I’ve lost a center board in the bed, you see, and so must unload nearly every damned thing just to get to it.”

  “Going to fix it by lantern-light, are you?”

  “I’ve no choice: the days grow short, and it won’t be long before snows close the blasted cow-paths they call roads in this Eight-forsaken district.”

  “Here, I’ll give you a hand.” Kroh grabbed a large case and lifted it off the wagon with ease. “Hello, what’s this?”

  It was well after sunup, nearly mid-day, when the two Threll, weary and travel-worn, entered Hohenfels through the east gate. It wasn’t snowing at the moment, but the sky was leaden with pregnant clouds and the wind out of the northwest was cold. Moving with no apparent haste, they made their way to the Badger’s cottage, conscious that eyes might be watching, but giving no sign of that awareness.

  Halabarian noted that Starr coughed twice, sharply, as they drew close to the cottage; at his inquiring glance the little Badger jerked her head towards a snow-flecked bulk near the firewood stack: a massive pig of the sort Dwarves used as war-mounts. The tall Threll shrugged mentally; he had had no dealings with such beasts, and had no idea why it was important to alert the creature, which, other than regular jets of steam erupting from the snout, appeared to be dead.

  A sudden screeching wail made both Threll jump, Halabarian getting a second shock at the speed with which Starr drew Snow Leopard; both hesitated, then relaxed as the shriek was followed by a series of sighing wheezes of obviously artificial means. Starr shook her head with a chuckle as she sheathed her sword. “What in the world made that?”

  “Perhaps the Dwarf is buggering a cat,” Halabarian ventured, winning forth a sharp, clear laugh and a playful punch on the arm.

  Inside the cottage they found Rolf, Kroh, and the source of the noise: Kroh held a musical instrument consisting of a leather air bladder, foot-long mouthpiece, and four oboe-like projections radiating from the bladder. “What is that, and what are you doing to it, Kroh?” Starr giggled.

  “It’s a set of Dwarfish war pipes,” the Waybrother informed them with obvious dignity. “I happened across a trader who had them, and who let them go for a pittance. They’re of first-rate construction, unused, complete with case.” The Dwarf indicated a stout boiled-leather chest on the table. “I’m a bit rusty, and they need breaking in.”

  “I’ve heard of them, they’re meant to be played while marching, aren’t they?” Halabarian observed, mentally adding, ‘To spoil the listener’s aim, no doubt.’

  “Well, I don’t know much about Dwarven music, but I would feel like killing something if I had to listen to that shrieking for long,” Starr grinned at the Dwarf as she hung her bowcase and quiver on a peg and pulled off her heavy coat.

  “It takes a while to break an instrument in,” Kroh ignored the jibe. “When broken-in and played properly the pipes wail and swirl like nothing you’ve ever heard.”

  “I’m sure they will once you’ve
gotten comfortable with them,” Starr smiled at the Waybrother, dancing and shivering in front of the fireplace. “But on to other news: we found Trella.”

  “Where? Could she tell you anything?” The Dwarf deflated the bladder and began to pack the instrument into its rigid case. Rolf set Eek, whom he had been grooming, aside and dragged his chair close.

  “I was right: the Goblins are searching in a grid pattern using small patrols such as you encountered. We evaded them easily enough, and found her about an hour before dawn, using Halabarian’s knowledge of the area. She was sick, dying in fact. She had been on the run, first from ‘bad men’, as she put it, and then the Goblins; in the process she had lost much of her belongings and food. Age, a hard life, and the cold had taken her to Death’s door. And through, in fact: she died two hours after we found her; I think in some part of her mind she was holding on until she could tell someone what she had seen. Once she had accomplished that, she quit fighting, and just faded away.” The little Threll covertly wiped a tear.

  “Why didn’t she just go to a farmstead someplace and tell them?” Rolf asked.

  “She was mad, Rolf; mad and very frightened, especially by the Goblins. Anyway, she had seen Emil’s murder: she said he encountered four men, most or all of whom lived at the ‘bad place’. Three of the four were carrying packs that had what she called ‘sharpies’ in them.”

  “Spear heads, arrowheads, small axe heads, and knives, I’ll wager,” Kroh observed.

  “Yes, I believe you’re correct. It took some work to interpret how she described the event, but apparently Emil came upon the four as they were taking a break. He asked them what they were carrying, and apparently showed some distrust or confusion at whatever answer he received. The four fell upon him and his dog, and killed both. They didn’t attack Lang as they had just put on their packs when he came down the path. They couldn’t fight with the heavy loads they were carrying, so they fled.”

  “Where’s this ‘Bad Place’?” Kroh asked, puffing a cigar to life.

  “She gave us sufficient directions so Halabarian or I wouldn’t have much trouble finding it, although it’s well off the beaten path.”

  “Killing Lang makes a lot more sense now,” Kroh had his book of notes out and was writing in it. “But are we dealing with a cult selling weapons on the side, or arms-sellers imitating cultists?”

  “I don’t know,” Starr shrugged. “Trella couldn’t give us names or real descriptions of the four killers on the trail. At least we have this ‘Bad Place’ to work with. I’m going to sleep all day, but first thing tomorrow we’ll go have a look at the place.”

  “There’s another angle, too: York Lang, Wilhelm’s son, had feelings for Hansine Forst, the brewer’s daughter. We thought we would have a word with her, see if he told her anything about what he saw the day Emil was killed, something he or his father hadn’t mentioned to anyone else.” Kroh shrugged. “Might help.”

  “Strange that the killers disposed of Lang and his family, but didn’t harm the girl,” Halabarian frowned. “Being locals, you would think they would know about the boy’s romantic interest.”

  “That you would; according to Claus Becker it was pretty common knowledge that York was sweet on her, although he wasn’t faring too well in the courting, not being in town much,” Rolf said. “Probably the killers figured killing a young girl in town was too much of a risk to take.”

  “Perhaps. I take it you’ll have a word with her?” Halabarian rose to examine the Dwarven pipes, idly running a finger along one of the projecting flutes: the device was, as the Waybrother had said, of first-class construction, not far from master’s work.

  “If we can,” Kroh shrugged. “Talking to young girls is not easy for mercenaries, though: we’re not proper.”

  “I may be of some help there,” the minstrel suggested. “I’ve been coming here for years and everyone in town knows me.”

  “That could be useful.” Kroh obviously didn’t like the idea, but after pondering the matter he had come to the realization that neither he nor Rolf were the type parents would allow to speak to a young daughter. Or even an old one.

  “Then I might suggest that we set about it at once; I have planned for a long day’s sleep to make up for a cold night’s labors.”

  A worker bade them wait while he found his employer; in a few minutes Friedrich Forst came stomping out of the inner works of the brewery, a tall, heavy-set man whose ruddy complexion and vein-studded nose indicated a brewer who knew his wares intimately, and often.

  “Good morning to you,” the brewer greeted them politely enough. “What help can I be this day?”

  “Friedrich, these are two of the Phantom Badgers, Kroh Blackhand and Rolf Lightseeker; they have undertaken the solution of Emil’s unfortunate demise, and in the course of that would beg your permission to speak with your daughter.” Halabarian kept his tone light, and his expression polite.

  “Hansine? Whatever for?” Forst studied the two mercenaries. “You’re the Goblin-killers, aren’t you? Nice work, that.”

  “They wish to speak to Hansine because it would appear that she was the last person to see York Lang alive. It’s possible that he told her something of interest.”

  “York? Yes, I’d heard he was dead, by Goblins I was told. I don’t believe that he saw Hansine the last month, however, as I put an end to that nonsense weeks ago.”

  “You didn’t care for York, then?” Halabarian smiled.

  “Not anything personal, you understand, he seemed a steady enough lad, hard worker, that sort of thing, but Hansine has been raised to a certain station in this town, and York was a trapper’s son, not a penny to his name. What sort of marriage could he offer my girl? None, that’s what. Still, if it would help... Edmund, fetch your sister.” Turning back to the trio, the brewer eyed the minstrel. “What brings you into this mess, Halabarian? You hardly knew Emil.”

  “I’ve struck up a friendship with the Badgers,” the Threll shrugged good-naturedly. “Fellow outlanders, that sort of thing. Besides, should the matter turn interesting it could make a tale or ballad, gold in my pouch.”

  “Ah, yes, I hadn’t thought of it like that. Sometimes I forget not everyone earns their bread by barley and hops. Here she comes; Hansine, these gentlepeople wish to ask you some questions.”

  Hansine Frost was blonde and pretty in a fresh-faced, country-girl manner, Halabarian decided, with sky-blue eyes, corn-silk hair worn demurely in a thick coil of braids, ruddy cheeks, and a ripe figure that hinted of developing into considerable bulk in future years. Her shawl, that essential garment of any non-noble woman or girl in the Empire, boasted fine needlework and a longish fringe, signs of a wealthy and indulgent father.

  “Yes, sirs?” Her voice was low, almost husky, and her gaze, though lowered as if in modesty, was both clear and frank.

  “My comrades and I would like to know what York Lang may have said to you on the day that Emil Helbrit was murdered.”

  “Poor York, I heard that he himself is slain,” the girl murmured, toying with a streamer of fringe. “I didn’t see him that day, though; in fact, I haven't seen him for weeks, not since Papa told him not to come around me any longer.”

  “Had you known York long?”

  “All my life,” the girl shrugged, swinging her shoulders a bit from side to side. “He was nice.”

  “Thank you, young lady, and you, Friedrich; sorry to have disturbed you and yours,” Halabarian bowed easily with a fetching smile. “We’ll trouble you no more.”

  When the three were well out of earshot of the brewery the Threll stopped and causally retied the laces to his tall, soft boots. “Did either of you find all that rather strange?”

  “She knew York all her life, and never changed expression when she mentioned him being dead,” Rolf observed, shaking a gingersnap out of a sack after offering the cookies to his companions. “And she never looked twice at us, and we’re a very odd group.”

  “Forst asked you why you we
re in ‘this mess’,” Kroh rumbled, flicking ash from his cigar. “Kind of strange that he would refer to what is being called a simple trail-murder as a ‘mess’.”

  “And never a question about how your investigation was going or what we were about.” Halabarian nodded grimly. “Was I the only one who felt that our appearance was not entirely unexpected?” The other two shook their heads. “Well, we’ve done what we can here. I’m off for a hot toddy and bed; until the morrow, then.”

  “Our friends report that they found Trella dead of the elements and flight,” the Bondsmaster sighed. “What is worse is that the Threll found her first, the little Phantom Badger maid and Halabarian, the singer and harpist wintering here.”

  “And we can be sure of that?” The Master Guide grunted sourly.

  “They know how to read tracks; worse, they believe the hag was alive when the Threll found her, so I believe we shall have to assume she told them what she knew.”

  “And how much could a madwoman tell them?”

  “Enough to point them in an unfortunate direction, Master Guide.”

  “Perhaps. What were their actions today?”

  “Neither Threll was to be seen after mid-morning; the harper went with the other two to the brewery, where they questioned Hansine about the Lang boy. They came away with nothing.”

  “Good; it would seem that they have exhausted all possible avenues open to them. A pity the Threll, Halabarian, has chosen to ally himself with them.”

  “Claus Becker has befriended them as well, and they have been seen talking to Drewes in the Fisher Hawk. With all due respect, Master Guide, I must urge action: we have two full weeks before our plan matures, and that is a very long time to leave this group wandering about. I recommend that we dispose of the three Badgers and the harper at once.”

  “Do you, now? And just what argument do you have to support such a drastic and dangerous plan? Surely the murders of the four will excite massive interest, not only in their own deaths, but the tinker’s and the Langs’ as well?”