Dark Practices: Book Four of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  “You are leading the squad, with three or four others of your choice.” The tone brooked no argument.

  “A mixed-blood female, Captain? It would be very difficult for me to do this.”

  “No, it would not. After Arian, you are the logical choice.”

  She studied him for a moment. “I believe you place too much faith upon my Sight and my feeble spell-weaving Captain.”

  “I place great confidence in your Direthrell blood and the smell of assassin that lingers about you.”

  An icy hand gripped her heart, but decades of training kept her face in repose. “Really, Durek...”

  “No ‘reallys’, Elonia, no ‘reallys’ at all,” the Dwarf leaned forward on his stool, eyes burning into the Seeress’. “I lost two good Badgers in Alantarn, one of whom I haven’t yet replaced in ability. You led us there, whatever your real name is, and for your own reasons. You took the same risks as we did, and played us fairly about the Torc, which ultimately saved the Company from the White Necromancer. You went with the party to slay the liche and paid off any debts of honor we might have had against you, but do not try and play me for a fool. You swore an oath to serve the Company to the best of your abilities and you will do so, whether you wish to admit to having the abilities or not.”

  “I see.”

  The Dwarf stood and thrust his axe, which had been leaning against her dressing-table, into the sling on his back. “Let me know which Badgers you will take and what you will need in terms of support; I want whatever form of Dark-worship they’re practicing put to an end, and with them the insult to our honor.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Her tone was even, not much different than before.

  Her voice stopped him with his hand upon the door. “Captain.”

  He half turned to look at her where she sat, still staring at the stool he had been sitting on. “Yes.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “I knew since last fall, after pondering the report on the actions against the White Necromancer; I began to suspect a few weeks after the Alantarn raid.” He waited for a response; after several long seconds he shrugged. “As far as I know, no one else suspects.”

  She turned her head to meet his eyes and smiled wanly. “Then you took a chance confronting an assassin in her den, Durek.”

  His beard twitched in what time had taught her was an ironic grin. “You’re no follower of the Void, Elonia, of that I’m sure.” The grin hardened. “But even if you were, it wouldn’t have been much of a chance.”

  When the door closed behind him Elonia remained on her chest, running a fingertip along the edge of her lips, staring off into the middle distance. Finally she shook her head and stood. Durek was right: she wouldn’t have had much of a chance against him; he had known for a year and she hadn’t had a clue. Perhaps she was getting rusty, or old. Perhaps the new Elonia, the one she had been allowing to grow after completing a century’s vengeance, wasn’t as clever as the old one.

  Stepping to her knife-belt, she dug out her writing kit; she needed to make a list of questions she should ask Arian and Janna, and formulate a rough plan as to what her approach would be. Planning a covert action was coldly familiar, routine, her life’s work up until two years ago, and oddly comforting. As she worked a small smile twisted her mouth: the new Elonia might be less devious than the one who had spent decades beating the Direthrell at their own game, but enough ought to remain to teach a handful of cultists a darker practice than they were used to.

  Chapter Five

  “Food,” Dooaun checked his list.

  “Packed and ready, stolen from the field supplies,” Leta reported, brushing a strand of blond hair from her teenaged face. “I put the bags behind that trunk.”

  “Water-skins.”

  “Full and out of sight behind the mirror.”

  “Bedrolls.”

  “Hidden under your cushions.”

  “Back packs.”

  “Same place, already filled with the rest of the things we need.”

  “Rag gag, silk thread, pins, stick, shims, bar, and binding cord.”

  “Here.” She produced the items.

  “Money or valuables; I’ve a few coins I’ve managed to accumulate, but we’re short in that regard. Weapons, at least a dagger or knife.”

  “That’s a problem,” Leta sighed. “There are a couple girls who’ve stolen daggers or fighting knives off the half-Orc Thanes while servicing them, but buying one would take more than we have, and raise far too many questions. We’ve the bung-starter I stole last week right here, though, and two coshes.”

  “You would think in as heavily-armed a place as this, a knife or two wouldn’t be hard to come by,” the Watcher observed peevishly. “We may be forced to alter our plans.”

  “I would hate to try it unarmed,” Leta observed mournfully. “With a dagger, at least they wouldn’t take me alive.”

  “True, true, although for that a long piece of broken glass with a bit of rag for a handle should suffice,” Dooaun patted the girl’s hand, and she brightened. “I’ve a bottle in my quarters in the small trunk you could use.” He checked his list again. “I’ve packed all but my duty pipes and tabba, and my tools; they are always in plain sight, and thus must remain so until the last minute. The sketches are made, and all is as it should be. Are you prepared?”

  “Yes, Dooaun, yes,” she breathed, her sea-green eyes wide. “Can we do this? Is it really possible?”

  “Yes, my sweet little flower, it is possible, if not certain. We shall certainly try.” The Watcher drew his amber plate from its case. “Now, be still and I’ll take one last Look.” Leta settled herself on a cushion and closed her eyes, praying to the Eight that it could be true. After several minutes Dooaun stowed the plate. “All is as it should be, and the dispositions of the garrison are as advantageous as it can be expected. The sun is setting, and the time is at hand. Prepare yourself.” Leaning forward, he pulled the wall-cord several times. When a surly Orc Thane opened the view-port in the door, the Watcher gestured to catch his attention. “I need to send this girl to summon our commander, Chorapel Vargrat. Events require it.”

  The station commander came through the door in a peevish state of humor, a tall, spare Direthrell who had been banished to this far-off post for some forgotten crime or failed petty scheme. “What is it now, you fumbling idiot? I was about to retire to sleep.” Leta slipped in after the officer, and the guards closed and barred the door as were their standing orders.

  “Much is afoot, Orbi, desperate deeds, treachery, and violence,” Dooaun murmured. “Treachery within the heart of this station itself, in fact.”

  “You’ve Seen this?” Vargrat was instantly alert. “Plots and treachery, here? Tell me quickly, how much time before this plot unfolds?”

  “Not much, Orbi, very little, in fact. I have made a chart of events as best I can decipher them,” the Watcher laid a sheet of vellum on the cushion next to him. “Of course, exactness is an issue of which I cannot...”

  “Enough.” The Dark Threll dropped to one knee to study the writing. “I see, this is a list of the entire garrison, a unit roster, these symbols next to each name, what do they represent...ngrrk.” The bung-starter, a five-pound mallet wielded with all of Leta’s one hundred pounds behind it, caught him squarely on the back of the head, dropping him to the floor. As swift as a snake Dooaun lashed out with his cosh, a leather tube filled with sand and small stones, striking the Direthrell officer a solid rap above the ear.

  The two stood motionless, watching their victim. “He’s unconscious,” Dooaun breathed. “Quickly, the cord.” He searched the Pargaie officer while Leta securely bound Vargrat’s wrists and ankles. “Good, besides this dirk at his belt he had a small dagger in his boot, you won’t need my bottle after all. Here’s his keys, and a gold wrist-chain that will surely help us in our travels. Set up the chair while I unlock the trunks.”

  The two dragged Vargrat onto a small folding chair stored in the building
for the occasions when the commander or one of his intelligence officers had to conduct extensive interviews after one of Dooaun’s Sightings. More cord bound his limbs to the chair, which was positioned with exacting care in relation to the door and its view port. While Leta, using silk thread and a small stick, ensured that the Direthrell’s head was at an angle proper for the station commander to be ‘reading’ from a paper lying on his lap (pinned to his trousers, in fact), Dooaun swiftly dismantled the egran that connected the fort with Alantarn and replaced it with a structure taken from the large trunk.

  Their tasks complete, the two huddled for another conference. “Here’s the small dagger, the keys, and the drawings of what we need” Dooaun squeezed Leta’s hand tightly. “Are you ready?”

  The nineteen-year-old’s lovely face was drawn and pale, but her eyes were green steel. “Yes, my wise old bee. If we fail, kill Vargrat.”

  “Of course, but we shall not fail. Remember all I have taught you, and stay calm.” The half-Goblin Watcher looked around one last time. “The rest of the binding cord hidden, the bung-starter, yes, out of sight, good.” He tugged on the wall-cord.

  The guards, aware that their commander was inside, opened the view-port without delay, seeing Dooaun leaning towards Vargrat and explaining something in flowery terms; of the station commander only his seated knees was visible. “I need to fetch something for the commander,” Leta, standing directly in front of the door, announced firmly. Closing the ‘port, the guards opened the door for the slave, and closed it after she trotted out.

  The minutes ticked by like an eternity; Dooaun clutched the dirk awkwardly, never having held a weapon before, keeping a wary eye on the door and the viewport (whose hinges, secretly corroded with drops of urine, squeaked loudly). When his calm returned, at least to a degree, he swiftly packed his duty pipes and the tools of his trade, then extracted their packs, water skins, bedrolls, and ration-bags from their hiding places and stacked them where they would be close to hand. They had too much equipment, he knew, but neither he nor Leta knew anything about field life; it would be far easier to discard excess baggage than to come up with needful items once they fled.

  Sometime during this process Vargrat opened his eyes and grunted, but the cord was braided horsehair, and very strong; Leta had made careful study of the bindings on the captives the Thanes occasionally brought into the station and tied her captive well. The knotted rag-ball held in the Direthrell’s mouth by pale silk thread held him speechless as well.

  Drawing his cosh from his robes, Dooaun struck two savage blows to the frame of the mirror, destroying two small orbs that would render the device inert until repairs and new enchantments were made. In Alantarn they would soon notice that Fort Margave was no longer in contact, but there was precious little they could do about it in time to disrupt Dooaun’s plan.

  He found himself avoiding Vargrat’s accusing, enraged gaze; a life as a slave did not prepare one for rebellion, it was only free men who threw off an oppressor’s grip. Only her influence, the knowledge of her daring deeds and Leta’s youth-fired hopes and dreams gave him the slender stock of nerve to embark upon the desperate course he had set out upon.

  He hefted the dirk and eyed his master. “If the guards enter you will die, and so will I, upon this very blade,” he kept his voice soft. “I will be free or dead ‘ere this night is over. If you live you will have at least six days to adjust the facts to your master’s satisfaction.” That was a lie, but Vargrat would find that out soon enough.

  The rattle of the bar being lifted sent him darting to his cushions; when the portal swung open he was seated normally, a map on the pillow beside him, rattling on about Goblin patrols near the coast. Leta scurried through with a large canvas sack cradled in her arms, a wine bottle thrusting out of the top. The guards swung the door shut promptly; the first law taught to the new members of the garrison being that learning too much of Pargaie operations was fatal.

  Tossing the map aside, the Watcher leapt to his feet and helped the girl with her burden. “Did you get them?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” a wicked grin danced across the girl’s face. “And lots more.” Setting the wine aside as camouflage that was no longer necessary, she rapidly unpacked the bag. “Here is a bag of coins I found in his desk, this is a case of knives, these are some papers taken from a locked drawer, and here are the plates.” She brushed a strand of sweaty hair away from her eyes. “There was a little glass cube on the desk that was humming; I put a bowl over it and three of his tunics, to hide the noise.”

  “Um, yes, probably a warning device activated by Alantarn; no doubt they noticed we’ve severed communications. If there is no response in a few minutes an armed force will be dispatched from the nearest ally they have direct communications with. So long as they don’t have a means of contacting any other officer in this station, or no one stumbles upon the cube in his office, we will be safe.” Dooaun carefully examined the brass plates. “Yes, you’ve done well; these are the final components to the other two ergan. Tend to the door while I effect our escape.”

  While Dooaun fitted one of the plates to the tripod-like ergan he had assembled from the components in the trunk Leta went to the door and carefully wedged meticulously filed iron shims between the hinge side of the door and the door frame. The shims, made from horseshoe nails, were weak, but she had twenty of them, wedging them into place with soft taps of her cosh; when she had finished the inward-swinging door would require a good deal of battering to open. She used a short steel strap that had once been part of a crossbow to jam the view port’s latch.

  “There,” Dooaun stood back, sweating. “They taught me well, I’ll give the bastards that.” A sheet of black nothingness the size of a doorway now stood before the tripod. Picking up a handy cushion, the Watcher tossed it into the blackness; it vanished as if through into a light-less hole. “Good: it works. There should be no one at the other end as this portal is used to send agents into the Eisenalder Empire; it is hidden inside a ruined hut, so one of us will have to go through first to move the packs and gear out of the way before the second comes through.” Dooaun tossed a second cushion into the blackness as he spoke, watching the door carefully. “You go first, my little flower; the guards will soon grow suspicious; Vargrat’s dislike for this place is well-known.” As if in answer to his worked the view port rattled as a guard attempted to open it. “Quickly, sweet blossom, quickly!”

  Snatching up a lit lantern and the case of knives, Leta scampered to the black portal as the bar was removed from the door; she hesitated for a moment before the awful nothingness, then jumped into it as the door shuddered and opened a half-inch with a terrible shrieking of splintering wood. Dooaun dragged the bung-starter close to the tripod, ignoring Vargrat’s muffled shouts.

  A cushion sailed through the portal as the guards outside hurled themselves at the door, which opened an inch’s worth. The Watcher immediately began tossing packs, bedrolls, ration bags, and water skins through the egran, following it with the canvas satchel of loot from Vargrat’s office, and the two other brass plates. Two more heaving crashes knocked half the shims free and forced the crumbling door open nearly a foot’s width, still too narrow an opening for the burly Orcs. Dooaun sheathed Vargrat’s dirk and thrust it into his robes, standing by the egran with the heavy mallet at the ready.

  “They may get me, Orbi,” he used the honorific out of habit. “But they won’t get her.”

  With a spray of wood fragments the corner of the door gave way and an Orc Thane shouldered his way in as the second cushion sailed through the egran. Instantly the Watcher darted through the portal, closing his eyes instinctively.

  The ground dropped beneath his feet a couple inches and a tingling sensation crossed his body, and then a musty wood and lath wall slammed into him. Staggering back from the wall, Dooaun spun and swung the bung-starter in a mighty two-handed grip, knocked one leg of the grimy, cobweb-festooned tripod to the ground, causing the sheet of blackness t
o flicker and vanish.

  “We did it,” Leta squealed, dancing in a tight circle in the moonlight just outside what Dooaun could now see was a small shack deep in a forest. “We’re in the Eisenalder Empire, and I can have a last name, not a number.”

  “Yes, child, we’re free.” Dooaun sighed, drawing his amber plate forth as he stepped out of the musty structure. “Let me get a bearing on where we are, and we’ll be off.”

  Leta flopped down next to him, eyes shining. “Dooaun, my wise old bee, why are you so sad?”

  He smiled at the girl. “I’ve spent decades perfecting a slave’s skills; now I have to learn to live as a free man, and I wonder if perhaps I’m too old for it.”

  She kissed him, her joy and youthful passion burning like a live coal. “Don’t worry, old bee, your flower will be there to help you. I’m young and you are wise, and Arbmante itself trembles at our names. This business of freedom cannot prevail against our combined skills.”

  The Watcher laughed. “Gather our goods, and take the plate from the ergai in the shed. I’ll See where we need to go. Today is the first of Kammteil, henceforth and hereafter our lucky day.”

  The new Elonia, she reflected, still had a lot of the old skills, but the razor-keen sense of focus was gone forever, along with the drive which had channeled her every action and the passion which had kept her cold and purely functional. She had extracted her revenge, and had successfully moved on, just as she had moved on at each step of the deceptions which the atonement had required. All that was left was the basic secret of her past, old business, nothing new to be hidden.

  Certainly the old Elonia, the Avenger as she referred to her past self, would not be strutting about in a black silk slip while discussing the upcoming operation in Teasau. The Avenger had no lovers, and only rarely any physical needs, no doubt a reaction to her upbringing in the halls of Alantarn where children were sexual playthings from the time they were old enough to walk until the time they had acquired enough power to be master and not toy. She had been spared that; her mother had arranged to have skillful tattoos applied that mimicked Heller’s Pox, a sexually transmitted disease that the Direthrell feared; her warning-scarf had been her most prized possession, a shield against the horrors that were visited upon her fellows nearly every night. She had cultivated her beauty as a guise, and learned the skills of playing her appearance against the possibility that it might be needed. The tattoos were faded away now to faint shadows that only she would recognize, faint dots of pigment left here and there from the ink that had once covered her arms.