Dark Practices: Book Four of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  “Ah, good, they’re on time. Go to my tent and fetch my map case, then meet me at the river bank.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy raced off.

  Brushing as much of the soot from his face and hands as he could, the Captain headed for the river. The von der Jabs had a complex agreement with the Three Anvils Fuar, or clan, in which the Dwarves got a prime lot on the riverbank on which to build a pulp mill and timber rights in the area, and in return agreed to build two long stone piers and four stone guard houses. Like the Badger holdings, the New Fork farmers would be selling much of their excess produce and raw materials to the Dwarves living under the nearby mountains.

  The river boat was tying up at the short pier that had been knocked together last year out of green logs; it was already beginning to fall apart, but it would serve until the Dwarves got their structures built. A gnarled Dwarf of august years was limping off the cracking logs onto the bank as Durek arrived; others were directing the ship’s crew as they deployed a boom.

  “Well met, I am Captain Durek Toolsmaster of the Phantom Badgers.”

  “Haakon Peak-Driver, supervisor of this crew. I’ve twenty-six axes all told, and two tons of metalwork to off-load. How fares the stone deliveries?”

  Picken came charging up, the sturdy leather case balanced on his head with one hand. Durek opened the case and extracted a sheaf of papers. “This is what has arrived so far.”

  The supervisor studied the entries carefully. “Good. Where’re we quartered?”

  The mercenary handed over a map of the area. “This section is assigned to you, here next to our own tents within our defensive perimeter. If you can spare the hands, we could use a bit of help with the defenses.”

  “I’ll give you six per day for the first week,” Haakon scanned the river bank. “Anything else?”

  “You’ll cook for yourselves with rations drawn from the paymaster’s stocks; have your work crew report to Serjeant Janna Maidenwalk, a red-haired Human woman with a long scar across her face. The latrines and wash points are marked on your map.”

  “Good. I’ll speak with you after the sun goes down; for now I need to take a look at this bank, see where my cranes will go.” Haakon called two of his fellows over and they set off down the riverbank.

  “That, Picken, is the way to do business,” the Captain advised the apprentice, who hadn’t understood a word of the conversation as it had been spoken in Fiadaich, the Dwarven tongue. “Straight to the point, settle what needs to be settled and get on with business.

  “I thought Dwarves were slow and careful in what they do, Captain.”

  “We are, when it is possible, but Haakon has two piers to build and the foundations for the mill and four guard houses to lay before the frosts set in; that means he must also build eight timber cranes for moving the stone, a work area where support timbers and the like can be cut, and numerous other chores. Underground, we can work in shifts around the clock all year long to get a job done, but out here we’ve the weather and seasons to contend with, not to mention the limitations of sunlight. Building out here is a whole different world from where we usually work, and it leaves us in a mood to get the job done so we can go back underground where things make more sense.”

  That night after an extended discussion with Haakon, Durek held an informal meeting of the Company officers. “We’ll spend one more day with a full effort on the defenses, and after that we split the Company between work details, patrolling, guard duty, and rest; Janna, schedule it so that each Badger gets one day off in six if you can manage it, seven if you can’t. The surveyors will be here the day after tomorrow, and the logging company eleven days after that, so we’ll have to start working around them in terms of security. Both groups will be established in a second compound the same size as ours, so Axel, pace off the place and put up some markers.”

  “They won’t waste any effort digging in,” the Wizard observed.

  “That’s true, but they can come in here if there’s an attack, provided there’s time. Our priority is our defense and the safety of our paymasters; Haakon’s crew can all fight and are well-behaved, but the same can’t be said about the surveyors and loggers. If they want mercenary protection beyond that they can pay for it.”

  “Have we taken any steps about alcohol at this site?” Janna asked.

  “No, which is another reason why the loggers and surveyors are quartered elsewhere: with most, if not all, the women in the area in our Company or among the paymaster’s servants, we can expect some trouble when the ale starts flowing; I intend to have a word with the leaders of both crews when each arrives. While we’re on the subject, Dame van der Jabs has informed me that her staff will assume cooking and firewood details for the Company in addition to tending to the van der Jabs.”

  “They’re an odd pair, aren’t they?” Arian observed. “They’re paying us, and then spent all day on work details, and said they’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “How did they do?” The Captain asked Janna.

  “Worked as hard as anyone, and harder than most; Yuvonne wove wickerwork tubes for leg-breaker holes and sheets for man-traps, and Herbet worked the grindstone and files, turns out he has a fine hand for sharpening; with all the chopping and cutting going on he spent the day putting edges back on axes, hatchets, brush hooks, and saws. He’ll be back at it tomorrow if he’s willing. As for the defenses, with the Dwarves and van der Jabs helping one more full day will pretty much give us the basics.”

  “Good; Starr, what are the Goblins up to?”

  “They know we’re here, and have for the last day or so; from the number of trails I’m finding, every patrol in the area has been by to take a look at us. I expect they’ll be sending Odular into our area within a day or so to see what they can stir up.”

  “We can mount fighting patrols as well as they can, and better armed and armored ones at that,” Durek grinned. “Let’s make sure the Spider have an interesting summer.”

  By the time the surveyors arrived near noon on the twenty-fifth Haakon had the sites for the piers marked out, two heavy and two light cranes erected, and Dwarves were busy cutting ramps into the bank and adding shoring for access to the piers while others probed the river bottom where the piles would be sunk. The township site was rapidly being cleared as the flow of people and supplies trampled or removed the underbrush, and the need for braces for the cranes and other tasks depleted the trees.

  Ames Sachervall was chief of the surveyor crew, a pot-bellied man of indeterminate years whose tangled beard and thin hair were so thickly shot with gray as to leave but a hint of what his hair had once been colored. “So we’ll be out here where the Goblins can snap us up while everyone else is snug in yon fort, is that it?”

  “Captain Toolsmaster has explained to our satisfaction of the limited length of defense works his Badgers can defend, but he assures me that in the event of a serious attack yourselves and the loggers will be allowed to reside within the fortified area until the danger has passed.” Yvonne van der Jabs was a bit grimy from her continuing work on the defenses, but still in good spirits. “And I’m sure he knows his business.”

  “You’re free to fortify your camp, as well,” Durek observed. “We’ll provide escorts once you’ve finished with the immediate area and move outwards.”

  Sachervall had eleven other men in his crew, all hard-bitten types who obviously were accustomed to rough living and outdoor work, and all were armed. “My lads’ll be busy with the contract at hand,” he observed bitterly. “No time to be wasted in diggin’ ditches and such. We were promised mercenary security when we took the job.”

  “There is mercenary security.” Herbet’s voice was as soft as ever. “And you received half your fee in advance.”

  The surveyor started to reply, hesitated, glanced at the armored Dwarf, and grunted angrily. “This is a poor way to run a crew, is all I have to say. Where do you want us to set up?”

  Easing around a tree, Starr paused and studied the terrain ah
ead. A Purple Spider Odular was nearby, thirty jugata screened by six yasama, or Goblin surface scouts. As a Threll she held yasama in no high regard, but she also knew better than to take them too lightly; after all, six fairly competent scouts were still a threat, even to an expert. She couldn’t see them yet, but she could hear them: they weren’t far off, and heading her way.

  By touch she checked her quiver and squirmed to adjust the weight of her simser shirt, Threllan ‘lattice’-style armor, made up of two layers of plates and strips of iron-hard (yet very light) iocor wood, held together with cord spun from the tough, silky web material made by Titan spiders. The two layers of plates and strips were offset so that the vulnerable joints between one layer was protected by the other’s solid fronts, and the two layers separated by, and fastened to, a layer of spider’s silk that kept the pieces of wood from rattling against each other while still allowing them to move with the wearer’s body; the entire assembly was then encased in a shirt of thin leather. The end result was a shirt that offered the same or better protection as that of good chainmail for less weight, and without the constant noise of rings rattling against each other. The chief drawback to this armor was the rarity of the materials (iocor wood is found only in Threll Forests) and the skill needed to tailor each suit to the wearer. She wore an enchanted torc such as Janna and Elonia wore (which had initially been awarded to Kroh, but the Dwarf disdained enchantment as an alternative to good Dwarven steel) and she carried a stout wood buckler; the enchanted sword Snow Leopard rode at her right hip, flanked by a dagger on her left, and augmented by a second dagger in her right boot. Snow Leopard was Starr’s rather than Company property as she had captured it while on a solitary scouting foray years ago.

  A branch moved to her right front, betraying the presence of a yasama; her lip curled in a sneer at such ineptness. She waited and watched, an arrow nocked and ready, motionless and nearly invisible in the trunk’s slender shadow, a few smears of fresh clay breaking up the lines of her face and eliminating any sheen to her skin. Another scout came to view off to her left, and the main body could be heard, very close now.

  Her arrow caught the first yasama low in the belly, a potentially fatal wound if no Healer was nearby, and one that created intense pain and a great deal of howling; her second arrow took another yasama square in the chest, dropping him in his tracks, dying. Starr flinched as a slung bullet smashed a spray of bark and wood splinters off the tree she was hiding behind, but held her ground, snapping a shaft at the scout who had launched the lead ball. She could hear excited shouting and the sounds of the main body coming forward at a trot, the Goblins excited at the possibility of running a lone scout down.

  Kroh Blackhand lay behind a stump watching a line of ants march back and forth between their mound and a big drop of honey he had placed a foot away; with a twig he dug channels and moved pebbles to harry their return route, but the ants overcame the obstacles and pressed on. The Waybrother wore a good helm and breast and back plate armor, with studded leather bracers to protect his arms, the favored armor combination worn by those high enough in the Company to rate it: Durek, Janna, Rolf, Maxmillian, and Gottri; he had his crossbow laid out cocked and ready, with a sheathed dirk and dagger at his belt. His primary, and favorite weapon was his Named Axe, an enchanted weapon bequeathed to him by the Guardians for his exemplary performance in the service of his Order. The axe, sometimes called Azaghal’s Axe for the first Waybrother which had borne it, had twenty-four gold rings upon its haft, each ring bearing the name of the Waybrother who had borne it (and died wielding it); when the haft was full, the axe would be retired to the Hall of Honor along with the many other Named Axes which reposed there. The weapon itself was of the classic izar style, the true Dwarven long axe, consisting of a three-foot haft, single-bitted head balanced by a curved spike on the back, and topped with a short spike to allow it to be thrust in tight quarters. Kroh also had an enchanted throwing axe, one of a pair that they had recovered in Alantarn, but Axel had warned him that the enchantment in the weapon was second-rate, old, and worn, and that it might fail at any time, so the Waybrother made very sparing use of it.

  Abandoning the ants for a bit, he ran his stubby fingers over the shaft of his axe, silently murmuring the names engraved on the rings and their manners of death to himself; being a Guardian of the Way was more than belonging to a fraternal order for the Waybrother, it was what he was. Kroh did not just believe the Brotherhood’s tenants, he lived them, and they lived in him. You no more joined the Guardians then you became a Dwarf; life made you a Waybrother, or it didn't. There was no other way. Either you had the fire burning within you or you didn't.

  The fire always burned hot within Kroh, for as long as he could remember; some of his earliest memories were of the big Cave Goblin raids that had claimed his sister's life, cut down right in front of him. He would have died, too, if his mother had been a second slower with her war hammer, back when he was a child, equal to a five-year-old Human. He'd buried his mother when he was the equivalent of nine to a Human, and too many more since. All Dwarves were fighters from the day they could hold a weapon with varying degrees of involvement from the mothers who only fought if the nurseries were breached to the professional warriors of the Clanguard, but for Kroh there had been only one direction: to the best of the best, the Guardians of the Way, the warrior brotherhood who represented the very epitome of Dwarven warrior-hood.

  Never again would he wait in fear for the foe; the Waybrothers sought out the enemy on their home grounds and waged war on them there, killing them far from the sacred halls of the Dwarven clans. That had been the substance of his life since adulthood and the first level of Guardianship: seeking out the enemies of Dwarvenkind, and slaying them. He had gained experience and battle-lore over the years that augmented his fighting abilities, and advanced in rank and status within the Guardians. It was a good life, and his a longer one than most Waybrothers experienced.

  Being in the Phantom Badgers had made it even better. Kroh had a Dwarf's need for order and belonging, and the Badgers were a good substitute for Fuar and Hold while in the field. They also got him into the thick of things, which was where a Waybrother needed to be, right there out in the middle of it all, killing the foes of Dwarvenkind, wading into the fray and really putting the edge to them. He rubbed the tattoos on his fingers and grinned; it was good to be a Waybrother and a Phantom Badger, good to be able to do the work you loved.

  It would have been good to have been able to smoke a cigar, too, but the smoke would give away their position. Living underground meant living with damp air, and many Dwarves suffered from some sort of breathing problem because of it. Usually teas made from the tabba bush or the occasional pipe of the cured leaf would dry the breathing passages and give lasting relief, but for the more severe cases eating a paste from the plant’s sap or chewing the dried leaves was the only remedy. Kroh suffered from the most extreme case, and as a child had suffered strangling attacks that brought him to the brink of fainting. Heavy doses of tabba paste had stopped the attacks from occurring, and after reaching adulthood he had taken to smoking cigars made from the dried leaves to hold the shortness of breath at bay. He hadn’t had an attack in decades, thanks to regular consumption, and in fact several Healers had advised him that the condition had been cured by the plant’s smoke, but he continued to smoke out of habit, and out of a secret fear that the attacks would return if he stopped. Arian had picked up the habit from the Waybrother some years back.

  Beside him Rolf stiffened, and tapped him on the shoulder; looking up, the Dwarf saw Starr running towards them, darting from tree to tree. An arrow missed her by a yard and sailed on towards the Waybrother, burying itself into the ground twenty feet short. “Everybody stay put, and we’ll have Goblin stew in a minute,” the Waybrother growled, eyeing the Badgers hidden to his left and right in a loose half-circle. “Keep your faces down, and no one moves until I give the word.”

  Starr moved twenty yards closer and knelt b
ehind a tree to send a shaft flashing back towards her pursuers. Turning, she ran on, keeping an eye on the Goblins crashing through the brush behind her. When a slung bullet tore through the air past her in a near miss the little Threll crashed to the ground with a piercing shriek of pain. She was up on her feet in an instant, hobbling frantically onward, drops of blood splattering on the dead leaves and other forest litter with each painful step as she crossed the narrow clearing in front of Kroh’s position, the Goblins steadily narrowing the distance behind her.

  The lead Goblin, a yasama, was no more than twenty feet from her with the rest of the fighting patrol thundering up from behind in an untidy mob as she staggered past Kroh’s stump and collapsed to all fours, squealing in fright as she desperately crawled onward.

  The scout had a dreadful grin of anticipation on its horrid little face when Kroh raised up and shot him, the quarrel driving completely through the creature’s narrow chest. Rolf dropped a second yasama as the Waybrother rolled to his feet, axe in hand.

  “Have at ‘em, boys. Yeearrgggh! ” Kroh hurled his yard-long axe, which flipped through the air like a living thing, the runes on its head glowing with unnatural light. The axe struck the Ordula’s leader, a Het, or junior officer, smashing the Goblin’s chest in before ripping itself free and flipping back to the Dwarf’s waiting hands as the rest of the hidden Badgers let loose with a volley and then sprang to their feet.

  Instantly the little clearing was a bedlam of screams and clashing weapons as fourteen Badgers came at the Goblins from the front and both flanks, having cut down a half-dozen of the foe with missile weapons. Disorganized, surprised, and somewhat winded from the pursuit, the jugata were at a severe disadvantage as the armored mercenaries burst from their hiding places and fell upon them.