Dark Practices: Book Four of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  The problem that confronted the Goblins was that they might hold the position, but they did so only with their own warriors, as the Trolls were still on the outside of the perimeter, unable to scramble over the wall like their more agile masters and unable to master crossing the abatis without direction from their handlers, all of whom had been wounded by the Orb’s fire. However, as has been said many times by veterans everywhere, whatever Goblins lacked in height, weapons, and armor they made up for in raw courage, and having gotten into the camp the Spider warriors were determined to stay there.

  It was a wild, formation-less melee where you told friend from foe by height and most blows were swung blindly, a kicking, hacking, screaming engagement that seemed to drag on for hours but in truth lasted a couple minutes from start to finish. Rolf hewed mightily, Moonblade’s blade black with the dark-hued Goblin blood, bleeding himself from several minor wounds on his arms and legs and roaring in time with his blows. For endless seconds the fight swirled around him as he hacked at half-seen figures and had blows strike him in reply, most deflected by his steel breast-and back plates, but some getting through, and then it was over, the last Goblins on their feet were scrambling back over the walls of the defensive works.

  The big Badger slumped against the stump and river rock wall of the defensive work, lungs working like bellows as Janna reorganized their reaction force and a din of close-quarter fighting erupted at position Fourteen. Then the Silver Eagle was grabbing the Corporal by the shoulder and yelling for him to come on, the Troll-handlers had the big buggers at the abatis between Thirteen and Twelve. Heaving himself back onto his feet, Rolf gave her a hand in rallying the reaction force and leading it around to the west.

  The Trolls couldn’t climb over the log abatis any more than they could climb up the walls of the defensive positions, but they could break off enough spikes with their clubs to be able to get a grip on the logs themselves and heave them out of the way, which was what they were engaged in when the reaction force charged up.

  A lumberjack raced through the screen of Goblins ahead of all the rest of the defenders, screaming like a madman, and slammed his heavy double-bitted wood axe into the skull of one of the Trolls with a two-handed overhead swing that split the creature’s skull from the crown of the head down to a point nearly level with its eyes, the shock of the impact snapping the red oak axe handle like a twig and throwing the logger to the ground, where he died on a half-dozen Goblin spear points a heartbeat later.

  Rolf blasted through the Goblin’s ranks at the head of a half-dozen defenders, knocking one jugata sprawling with a shoulder-block and decapitating another, breaking through to the abatis as his followers engaged the Goblins. The second Troll was still dragging the log aside; ignoring a spear point that screamed across his breastplate trailing sparks and a deep groove, the Badger Corporal drove Moonblade's point into the creature’s chest with all his strength, weight, and momentum behind it. Ordinary steel would have bent to the snapping point, but the enchantment held: the great sword slid into the Troll’s stony chest like a battering ram crashing through a wall-gate, sinking in nearly a foot. Instantly the creature dropped the log, crushing one of its already-wounded handlers, and seized the blade as Rolf crashed into the great sword’s pommel from the abrupt stop and tried to get his feet under him to withdraw. The Troll would have wrested the imprisoned blade from his grip but for Barthel Gayton charging up and delivering a two-handed stroke with his war hammer that cracked the weapon’s haft and shattered one of the massive humanoid’s elbows. The big Badger was able to rock his weapon free from the Troll’s one-handed grip, severing two of the beast’s fingers in the process, and stagger back, catching a glimpse of Janna off to his right finishing off the Troll that the logger had crippled, the Serjeant hacking at the creature’s neck with Rosemist in the manner of one chopping up a particularly tough stump.

  The advocate was dimly aware that position Thirteen had given way, but she had more immediate problems before her: despite three more sling bullets to the burnt Troll, both humanoids had reached the outside of her position. Her Badgers did not break and flee, instead ducking down and staying close to the south wall of the position where the Troll’s clubs couldn’t reach them, jumping up to lash out at Goblins or the big beasts and ducking back before the ponderous Trolls could react. Bridget used the long blade of her enchanted sword-rapier to thrust between the stumps and rocks of the position’s walls as the Goblins had done back at the log fort, inflicting numerous small wounds to the Trolls’ legs.

  The handlers, seeing that they had problems facing them, ordered their charges to rip apart the position itself, tearing out rocks and stumps while jugata harried the defenders. The wall was half down when a Orb hurled by Henri engulfed the Trolls and their handlers, startling defender and attacker alike and giving Bridget’s force a welcome respite.

  When the wall of fire winked out the handlers of the Troll Bridget had set the fiery rings upon directed the beast to retreat; Trolls could recover from nearly any wound given time and plenty of food and stone, so wounded beasts were always withdrawn when their injuries reached a certain degree. The other creature mindlessly returned to wrecking the position’s walls, ignoring the occasional blow that came its way, each stump torn from its place moving the position another step towards elimination. Bridget was just about to order her Badgers to fall back to position Fifteen when Kroh’s Named Axe flashed past her in its impossible flight and struck the remaining Troll a mighty blow on the shoulder that left one arm hanging limp and useless. As the weapon flew back to its owner’s tattooed hands the rest of Durek’s reaction force charged into the Goblins coming over the ruined wall and an Orb erupted into a blazing wall just outside the position.

  Kroh led the reaction force, Durek close to hand. Howling in his native tongue, the Waybrother plowed into the Goblins, axe whirling, heart hammering in an attempt to keep up with the exertions the Dwarf was demanding of his body. It was the will which gave up first, never the body; the difference between a professional and amateur was the training that conditioned a warrior to focus on the fight to the exclusion of all else, and Kroh was a professional to the finest degree. Ignoring the savage jolting impact that numbed his palms each time a swing connected with its target, always following through and forcing forward a step with each swing, the Corporal led the reaction force as they drove the Goblins back out of the half-ruined position.

  Just as the last jugata withdrew the reaction force was hit by a wave of war dogs that came scrambling over the damaged portion of the wall, burly beasts averaging a hundred pounds of snarling, long-fanged hound, each a mixture of wolf and long-nosed great shepherd and carefully trained to hold no fear of Men, Dwarves, or Threll. The animals were useful in a field battle where they would cripple horses and give the pure-infantry forest Goblins a fast, if limited, strike force, but in the narrow confines of a defensive position held by veterans they were useless; Kroh shattered canine skulls with swift strokes of his axe until the dogs before him had died or fled, then turned to aid his comrades. Half the dogs scrambled away, leaving the rest thrashing about in their death throes.

  Janna leaned against the outside of position Thirteen and gagged, her dry throat and heaving lungs combining to choke her; fumbling the cap off her wineskin with hands that felt twice their normal size from the numbing back-shock f her sword-strokes, she squirted a stream of wine into her mouth and sloshed it around to wash out the dust, spitting the muddy fluid out and squirting more to wet her throat. Gradually her breathing and heartbeat slowed to manageable levels and the sparks stopped dancing across her vision; it was times like this that reminded her that she was thirty-nine years old, damned long in the tooth for fights like this. Experience and skill could lighten the burden somewhat, but age was taking its toll.

  Rolf limped over to her, and the Silver Eagle was gratified to see that the half-Orc, who was a decade younger, much taller, and gifted with a male’s upper body strength, was winded as well.
“That was bad,” the Corporal gasped, leaning next to her and taking a swig from his canteen with hands that trembled visibly from fatigue and adrenaline. Just as they had driven the Goblins away (the second Troll had been pulled out of the fight by its handler due to its wounds) they had been hit by a pack of war dogs, and it had been touch-and-go for a bit.

  “Yeah,” she agreed, drinking more wine. “I don’t like it that hot and fast; you don’t survive many of those.” Movement from behind them caught her attention and she turned to see Yvonne von der Jabs marching up at the head of her litter-bearing household servants, a hooded lantern in one hand and a stout cudgel in the other.

  “Here we are, another hurt dear,” the burly woman announced in a loud and good-natured voice, indicating a wounded Badger from the reaction force, pausing to crack a dying jugata across the head with her club. Two stretcher-bearers hurried up to load the wounded man as their employer shined her light across the tangle of bodies, occasionally slamming the iron-shod head of her weapon into a still-stirring Goblin. Catching sight of the Serjeant watching her, the noblewoman straightened and grinned sheepishly. “Herbet said to thump the ones that were still moving and any who looked like they might.”

  “Good advice,” Janna nodded, and heaved herself upright, Rolf following suit. A quick count showed that two of her Badgers were too badly hurt to continue, and that she had eight loggers still on their feet and willing; the other sixteen were either dead, wounded, or had run off. Working together, the reaction force heaved the abatis back into place and staked it back into position as best they could.

  Looking around, the Silver Eagle spotted Herbet von der Jabs, bloody rapier and parrying dagger in hand, walking across the scene of the fight, prodding each dog and Goblin with the point of his sword to ensure that they were dead. One of her fragmented memories of the recent fight swam into focus, and she realized that the paymaster had been fighting alongside her at some point during the action. “Sir, Herbet, would you come here, please?” she called over the shouts, canine howls, and clatter of weapons that ringed their camp. Both of her logger squad leaders were dead, and none of the loggers from the squad assigned to position Thirteen were still alive and present. When the nobleman walked over, as mild-expressioned as ever, a shirt of mail and steel cap added to his usual outfit, the Serjeant gestured to the corpses. “You fought with us, didn’t you?”

  “I arrived a bit before the dogs charged.”

  “Thanks for the help. If you would, stay at position Thirteen and hold it, I’ll leave you these eight men.” She turned to the battered loggers. “Herbet von der Jabs is in command of position Thirteen; you lot will stay here and hold it with him. Any questions?” There were none; the weary men were more than willing to stay in one place rather than rush around and find another fight like the one that they had just finished.

  Maxmillian commanded position Four on the north wall; with five Badgers and a solidly-built position they were holding on quite nicely. Of course, the Goblins were just skirmishing, lacking the numbers and support to make a serious try for the line unless the defenders made a mistake, but the historian was grimly aware that there was a full serao in reserve, along with Trolls, war-dogs, and Titan spiders, so things were far from safe on the north wall. He sniped at the Goblins, tried to dodge incoming fire, and kept an eye on what was going on elsewhere.

  He saw Janna's force charge to the south and the Orbs detonating around positions Thirteen and Fourteen, and then Durek committed the other force. He had seen at least one Troll outlined in an Orb’s flames and heard the howling of the war dogs as they charged, proof that the Spider was pressing it home on the south line. Then the sounds of fighting rattled away to nothing at the two contested positions without the reserve company of Goblins joining in, and the historian frowned as he reloaded his crossbow. The Spider commander had seemed competent, if not terribly original: why hadn’t he thrown his hundred spare warriors at Thirteen and Fourteen along with the dogs? Give the reaction forces five minutes and both positions would be back to normal, all advantage lost. He hoped the Goblin commander had blundered, hesitated when only swift, decisive action would hold any chance of carrying the day, but a squirming fear in his gut was whimpering that the defenders had both reaction forces committed to the south line and unavailable for at least five or ten minutes, a very long time in a battle. The seconds passed by with agonizing slowness as Maxmillian waited to see if he was correct, growing a bit hopeful as a minute passed and then another, time that the reaction forces could use to rally and reorganize.

  The spider-riders were so fast that they were at the edge of the stake-belt before he saw them, twelve hairy spiders each the size of a pony, with a Goblin chosen for his smaller-than-average height and lean build seated astride each creature. As they paused on line at the edge of the stake belt the Corporal grabbed the least-experienced of his men. “Get to Durek and tell him the Spider’s throwing their reserves at Three and Four. Go! ” He turned back as the spiders leapt over the stake belt and abatis, landing safely within the camp, a line of Goblins advancing in formation emerging from the darkness behind them. As one Titan sailed over the line its rider leaned down to hurl something into position Three. Instantly the interior of the position was illuminated in a soundless green-yellow flash that left the entire squad of loggers slumped on the ground, stunned into helplessness.

  Maxmillian shot the nearest jongala (the Goblin mounted warrior) off his spider, then turned as shouting figures approached his position from the rear; it was two Badgers sent over from position Five by Emory, who was in command there.

  The historian cursed as his men fired at the reserve Serao as it swept into the stake belt heading towards position Three, the skirmishers having long since checked the belt in that area for pits and traps; reloading, he watched helplessly as a half-dozen skirmishers scrambled over the position’s wall and fell on the stunned defenders, only a couple of the loggers having recovered sufficiently to offer any resistance. He shot a Goblin in the lead ranks of the advancing Serao and stepped into the cocking stirrup, heart pounding with fear. If the Serao attacked across the camp and opened up the south line by taking a position from behind, it would let in the main force attacking that wall, and New Fork could fall.

  At least others were noticing; the attacking Serao was disrupted as an Orb of Warding exploded into a wall of fire within their ranks, but it only slowed them a few seconds. Inside position Three the surviving skirmishers were finishing off the helpless loggers. “Get ready,” he shouted to his men as a second Orb ripped into the Goblin force as it reached Three, which was now occupied only by Goblins. “It’ll be our turn next.” He hoped that the Goblins didn’t have any more of the devices that had leveled the loggers in Three. The spider riders had fanned out into the camp’s interior, but he wasn’t too worried about that; when all was said and done, Titans were more terrible to look at than to fight.

  A shout alerted them that a Badger was approaching, and a second later Henri scrambled into the position, followed by the messenger Maxmillian had sent to Durek. “Getting unhealthy out here,” the Arturian grinned shakily at the scholar. “Durek’s getting the reaction force together.”

  “Good. Any Orbs left?”

  “Afraid not.” The wizard sent a sling bullet into the Goblin ranks as they poured into the camp, then hurled the Company’s last fire-javelin at the ground immediately before the rear entrance to Three, the resulting wall of fire killing two Goblins and holding the rest in place for half a minute. “I’m out of power for my spells, too. Durek said that we’re to hit’em on the flank when the reaction forces charge.”

  Maxmillian slapped another bolt into his crossbow and stepped up to the wall as another Badger stepped back to reload, sending his shaft into the Goblins forming on the patch of scorched ground immediately behind Three. As he cocked his weapon he leaned towards the power-less wizard, who was loading his sling. “Are they going to charge across the camp or assault us?”


  “Cross the camp if they’re smart, hit us if they’re stupid,” Henri grunted with the exertion of his cast. “Damn, missed. Ten of us in here would be a tough nut to crack without any advantage gained: they’ve already breached the north wall, but there’s not enough Goblins up here to work things properly. They need to break the south wall and let the main force in. I’ve a couple Storms of Disruption on me; if they move across the camp, we’ll assault Three and at least seal off the breech on this end.”

  “Good idea.” The scholar dropped another Goblin and cursed as he realized he only had a half-dozen quarrels left. “What the blazes?”

  A row of torches were approaching from the center of camp, held by Durek, Janna, Kroh, and about thirty members of the reaction force, each Badger or logger holding the flaming brand couched like a lance at waist level, casting deep bands of inky shadow behind them. Behind the torch line, only vaguely discernable in the uncertain light, was a horde of additional warriors, at least sixty more, figures and spearheads flashing in and out of sight as the torches guttered and bobbed.

  “Where did they come up with that many?” Maxmillian yelled to Henri, who scowled at the approaching line, shrugged, and fitted another lead bullet into his sling. The historian was baffled: the sounds of fighting at every other position could clearly be heard; Durek might have stripped one or two from each position that hadn’t taken losses up to this point, but any more would weaken the positions too dearly, and certainly they had taken losses when both reaction forces were engaged. Yet there were at least ninety warriors facing the ragged ranks of Goblins. The scholar reloaded his crossbow and took aim, still confused but prepared to ignore his questions for now.