Dark Path: Book Three of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  Dark Path

  Book Three of the Phantom Badgers

  By RW Krpoun

  Published by Randall Krpoun.

  Copyright 2014 by Randall Krpoun

  ISBN 9781311476524

  Dedicated to my wife Ann, and to all my old comrades from Hohenfels.

  A Glossary is listed at the end of the book, after About the Author.

  Chapter One

  It was the last day of Marlt, the third month of the year by the Imperial Calendar, in the fifty-fourth year of the Third Age, a lovely day in early spring, the seasons coming clear and sharp on the western flanks of the Thunderpeak Mountains. The sky was a particularly crisp shade of blue on this day and a cool western breeze off the mountains tasted cool and fresh, with a hint of the glaciers it had traversed giving those who felt it a pleasant reminder that winter was over.

  In the small community of Badgerhof, a freshly-built village on the southwest edge of the holdings belonging to the mercenary company known as the Phantom Badgers, a festival was underway to celebrate the coming of spring, the excellence of the weather and water, the beginning of the planting season, and, most significant to the Badgers, the beginning of the campaigning season. It was time to renew their bloody trade and every veteran amongst them knew that it would contain a variable mixture of horror, death and loot. The Badgers preferred to dwell on the latter element while devising ways to ensure that the former two were only experienced by their foes.

  Durek Toolsmaster, the Dwarven Captain of the Phantom Badgers, had decreed that this first festival should be especially festive and memorable, and had opened the Company coffers wider than was usual for the thrifty chieftain in an attempt to ensure that it was so. Dark times had been weathered last year and darker days loomed ahead, but for now he wanted merriment for his troops and the occupants of the Badger holdings.

  Not a minor consideration was the improvement of the relations between the Company and the new settlers; the Badgers had obtained the Dwarven-built outpost Oramere, their charter, and the surrounding virgin forest standing on a rich river plains just three years earlier through a mixture of influence and gold. Settlers had only begun arriving two years ago, with the majority celebrating their first year on their new holdings.

  Less than ninety years ago the area had been the haunt of Goblins, seventy miles north of the Imperial Ward (the line that made up the Eisenalder Empire's north border). The Second North War had pushed the border an average of ninety miles north, but no farmer would dare move so far from civilization without professional troops for protection, as the Thunderpeaks and the forests still harbored plenty of troubles for the careless, the unwary, or the unlucky.

  Tenant farming being illegal in the Empire the Badgers quickly surveyed and sold off as much of their land as they could find buyers for, and established a village on the ruins of an old fur trader’s fort. Settlers flowed in, lured by cheap land, the Imperial promise that until the spring of fifty-eight the occupants of the holding would pay no taxes, and the promise of protection provided by the Phantom Badgers.

  The Badgers had expected the stolid, hard-working burghers whose love for the land and devotion to the Eight had made the Empire the largest and strongest of the Human realms, but what they got, for the most part, were younger sons looking for a start in life, heavily salted with the dregs: malcontents, the eccentrics, the dreamers, and the antisocial. All were hard-working, of course, no farmer ever looked at the land the Badgers were selling and thought of an easy time, but the steadfast, defers-to-authority attitude the mercenaries had hoped for was not common. The Badgers had served on various frontiers and wild lands for too long: they had forgotten how hard it was to create civilization out of wilderness.

  The festival was intended to bridge the gap between struggling farmer and successful mercenary, and to start the year with a bit of hope and happiness. As Badgerhof's commons was a bit small the festival itself had been set up in a large field just outside of town. Mighty labor by the Badgers and other helpers had raised tents and awnings, and created a fairyland atmosphere with brightly-colored strips of cloth woven through the branches of the bordering trees. Colored paper lanterns were ready for the hours of darkness, professional entertainers were put up free of charge, and food and drink shipped in or purchased locally. All that gold and sweat could do had been done, so far as the Captain could see.

  The author of this entire effort, Durek Toolsmaster, strode briskly through the festival, nodding to those he knew, eyes alert to any possible problem. A Dwarf of mature years (just over a century old) and solid frame, his braided waist-length walnut beard and close-cropped hair not yet marked by much gray, the Captain moved with authority and confidence that was in no way diminished by his height of four feet five inches. He was dressed in wool trousers, stout marching boots, and the blue and silver dress tunic of his Company, with his richly engraved (and enchanted) axe Aran Kir Rauko at his side, a mug of ale in one callused hand. He wished he could have stayed back at the Hold, as he found formal events with non-warriors to be daunting, and this madcap chaos of a festival was even worse, but it was his duty to be present and every Dwarf knows his duty. He took comfort in the fact that others in his Company would bridge the gap between warrior and settler with greater ease; if nothing else the Captain knew when to rely on his subordinate's skills. He had issued strict instructions this morning to the assembled Company: dress uniform or suitable festive attire, no armor, no unbecoming behavior, no fighting, no unsolicited advances on women, no flirting with other people's spouses, participation in all contests by at least two Badgers, who would lose gracefully and in good humor, and above all get along with the settlers. Specific threats were issued on an individual basis to Badgers who had a history of trouble when not in the field.

  A family was seated on the grass nearby that he knew by face, if not by name, consisting of a husband, wife, and four children, the eldest of whom he guessed to be nearly ten, although he was poor at judging Humans’ age. All were dressed in their best attire: a short tunic over an untucked shirt and long trousers stuffed into polished boots for the husband, and for the wife a square-cut dress that ended at the knee, long woolen stockings, and the ever-present shawl, this a light one of silky baumflax with a contrasting fringe. The adults were drinking cider while the children gnawed at something bright-colored and sticky. Five children, the Captain mentally amended, seeing the infant sleeping in a wicker basket at the mother's side. The farmer rose to shake his hand as the Captain approached; after ensuring that the children had received free tokens for the star of the festival, a Dwarven-run carrousel, and exchanging a few awkward pleasantries, Durek gratefully moved on, the stress of social intercourse raising a sweat even on such a mild day.

  Movement, however, was difficult: virtually every settler was here with his family, and that made for a good-sized crowd even without the Badgers, performers, and visitors. The Captain was unable to travel more than a dozen steps without being called upon to make or respond to a greeting or engage in some other social amenity. Nearly all were a repeat of the first: a greeting, handshake, and polite inquires to health and the family as the settlers were nearly all married couples in their late twenties to early thirties, with a number of children in tow. Townsfolk differed only in age, most being a few years older and with a bit more embroidery and a touch of jewelry here and there.

  Most greeted Durek civilly enough; he was, after all, the commander of those who provided the real protection for the area, as well as owning significant interests in several of the village’s businesses. But even with a pronounced racial barrier the Captain could not miss the looks in some farmers’ eyes
as he passed, or the way a number of wive’s noses sometimes pointed towards the sky. He understood it to a degree: these people labored all their lives to build up a farmstead that, in the end, would be worth a third of the value of the axe at his side; he, in turn, wished they could comprehend the cost that was involved in obtaining such an item. But the distance between farmer and warrior was a broad one under the best of circumstances, and Durek settled for making a cordial impression.

  Starr Brightgift, Marshal at Arms for the First Badgerhof Spring Festival, swaggered about on her rounds, as much an exhibit as keeper of the peace. A lovely example of fine-boned, ivory-skinned Lanthrell beauty on a diminutive frame (the little Forest Threll was a full head shorter than the norm for her people, being a solitary inch above five feet), Starr was at once exotic and enchanting, the blue of her dress uniform setting off her sky-blue eyes, and the silver contrasting with the sun-paled white-gold of her hair, now flowing free. Her enchanted sword Snow Leopard, a masterpiece of Threll crystal, rode easily on her right hip as she moved through the brightly-dressed thong, thumbs hooked behind her belt buckle.

  She was attended by her two assistants (and constant companions), Kroh Blackhand and Rolf Lightseeker. Rolf was a half-Orc standing four inches above six feet with a broad, heavy bone structure that was bulked out with thick muscle, rough hairless olive skin, and a scar that zigged across his lower left jaw. The enchanted great sword Moonblade rode across his back, and two dirks rode at his hips, sheaths angled for cross-drawing. Yet despite this fierce and warlike appearance his amber eyes radiated a childlike wonder at the sights of the festival and his features showed a boyish humor that seemed out of place on so rugged a face. Although nearly thirty, the big half-Orc followed Starr with the worshipful devotion of a younger brother.

  Kroh Blackhand was a separate case in a class all his own. A distant cousin of Durek's, the gnarled Dwarf was so muscled as to be nearly as wide as he was tall, his weathered facial features radiating equal amounts of devious cunning and maniac zeal. On his dress uniform he wore, in addition to his Badger insignia and decorations, the insignia of a ranking member in the Guardians of the Way, a loose organization of bloodthirsty, battle-loving Dwarves whose simple creed was to secure the future of their race by locating and killing all potential enemies. Kroh was a Waybrother's Waybrother: bigoted, unpredictable, tough, fearless, arrogant, indelicate in speech, insensitive to all but warfare, quick with his axe, and slow to see another's point of view. To add to his charm he possessed a two-year-old's patience and his volcanic temper had the stability of a one-legged duck. At his hip rode an enchanted axe he had received from the Guardians, a Named Axe, which bore on gold haft-rings the names of the Guardians who had died wielding it; when the haft was full the axe would be retired. It was a testimony to Kroh's prowess that he was honored with an axe that bore twenty-four rings, and it was a greater testimony that he had borne it for thirty years without adding to the names.

  In Kroh's defense he was loyal to a fault and possessed a quick wit when he chose to employ it, which was not as often as others might wish. Starr, who held his affections as tightly as she did Rolf's, treated the Dwarf like a favored uncle since he had saved her life north of the Ward just before she joined, and she alone amongst the Badgers could calm the Dwarf when his temper ignited. The little Lanthrell claimed that under the fighting rage, battle tattoos, and blood lust there beat a good and noble heart, but few others could see it save Rolf, who quietly hero-worshiped the Dwarf. In any event, all who knew him agreed that once the steel began to sing, Kroh was the best to have on your side.

  Starr led her little squad on a zig-zag course through the festival, ever on the alert for signs of trouble. Some might have been diverted by the various attractions the field held, but Durek had chosen wisely: Starr enjoyed command, however small the detail, and took her responsibilities seriously. That there was a need for the service she was providing was apparent: besides the settlers and Badgers there were a large number of trappers enjoying the festival before setting out for the summer, and nearly an equal number of sailors off the river-boats that had brought the traders and entertainers. Both groups were hard men, unused to much in the way of legal restraint, and all were drinking steadily. So far all the trio had had to deal with was a few obnoxious drunks and the odd domestic quarrel, but Starr had not let her vigilance drop.

  The trio passed Lieutenant Axel Uldo, the Company's second in command and chief wizard, who was entertaining a sizable group of children and young people with puppet show using petty levitation and light-magic to move and enhance his mannequins. Axel, a handsome man of middle height whose black hair was heavily shot with silver despite the fact that he had yet to see thirty-five, was seated cross-legged on the grass, his audience spread in a half-circle in front of him. The Lieutenant had been partially crippled by wounds received four years ago but had not let it slow him down, manipulating his crutches nimbly from place to place. He was as active as ever, and recently been showing signs of improvement; it was hoped that he would someday walk again without aid.

  With him, wearing a dress rather than her uniform, was his wife of three years, Serjeant Bridget Iola Uldo, a lithe young woman not quite thirty whose delicate features gave the lie to her age. Bridget, besides being a serjeant, was an advocate to the goddess Hetarian and the Company's chief Healer, field quartermaster, and expert on things necromantic; unofficially, she was the unit conscience and peacemaker as well. She sat close to Axel, one fine-boned hand resting lightly on his shoulder, her dark eyes seldom leaving his face. Bridget would take the Torc of Suian against the White Necromancer this summer, meaning at the very least another season's separation from Axel.

  The Festival was in full swing, with greased-pole climbing, ring-tossing, and greased-pig chasing contests underway, the very crowd made magical by strolling singers, wandering fire-breathers, jugglers, and acrobats. Food-vendors and curio-sellers added their singsong cries to the general hubbub, and a pervasive attitude of good humor and excitement prevailed. Shrieking children ran here and there, often stopping to point and stare at the mixed little squad, and on several occasions Starr had to restrain Kroh from language unsuited to tender ears.

  A flurry of movement at a nearby drinking pavilion caught the Threll's eye; unsure as to what she had seen, the short Badger stepped over for a better look. The pavilion, a canvas roof supported by poles shading an area of rough tables and benches, was occupied by a large group of trappers, hard-eyed men of poor hygiene and rough clothing who obviously had invested considerable time in serious drinking. There were a few muttered comments as she approached, and considerable chuckling.

  As she drew near, she saw a young, plain-faced farm girl of perhaps sixteen years sitting on an inside bench between two hulking trappers, red-faced and cheeks wet with tears; Starr noted the girl’s shawl, that indispensable garment to a Eisenalder female, lying in a wad on the ground beneath her bench. A young boy, perhaps twelve and looking enough like the girl to be her brother, stood a few feet away, blood starting from both nostrils and his lips swelling.

  "And what is going on here?" She tried to project force and menace into her voice just as Janna Maidenwalk did to even the simplest comments, but she couldn't come close to pulling it off; when all was said and done she had the sweet melodious voice of a young Lanthrell girl, however bold of a warrior she might be.

  A hairy bear of a man Starr guessed to be in his late thirties leaned back to run bloodshot eyes up and down her; even at a distance of five feet his body odor was noticeable. Grinning, which displayed surprisingly good teeth in a scummy beard, the trapper held up his tankard. "Having some ale, little pretty. Why don't you come sit in old Hekbar's lap and he'll tell you a story."

  Raucous mirth erupted from the eight other trappers at the table, who also took advantage of the moment to shift their positions on the benches to make jumping up easier.

  "I would rather saw off both my ears," Starr advised him sweetly, to another r
oar of laughter. "You, girl, what are you doing with these...men?"

  "She's with us," Hekbar, apparently the leader of this band. "She seems to want some real men, not your dirt-grubbers or fancy-boy sell-swords. If you don't like it, take your pointy ears and bugger off." Several of the trappers stood up, grinning evilly, and hands were disappearing from the table top, no doubt seeking dagger hilts and small-axe handles.

  Starr sensed Kroh and Rolf moving out to either side and heard the cudgels being jerked out of their belts. She had counted on the assumption that no one would dare cross her with such a wall of muscle at her back, but drink, stupidity, bravado, or a combination of all three were motivating the trappers. "I'll go, but she's coming with me. Her parents are looking for her," she added and mentally winced: it sounded weak even to her ears. With a sinking feeling, she felt control of the situation running away from her.

  "Just run along 'n tell them, then," Hekbar grunted, unimpressed. "We'll keep an eye on her, right enough, lads?" Another chorus of rough laughter, rude comments, and pointed jests poured forth on a sea of ale fumes.

  Kroh started forward but stopped at Starr's touch. Placing two fingers in her mouth, the little Threll produced a shrill, warbling tone, and promoted a round of course muttering and much laughter from the trappers.

  "Let the girl go now and you'll save yourself a great deal of trouble," Starr informed Hekbar. "I am Starr Brightgift, Marshal of this Festival and a Full Member of the Phantom Badgers. To my right is Kroh Blackhand, a Senior Badger and a ranking Guardian of the Way; to my left is Rolf Lightseeker, a Full Member of the Phantom Badgers, and a much-decorated one, I might add..."

  Hekbar was uninterested in her speech, having made a rude noise and then muttering some bit of filthy wit to his comrades, but it distracted him long enough for her purposes: Starr caught a flash of blue and silver in the crowd to her left, and moments later the Me'Coner brothers appeared in view, each burdened with both a tankard and a sizable internal cargo of ale. Dolan, the elder, was in the lead, a massive slab of a man whose face consisted of the tip of a sunburned nose and two blue eyes set in a wild growth of red hair. Where beard, braids, and mustache met or ended was anyone's guess; Starr certainly had no interest in getting close enough to find out. Royan was a shorter, stockier version of his older brother with brown hair and gray eyes; each of the Thebians wore their brightly-patterned native kilts with their dress tunics, and carried a light axe with an oddly-curved handle.