Dark Path: Book Three of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  He crouched by its edge and used their shovel to dig away the accumulated dirt and moss, muttering to himself, while Rolf tied one end of their rope to the stoutest tree nearby. His efforts were rewarded with a handful of crumbling stone fragments, chalk-soft but deep yellow, almost tan in color. The Waybrother stripped off his fingerless gloves and carefully crumbled each piece into his palm, occasionally pausing to spit on the dust he had made. Finally he tossed the last of it aside and wiped his hands on his breeches.

  "What is it?" Rolf inquired.

  "Mortar," Kroh grumbled as he pulled his gloves back on. "Old mortar even by Dwarven standards. This vent had work done to it at one time, long ago." On his hands and knees he crawled the length of both sides of the crack, probing with the shovel's edge, cursing regularly, if softly.

  Finally he sat back up and wiped the shovel's blade on the grass. "This vent was either walled off or at least narrowed to nothing by worked stone, and that better than four hundred years ago, I would guess, perhaps longer if it was maintained for a while after it was built. I would have to see the worked stone to tell if it was Dwarves or not, but if it was, it was a different clan than built Oramere: the time's wrong. And why anyone would waste work closing off a natural vent like this I wouldn't know, especially out here in the middle of nowhere." He shook his head. "Damned strange, and I don't like it a bit."

  "For what it's worth, this is where the rats are coming out of," Halabarian offered. "They must be climbing the walls to do it, but they've been coming out in numbers for some time, perhaps since last fall."

  "Anyone have any chalk, or paint, something to mark the walls with?" Kroh asked. "We need something to use while we're rock-crawling."

  "I've a pot of resin in my bowcase," Halabarian advised. "It's yellowish-green when first applied; would that do?"

  "It'll have to," Kroh shrugged. "After all we had to go through to get here, there's no point in leaving without finding out what's driving the rats out."

  "Couldn't it be underground flooding, or a blight on the local mosses, or something similar?"

  "Might," Kroh conceded the Threll's point with a shrug. "Might well be. In that case we'll just close the vent like you said. But I wouldn't hold your breath." He grinned. "I've got a good feeling about this."

  The vent stayed barely two feet wide and nearly vertical for the first twenty feet, Kroh found as he led the trio into the mountain, dirk in hand, axe on his back. He paused just below the surface of the ground to study the old stonework from a different angle, muttering to himself. In such a narrow space he was able to ignore the rope and crab down sideways, dirk between his teeth in a manic grin. Bracing himself in the cleft, he lowered himself into the wider opening below the vent, dirk-fist leading, his other tattooed paw firmly wedged into a crack.

  He studied the area below him for several minutes, then transferred his attention to the edges of the vent before adjusting his positioning; giving a quiet cough to signal a safe entry, he dropped out of the vent and into the chamber below. He was running his hands over the chamber's walls when Rolf and Halabarian followed using the rope. He ignored their soft-voiced questions as he carefully examined the circumference of the roughly oval chamber they found themselves in, fingering irregularities in the sweating walls covered with swirls of limestone drippings, and rapping on various places with the butt of his axe, his face deeply thoughtful.

  While the Dwarf made his absorbed inspection the rest of the trio poked about the place they now found themselves. The chamber the vent had led them to was about twenty feet wide, and nearly ten feet high, more than enough for Halabarian to stand comfortably, if the forest-loving Threll could use the term 'comfortable' while buried under earth and stone. The floor was littered with debris from the surface world that now seemed far above, and a mound of rocks in the center directly under the gash of the vent in the roof; off to one corner was a small hole barely three feet across. Rolf, carefully rapping on the floor with a dirk-hilt to ensure its solidity, moved to the edge of the hole, only to discover a natural shaft dropping off into the darkness. He called the Threll over and indicated the faint glow: peton moss, a thick furry moss whose luminous spores gave off dim light, grew in shoals within the descending passage, providing just enough illumination to see that the tunnel ran very deep into the mountain.

  Kroh finished his inspection by rooting around the edges of the shaft, muttering to himself and digging at the stone with his spoon. Finally he sat back, tossed the bent utensil aside and uncorked his flask for a sparing drink. The others watched him expectantly, a bit worried that the Waybrother seemed genuinely concerned rather than simply stalling to annoy.

  "This isn't right," Kroh finally announced, waving a tattooed paw to take in their stony surroundings. "What I mean is, it's not natural."

  Halabarian frowned. "What do you mean, not natural?"

  "Worked; the vent and that hole in the floor were connected once, part of one piece. This chamber was carved out of living stone, and both the shaft and the vent sealed off with stonework, mortared stone blocks held in place by timbers." He jerked an inked thumb to indicate the mound in the center of the chamber. "They sealed off the vent where it entered the chamber, and at the surface. They dug this out of the living rock and then sealed it off."

  "And why would they do that?" Halabarian asked, his melodious voice so soft it wouldn't have carried across the chamber.

  "That I can't say for sure, but I can tell you that this chamber is very old, and there's at least nine openings in the walls, sealed up the same way the vent and shaft were, but you can't see them because the limestone drippings have covered both the stonework and the natural stone of the walls-it all looks alike if you don't have the touch of it. That takes decades."

  "What’s in there?" Rolf wondered, staring at the walls with an expression that indicated he would rather not know.

  "I don't know, but I bet it's not a granary, nor a treasure-room either. This isn't Dwarven work, but it's very good: Cave Goblin, I figure. Men haven't spent much time in this area, and Felher don't do this fine of work. The surface-work collapsed first, years ago, and water and time ruined the lower seal, allowing water into the chamber where it finished off the shaft-seal in the floor. That let the rock-rats through, when whatever it is that's driving them up started."

  "But there haven't been Cave Goblins on Mount Gesham for...well, ever, I thought," Rolf said.

  The Waybrother shrugged and set to lighting his torch. "We need to take a look down the shaft, see what it looks like under there, although I figure we'll need to come back with more tools and time to do the job properly. Still, there's air moving through, and plenty of rat-sign, so we know it leads somewhere." He fixed the Threll with a challenging stare. "Want to wait on the surface?"

  Halabarian flashed a nearly normal grin. "I would be frightened, alone up there. I'll stay with you two for safety."

  The Threll climbed back to the surface and cut down a sturdy young tree whose trunk would serve as a ladder between the chamber floor and the vent; another stout sapling was cut in half and the sections tied together in a 'x' that was larger than the shaft opening, to serve as an anchor for the rope. The tall Lanthrell took a longing look at the blue spring sky before returning below ground.

  Kroh entered the shaft alone, scrabbling along the nearly vertical passage, torch in one hand, dirk in the other. Twenty feet down, and two-thirds of the rope used, the shaft angled out enough for safe crawling, leading deeper under the mountain; in another hundred feet running water could be heard. He coughed sharply, calling the others on, and moved forward, senses alert.

  The shaft ended in an underground stream which flowed on a northeast-southwest axis through an circular shaft six feet across, its sandy floor ankle-deep, although signs of the recent flooding caused by the spring runoff were plainly evident. When the remaining two joined him they found the Waybrother busy building a cairn to mark the opening to their shaft, torch rammed into the sand.


  He flashed his mad grin at them. "Real Dwarven fighting quarters, here. No room to maneuver, no room to fire bows; just strength, steel, and skill to carry the day."

  "Goblin quarters too," Rolf observed, eyeing the cracks and fissures that regularly marked the walls of the waterway; some would be only feet deep, but others would be passages in their own right. Both his remaining torches were thrust under his belt; the pearly globe that rested in the steel talons of Moonblade's pommel glowed with a warm, steady light.

  "Speaking of that," Kroh nodded, tossing an object from his belt to the big Badger before pulling his torch free.

  Halabarian leaned forward to see what it was that Rolf had caught. "A stone spearhead?"

  "Goblin spearhead," Kroh grunted, moving a few paces upstream to look into a large opening. "Dead end. I found it midway down the shaft, still had a bit of wood attached. I'm wondering if it could have been left by them what walled up the chamber."

  "Lots of Goblin clans still use some stone; so do Felher when they can't get enough metal," Rolf observed, tucking the spearhead away. "What's so important about it?"

  "It's not stone, it's volcanic glass. Sharper than stone or steel, if a lot more brittle. Lots of Goblins still use it, but not around here; you normally find that glass in Sufland. Now they might have gotten the stuff in trade, that's how I've seen it before myself, but it's still unusual. We've found too damn many unusual things here so far, if you ask me. You're the storyteller, what do you think? "

  "I believe that I'm wet, muddy, and liberally dabbed with rock rat droppings," the Threll grinned, leaning his bowcase against the wall. They had advised him to leave it above ground with their crossbows, but he had refused; even if it wasn't likely to be practical in these close quarters, its presence was comforting. "And completely at a loss as to what we have found so far, although I am in complete agreement with you about the chamber above: I don't think they sealed it off with the intent of coming back for it. I believe they sealed something up in it. And I don't want to find out what."

  "Not today, anyway," Kroh agreed. "We had better get looking while we've got light."

  "Just what are we looking for?" Rolf spoke up, shaking his head. "This stream must go on for miles; you've got food, water, and more places to hide or nest than any rat could possibly want. There's no reason for a rat to wander up a couple hundred feet of shaft, and climb the walls of the chamber and the vent; if it was something big and bad down here they would just duck down a narrow shaf and hide. The spring runoff might drive them as high as the chamber, and a few would go out, but nowhere near enough to feed all those spiders up there. What is happening down here?"

  "Too damn many questions!" Kroh yelled abruptly, patience exhausted. "We need..."

  "... to take a look at this," Halabarian cut in sharply, crouched a dozen feet downstream from the pair, studying the sand intently. He crab-walked further down the waterway, torch held close to the ground.

  "What is it?" Rolf asked, joining the Threll, followed by a seething Kroh.

  "Well, literally they are tracks, but from what I can see, something is driving rats up the shaft to the chamber." The Lanthrell retraced his steps upstream to a point beyond where the three had walked, and then began casting about, torch held low. "Yes, this way too. Herded. Either it hates rats or likes spiders, whatever it is."

  "How do you herd rats?" Rolf leaned on Moonblade, confused. "For years I raised them as pets and trapped them for food when I was stuck underground; they're damned smart and fast on their feet. In a place like this you couldn't get a bunch together, much less move it anywhere."

  "I've been tracking for far longer than you've been alive; this sand is a perfect medium for the art, and I can assure you, something was either herding or guiding a group of rats towards the shaft we came down, both from up and down stream." Halabarian's tone brooked no argument. "How they got the rats to do it or why they did it I can't tell you, but the tracks don't lie."

  Kroh had planted his torch back into the sand, and was eyeing the shadows carefully; the sixth sense every veteran develops to some degree was talking to him now, coupled with a Dwarf's affinity for the underground. "Trouble." His comment, low and urgent, sliced through both his companion's thoughts.

  Surprised, Rolf opened his mouth to ask the Dwarf, who had crossed the stream to stand planted on the sand like a small, gnarled oak, just what kind of trouble he meant when the fight started. Erupted, rather, would be the proper term. Something raced down the ceiling to dive onto the big half-Orc, who desperately brought up Moonblade in a clumsy underhanded swing, dimly aware that both of his companions were engaged. The silvery blade caught the thing, which seemed to consist of a mass of writhing shadows, but was deflected with a completely substantial impact when the blade met it. It caught Rolf's bracer as it fell past with two or three appendages, grasping firmly enough (and weighing enough) to jerk him off-balance; rather than stumble, the big Badger let himself go with the thing's momentum, dropping Moonblade and drawing a dirk as he fell.

  Halabarian had been crouched over the sand-marks when Kroh had given his warning; instinctively he had raised his torch and looked away from his companions, which kept him from being taken completely by surprise. Despite the legendary quickness of a Lanthrell, the thing was nearly on him before he could react; the Threll caught a fragmentary glimpse of a slender, scaly salamander's body and a mass of biting snake's heads as the thing rushed in, sending a wave of blood pounding in his ears. With a reflexive yell that bordered dangerously onto a screech, he hurled the torch into the snake-mass and snatched up his spear, slamming the steel leaf-shaped blade past the heads and into the body, remembering to keep the iron-capped butt lower than the point. The thing's momentum drove the spearhead deep into its own chest and the spear's butt into the sand, bracing the weapon. Emitting a whole chorus of shrill keening cries that tore icy fingernails up and down his spine, the creature slid down half the length of the spear, impaling itself while Halabarian fought to hold the shaft steady and draw his knife at the same time.

  The creature had raced along the sand in the deep shadows and launched itself in a jump that a rock spider would have admired, and had Kroh not been paying attention it would have caught him full on the chest, head a' biting; as it was, it met the edge of his axe with a full swing behind it. It spun back into the darkness, hewed nearly in two as the shadows danced wildly and someone let loose with a shrill war cry.

  The light around him dimmed as a torch went out and Moonblade fell into the water, but Kroh paid it no attention, having caught a glimpse of movement on the wall just behind him. Spinning with a dexterity that was surprising in one so burly, he saw a second beast spring from a crevice and launch itself at Rolf, who was thrashing in the water with another creature, both dirks flashing wetly in the half-light.

  Lunging in a half-dive Kroh caught the creature just short of Rolf, hitting it with a viscous horizontal swing that ripped off half of the snake-heads it had held poised for the attack. Thrashing convulsively, the creature rolled away, out of the fight for the moment.

  He had parried away any of the snake-heads that got close while the creature figured out that it was dying, and for a moment Halabarian thought his fight was over, until a scaly weight slammed into his shoulder blades, knocking him into the stream's icy, snow-born waters, stabbing shocks of pain dancing on his shoulders. He rolled snake-quick, driving his attacker into the thinly-covered stone bed of the stream, following with his blade driven underhand into a lighter-colored belly again and again in the instinctive overkill that pervades every intelligent creature engaged in close combat.

  When he finally crawled from the dead thing, he saw Kroh calmly handing Moonblade to a dripping wet Rolf, the flickering light from the Dwarf's guttering torch picking out the gold rings on the haft of the gory axe that dangled comfortably from one tattooed hand.

  "It's dead," the Dwarf grinned at him. "You can get off it unless you're in a romantic mood."

  The Th
rell grunted in reply and heaved himself upright; the Waybrother stepped over to lend him a hand out of the bone-chilling water, and even pulled the spear out of the impaled corpse while Halabarian tried to dry himself off as best he could. He pulled his tunic and shirt off to assess his wounds, which turned out to be nothing more than a dozen or so shallow gashes on his shoulders and back, and a few scrapes and abrasions, although his leather tunic had been savagely mauled. Rolf had a bite on his left arm that had gone all the way through his bracer and into the bisep which required bandaging; Kroh was unmarked by the fight.

  "What in the name of the Great Forest are these things?" Halabarian gasped as he pulled his wet, cold, and muddy tunic back on over his equally wet, cold, and muddy shirt. "And are they venomous?"

  "No poison," Kroh advised cheerfully, lighting two new torches off the dying remains of the one he had driven into the sand just before the fight. "They're hydras, young ones except for the one that jumped Rolf, which was sub-adult. Spawn of Chaos, twisted products of the evil servitors of the Dark One, all that. Don't see them very much except underground, and not a good thing when you see them at all."

  The Threll washed the gore from his spear and knife and carefully examined the weapons for damage. Satisfied, he turned back to the Dwarf, who had dragged the hydra that Rolf had killed out of the water and was examining it. The creature's body and tail resembled a large salamander, coated with fine, tough, gray-black scales; from the broad shoulders sprang a dozen 'heads', each mounted on a long, flexible, snake-like neck. The heads had squared-off carnivorous jaws filled with triple rows of jagged bony plates; all but a central, larger head were eyeless. The feet had opposing thumbs, and all four digits had broad talons suitable for gripping rock, allowing the hydras to literally run along the ceiling or side-walls. Halabarian was shocked to see that the one Rolf had faced was no bigger than a calf, while the others were the size of dogs; while being attacked he had been convinced they were at least twice as large.