Dark Path: Book Three of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  Returning to the clearing after a deeper sweep of the surrounding brush that hadn’t uncovered anything else, she found Henri sitting on a log in front of the fire pit carefully studying a battered wood box the size of a loaf of bread. The wizard had the box between his feet in the dirt, tilting it back on its back edge with a rusty fork while he frowned at its front.

  “What’s that?” she asked, squatting to study the container, which was an unremarkable hardwood box with mossy-colored brass corner caps and the scars of rough handling. The hinges were equally green brass straps; the box had no latch, being held closed by a thick lump of what looked like greasy sealing wax with a crude stamp in its center. Bridget leaned closer; the wax, or whatever is was, was smooth, unchipped, unmarked in any way other than the stamp in its center.

  “That would appear to be the question before the assembly at the moment,” Henri replied, never taking his eyes from the odd seal. “Of course, the simple answer would be: a box, but I don’t think it covers the situation in sufficient depth to be fully acceptable. Before you arrived the question of why the Orcs left it behind in relatively plain sight was raised, but was tabled to a sub-committee until the main issue could be addressed. By any chance, did you come across any clues as to who the losers in this skirmish were?”

  “Seven Humans, all but one or two males, I would guess. Two were taken alive and tortured to death, the others were slain in the fighting. Nothing else of interest or note.”

  “I found some charred remnants of written material and book covers in the fire pit, but nothing legible. Did you happen to look around the victory pole? They hung a book up there that fell apart, or was torn apart before being put up.”

  “No, but I’ll go look now,” Bridget stood up. “Have you seen Elonia?”

  Henri gestured behind him. “Down the riverbank behind the horses. Maximillian’s still on guard, saw him a minute ago.”

  Bridget moved to where she could see the scholar, who had climbed a short, stout oak for better visibility. After exchanging waves with him she went to the garnul and searched the ground around it very carefully, having to crawl into a thicket laced with thin thorny green briars to recover the first page she saw. Two others turned up twenty feet away. Carefully brushing the dirt from the vellum and uncreasing the pages as she returned to the wizard, Bridget frowned at the weather-blurred writing.

  “Anything?” Henri didn’t even look up from his inch-by-inch scrutiny of the back of the box, using the fork to keep it tilted in place.

  “The spine hanging on the garnul had just a blank cover page, but I found three loose pages lying about. One appears to be a page of accounts in Arturian, the other two are in a language I don’t know. What about the box?”

  “Well, it’s a box,” the wizard sighed, lowering the container onto the ground. “Made of hickory or a similar wood, brass fittings, double layer of varnish for protection against the wet, the whole of good but not remarkable craftsmanship. Simple wood block handles on the sides, no maker’s marks or owner’s symbols. Other than the lump holding it closed, you can buy one like it in any market place in the Empire or Arturia for half a shilling or twenty-five sous, less if you are a tough haggler on a slow day. This is journeyman work.”

  “Now, what has us locked in bitter debate is this lump of gray sealing wax that was put over where the latch used to be. Although it appears to be ordinary sealing wax, it shows no flaking, cracking, or crumbling despite a period of time exposed to the elements; just as important, a quantity of wax normally used to seal a letter is holding shut a box that weighs a couple pounds. Without performing any defining tests, I’m willing to go out on an academic limb and suggest that an enchantment is involved.”

  “What’s the symbol in the wax?”

  “Somebody’s thumbprint, kind of small, though.” Henri grinned. “You don’t suppose some Orc shaman with an evil sense of humor left this here, do you?”

  “Left what?” a muddy Elonia asked, having approached in her usual cat-quiet manner.

  “A mysterious box,” the wizard indicated the box with a flourish of his fork-hand. “I may be baffled, but at least I’m clean. What did you get into that required digging in mud?”

  “It didn’t require digging at all: I slipped and had to slide down the bank rather than fall into the river. At the moment it seemed like a good idea, but I’ve since wondered if wet might have been a better condition. More to the point, I found where the Orcs dumped the wagon’s cargo.”

  “Any luck on identifying who these were?” Bridget asked. “There seven Humans, mostly or all men, five killed, two tortured. Besides this box we have three book pages, one in Arturian, two that I can’t read.”

  “Not readily, as the Orcs unloaded the wagon and lugged everything to the bank near where our horses are; they sorted through what they had captured and threw what they didn’t want into the river, excepting the saddlebags and personal gear, which looks like to have been dumped all over this clearing. It’s incredible how much mess Orcs can make with only a few items to work with.”

  “Why would they empty the wagon and lug everything up the bank, just to heave most of it back into the river?” Henri wondered out loud, then grimaced. “Simple: the shaman didn’t want to get his feet wet. He knew there was something unusual here.”

  “Very likely,” Elonia nodded. “Although why they couldn’t just haul the wagon back up, I can’t explain other than that the Orcs liked it where it was.”

  “You can’t tell with Orcs,” Bridget nodded. “More to the point, what was in the wagon?”

  “The water is fast-moving, so anything light was carried off long ago, but there appeared to be the usual traveler equipment for a group, four saddles, and five big clay pots or kegs, call them what you want.” Borrowing Henri’s rusty fork, the Seeress traced a shape in the dirt of a round container whose flat top was a third narrower than the equally flat base. “Fired red clay, no markings, had a one-inch rim around the base to let you get your hands underneath to pick them up. Each would hold about ten gallons, has a flat lid sealed shut with some sort of paste. All five had been pried open.”

  “Clay pots out here?” Henri rolled his eyes. “Who would be hauling something that heavy, and what do you carry that needs pots like that to transport? Wood kegs weigh a third as much.”

  “Eggs,” Bridget mused. When she noticed the others looking at her, she explained. “I’ve seen eggs transported in pottery kegs that way, Titan spider egg sacs and wyvern eggs. The Dark Star or Goblin tribes would pay well for such a load.”

  “Why would the Orcs dump them out, then?” Henri shook his head. “One, maybe, to see what they had, but not all five.”

  “True, and if the travelers had already sold the eggs they would have dumped the containers to avoid having to haul them around,” Bridget conceded.

  “Unless they were a shipment specifically for the Dark Star,” Elonia offered. “Then dumping the eggs would be a good idea, to hide what they had done. That would also explain why they left the box.”

  “But if that were so, putting up a victory pole would be just as damning,” Henri countered.

  “Unless it wasn’t Orcs,” Bridget stood while the other two paused to ponder this concept. “Anyone can put up a garnul and trash up a camp site in order to dump the blame on the Orcs. Henri, take the box; you have a look at the kegs while Elonia plies her trade, and I say a short cant over the bones; then we’re leaving. We can talk while we ride; there’s been enough daylight wasted on someone else’s problems.”

  Elonia tossed the fork into the fire pit. “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  The rest of the day’s travels were enriched by the puzzle which they had uncovered. Elonia’s reading had confirmed some of their estimates and opened new mysteries. The fight had taken place about three weeks earlier, although Elonia couldn’t be exact. It had been Orcs, from the Gray Claws kurvanak (clan, or lesser-tribe) of the Two Rivers vrapog (nation or over-tribe). Unfortunatel
y, she was unable to get even a general idea of the allegiances of the Humans, although she reported a strong taste of dark dealings about them, and the presence of at least one low-level spell weaver. A shaman had been present amongst the Orcs, and it appeared that the ambush was deliberate, not a chance encounter. There had been eight Humans, not seven; an adult female had been carried off by the Orcs, although whether for slavery, sport, or a specific purpose was unknown. Elonia did determine that the Orcs had dumped out the kegs, which had been filled with a thick liquid, on the orders of the shaman.

  The Seeress stated that it had been the dumping of the kegs that had created the aura that had alerted her to the place and which had made scrying so easy; she suggested that whatever had been in the kegs was an enchanted liquid intended for some narcotic purposes, as there were (highly addictive) drugs which stimulated the Sight, to the point where even latent abilities could be used. The aura of the dumping and ambush were so clear, she reported, that she could not pick up any traces of the searching Badgers.

  The pages were passed back and forth as they rode; the Arturian writing was indeed a accounts book, depicting various travel supplies purchased in Sagenhoft (a city-state on the east coast of the Ascendi Sea) two years before. The other two pages were in Kerbian, a language that Maxmillian could only read a few words in and Elonia even less; between the two they puzzled out enough to determine that they were pages from a travel journal kept by a spellcaster of some sort, but the page’s primary information would require a translator before the two would learn more.

  Neither Henri nor Elonia made any headway with the mysterious box during the first night’s camp after finding the ambushed wagon. Both were hesitant to attack the seal or cut into the box without some clue as to the enchantment involved, and try as she might, the Seeress could not get any reading from the box, which was not unusual given that enchantment was involved.

  The box and the odd circumstances of the ambush took the Badger’s minds off their journey and was the subject of hours of speculation, the more so as actual evidence was slender: the box itself gave off no odor, and whatever was in it slid around as the container was shifted sharply. The thumbprint in the wax was smaller than a man’s, and slender, perhaps a woman or a Threll.

  Maxmillian saddled his mount in the predawn grayness, muttering to himself as he did so. It was the morning after the Badgers had found the ambush site, and he had spent much of the previous evening hotly engaged in the efforts to decipher the two pages of Kerbian writing.

  Elonia let the scholar brood for the first two-hour ride, but when he showed no interest in talking after the first break the lovely Seeress punched him on the shoulder. “Say something, and not a word about the pages; we’ll just have to wait until we find someone who reads Kerbian fluently. And leave off the box and the kegs as well, I’m sick of them, too.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t thinking about any of those,” the historian shrugged, stooping to pick a wild onion. Tucking the plant in the bag hanging from his belt, Maxmillian trotted a couple steps to catch up, his horse maintaining an even pace thanks to the long lead rein. “What I was thinking about was the garnul.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, the way it was made. There were two swords used as crossbars, two rusty swords as a matter of fact. They had only been up there for three weeks, give or take a couple days, say twenty-two to twenty-six days. That’s not long enough to have covered both in rust, at least, not out here where the rains are short and infrequent.”

  “Perhaps the Orcs threw then into the fire pit the night before,” Elonia said slowly, a frown creasing her brow. “That would make them rust quickly.”

  “True. And then there’s the book: a solid leather cover and spine. There wasn’t enough time for it to have been broken up by the elements, unless the Orcs ripped it up before they hung it up. But the biggest point that bothers me is the hands.”

  Elonia thought about it for a moment, and the spit a word in a language that Maxmillian did not understand, but could easily guess its meaning. “The cords! The hands were nothing but bundles of bones, but they were tied up there.”

  “Right,” Maxmillian nodded. “Once the birds took the flesh the cord would be too loose to hold the bones up there; but the cord was tight, meaning that they were tied up after they were just bundles of bones. Would Orcs come back after a fight to put up a marker?”

  It was a phrase Elonia spit out this time; tossing her lead- rope to the startled scholar, she sprinted back to where Bridget and Henri were leading the packhorses. “Maxmillian has struck upon the reason for the box: it is a trap.”

  The two stared at the Seeress, almost as surprised as Maxmillian himself, who wrapped the ends of the lead lines around his helm and dropped it, knowing that the well-trained mounts would not wander further than the limits of their ropes, before joining the other three.

  “The marker was erected days after the fight, and not by the Orcs; it was erected to draw attention to the site and to encourage a search, knowing full and well that whatever was in the kegs disrupted Sight to the point where nothing after the dumping could be detected. Someone wanted the box to be found.” Elonia’s voice was cold and hard. “Maxmillian noticed that the swords forming the crossbars were too rusted, and the hands were tied up after the flesh had been eaten away. Opening the box will trigger some sort of magical attack, no doubt.”

  “That’s a simple problem to solve,” Bridget nodded. “Since you can’t risk defacing a garnul, I never gave it much thought. We’ll just drop the box and go along our way.”

  “I’m afraid it may not be so easy as all that,” Henri shook his head. “You’ve only got half of it right: the box is only part of the trap, and the marker wasn’t put up to attract attention. The junk was hung on the pole to hide what it really was.”

  “And just what was it?” Bridget asked impatiently. “Quit playing the mysterious wizard, Henri.”

  “I never considered it until Elonia brought up the swords; I was thinking of the pole as a garnul, not as a collection of things,” Henri explained. “They wanted the box to be found, and carried off, Elonia was right about that, but the box isn’t a trap, it’s a hook.”

  “Heen-ri,” Bridget began, punctuating each drawn-out syllable with a stabbing forefinger.

  “The swords on the pole are a focusing element used in Torna Inge, primitive magic such as Goblins sometimes use in lieu of the Dark Arts,” Henri hastily cut to the chase. “The wagon tongue is capped in iron at both ends, embedded in the earth, and bound by plant matter to living wood, via the ropes. The enchantment on the seal is nothing special, and there won’t be anything in the box but something to give it weight.”

  Elonia muttered to herself; Bridget shook her head and began unfastening the lead line from her horse’s bridle. Maxmillian waited for a moment, and when no explanation was forthcoming spoke up. “Would someone please fill in the gaps for that portion of this group who can’t employ magic.”

  “A Goblin patrol with a shaman found the ambush before we did,” Henri explained wearily. “He saw the possibilities, and sealed up the box, using his thumb to mark the wax. He then put up the focusing element and disguised it as a garnul so no one would recognize it or damage it. Should the box be moved more than a certain distance from the focus element, the shaman will know it.”

  “And be able to track the box, I suppose,” Maxmillian ran his fingers through his hair, or at least over that portion of his head where most of his hair had initially been.

  “Exactly; I imagine if we had broken the seal the enchantment would have attached itself to the opener, allowing him to be tracked as well. It would wear off in a couple days, but that would be long enough. No doubt wolf riders are closing in on us even as we speak.”

  “Unless the shaman had business that took him too far from the focus element,” Bridget offered. “Still, we can’t count on it; no doubt about it, we’ve really stepped into the manure pile this time. Elonia, take a
reading; if they’re far enough back, we’ll try to lose them, and if not, we’ll ride hard until we find a place to make a stand.”

  “There’s another option,” Henri offered as Elonia trotted off to ply her skills. “Maxmillian and I could take the box and lead them off while you and Elonia press on with the primary mission.”

  Maxmillian found that he couldn’t breathe, watching Bridget consider this; Henri had suggested a death sentence for them to save the mission. The priestess’ dark eyes met the scholar’s, and Maxmillian forced himself to grin. “It would work.”

  “So would my plan,” the Serjeant’s tone brooked no argument, although neither man was inclined to dispute it. “The Badgers don’t abandon their own. Although, if they’re far enough back, one of us will take the box off on a tangent before dumping it; one horse would be tougher to track than six. Get ready to ride.”

  “They just reached our meal-camp,” Elonia announced as she walked back to the group, cat-calm once again. “Twelve miles and closing fast. A good-sized band out for blood.”

  “Right, let’s find a den and show them what cornered Badgers can do,” Bridget snapped, eyes aglow. “By the Lady, we’ll teach them a new dance. Henri, dump the box.”

  The raid group mounted and picked up the pace, trotting their mounts for a portion of each hour, topping each crest with eyes turned back for the first signs of Goblins. Two hours and eleven miles visibly wore their mounts down, but the horizon before them was marked with a line of trees running roughly east-west.