Dark Path: Book Three of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  “Maybe not so strange,” Henri studied the third broach. “This retinue badge shows a twisted axe as its main symbol. Remember that Anlarc who killed Dimitri? He had a twisted axe, and a retinue big enough to warrant a pet spell-weaver. Maybe he didn’t take kindly to getting banged around.”

  “But what is the Pargaie connection then? Wait, the Anlarc is cooperating fully with them in order to get a front seat in the retribution expedition,” Maxmillian answered his own question.

  “That could be,” Bridget stood and dusted off her hands. “Henri, Elonia, take a look at these things from the wizard’s gear, see if you know what they’re for; if you don’t, we’ll leave them behind. I’m not interested in anything that might backfire.” Moving casually, she stretched and stepped aside, moving just out of Petor’s field of view. Slipping her long, narrow parrying dagger from its scabbard, she expertly stabbed the scarred half-Orc in the base of the neck, driving the point up into the top of the spinal cord before rocking it side to side. “Not our original plan, but he was hearing too much.” The priestess wiped the blade clean on the wizard’s dress tunic and sheathed her weapon. “Now for Kustar. Don’t leave anything of ours behind.”

  Kustar had chosen a simple suite for herself, just a sitting room, bath, and bedroom. After drowsing in a hot bath for an hour to ease the ache in her back and thighs, she had collapsed into bed, asleep before the blankets had settled. The jangling of a bell pried her from her rest in a gradual fashion, so that she sat up yawning and fumbling at her mass of inky tresses instead of rolling to her feet, sword in hand, as would have been her usual custom. The room was still dark, lit only by a small oil lamp she had left lighted to orient herself by; she had left the heavy shutters closed so it was impossible to tell the time of day or night, although she was tiredly sure that she had not gotten a full night’s rest.

  The bell jangled again, announcing that someone was outside her door; it occurred to her that it might be Petor, half-drunk and leering, and anger pulled her fully awake. Slipping from the bed, she twisted her pale nude body to uncramp her joints before picking up her sword from the bedside table. Lighting a candle from her night-lamp, she transferred the flame to a readied lantern which she carried with her into the sitting room. The suite’s door had been fitted with a lock that any idiot could have picked with a baling hook, so she had knocked a pair of narrow hardwood shims between the door and door frame on the hinge side, effectively sealing the portal against anything but magic or a ram.

  “Who is it?” She kept her voice neutral, in case it was an emissary of the liche, although the servants who had escorted her had said that it would likely be a day or so before a meeting could be arranged.

  “Morning meal, Milady,” a female voice answered in a properly humble tone.

  Kustar pulled a fringed drape off a settee and wrapped it around her; it was a little short, but sufficed for her purposes. Knocking the shims free, she unlocked the door and stepped back, sword held loosely behind her leg. She wasn’t interested in food, but there was no point in taking the chance that refusing would offend her host.

  The door swung inward exposing a serving cart covered with a coarse linin cover that looked for all the world like a furniture dust-cover; she couldn’t be sure, however, as the corridor outside seemed darker than it should be. Kustar frowned at this, but before she could react there was a sudden movement in the hall and in defiance of all logic, she was engulfed in a swirling dust storm.

  She staggered sideways, blinded by flooding tears trying to clear the grit from her eyes, losing her wrap to the winds and her lantern, which had blown out, when she stumbled over a piece of furniture. Reflexive habit and years of training ensured that she hung onto her weapon, blade up and out from her body, but it did her little good when the winds stopped as abruptly as they had begun and running feet thundered into her room.

  A booted foot caught her in the solar plexus, driving the air from her lungs in a single agonizing whuff and dropping her to her knees; a sharp rap from a sand-filled leather sap on her elbow sent her blade tumbling from nerveless fingers. Someone snatched a handful of hair, digging their fingers in close to the scalp for good purchase, and jerked her backwards, off balance, a hard knee ramming between her shoulder blades to hold her in place. A long cool blade, keen enough to raise goose bumps when its edge stroked her skin, was laid with steady-handed control on the left side of her neck, the wielder holding it in her right hand, ready to push forward with the left, hair-filled, hand while she drew with the knife, opening both major blood-vessels and the windpipe in a single powerful stroke.

  “Still, still, dark child,” the woman holding her whispered in her ear; Kustar’s heart froze to hear the words in Nuadh, the language of the Direthrell, spoken without a trace of an accent, the words lilted in the manner of one raised in Alantarn. The woman continued in Pradian, slightly louder, “Reach back and grab your ankles; don’t bother to open your eyes.”

  Someone else knelt beside her, careful not to impede her holder. Delicate hands (another woman?) gripped her left forearm and laid her wrist to the inside of her ankle, then bound it there with leather cord. The second person then moved to her right side and repeated the process.

  To her front, from the area of the doorway a man gave a long, low, admiring whistle. “Big improvement on poor old Petor, eh?” Kustar angled her tear-blinded face towards the voice and licked her lips slowly and seductively, only to be interrupted by a painful twist by the hand gripping her hair.

  “Be a good little girl,” the voice behind her murmured, still speaking Pradian. “No point in stirring up the troops.”

  Bound, they laid her on her side, her head meeting a cushion, much to her surprise, and tied her knees together, which promoted a low-voice joke from a different man, presumably aimed at the first one who had spoken. It was only then than her hair was released and the knife withdrawn. Someone draped a coarse cloth over her, probably the dust cover from the cart, and she was moved back into her bedroom by dragging her on a rug. The cloth and cushion were adjusted, and a towel laid over her eyes before her captors set about other tasks.

  Footsteps left the room; Kustar sensed that she was alone with one other. The person knelt beside her, leaning close, and she smelled the hair-sent of the knife-wielder who spoke Nuadh. “Keep your observations to yourself, sister.” Kustar held her breath; the last word had a double-meaning: it could mean sibling in the Dark Threll tongue, or, as slang, meant one of the blood, a Nepas, the whole spoken in that confusingly pure Nuadh. The woman whispered two further words into Kustar’s ear using the language of the Direthrell, then rose and slipped from the room.

  Her head and chest pounding, Kustar stared into the coarse weave of the towel, thoughts tumbling like a hogshead full of rats rolling down a steep hill. She was taken, but by whom? The knife-woman had indicated that she was Nepas, and spoke the language in such a manner was to prove it; moreover, the two words she had whispered at the end were ordinary adjectives in Nuadh, unless you were a ranking Pargaie officer, in which case when uttered alone or in certain conations, had second meanings. In this case, the first word indicated that the speaker was acting under orders of high authority or was on a mission of the highest priority, and would be used to establish seniority over another operative; the second word would indicate that the speaker was a mole, an operative acting under a deep cover for long periods of time. Surely only a Pargaie officer would know such things, but did her presence offer encouragement or hopelessness? What were the mission orders the unknown Nepas was operating under? Would they require that she keep her status so secret as to kill another Pargaie officer to preserve the mission?

  There were the noises of lanterns being lit and her belongings being gathered together for searching; there were four in the raid party, two men and two women, all familiar with each other and what they were about. As they moved about, back and forth through her suite, Kustar covertly tested her bindings, finding them to be tight and effective,
working at the reference to ‘poor old Petor’ as she did so. Was the half-Orc dead, then? If he was, it would seem likely that the wizard and the guards were, as well. Who were these people? The liche’s? Never. Had he wanted her, she would have awakened to a ring of Undead around her bedside. These were outsiders, therefore, but who?

  And what was their Pargaie connection? Obviously, the officer who had warned her was able to pass as a non-Nepas, and was concealing her true allegiances from the majority of the group she was with, but was that an advantage or disadvantage?

  The four gathered in the sitting room to confer before beginning their interrogation. “This is quite a catch,” Bridget held up a sturdy leather belt pouch. “Enchanted: it has interior capacity of a good-sized trunk, and the wearer will feel none of the weight. We’ll fill it with food before we leave here, and take more if the opportunity presents itself on our way out. Here’s the famous atingo,” she passed the ornate baton to Henri, who examined it and tossed it to Maxmillian. “We got a good sum in gold and silver, and more of those nasty poison quills that Elonia uses.”

  “And are what killed Johann,” Henri commented. “I don’t care much for poison.”

  “Neither do I, but it has its uses,” the Serjeant shrugged. “More importantly, we acquired a large quantity of written material. Elonia, how are you coming with it?”

  “Fortunately,” the Seeress drawled around a stylus held between her teeth, “I kept up with my studies into Nuadh over the winter, deciphering the documents we captured in and around Alantarn. Basically we have four groups of documents here, which I have skimmed over just enough to get an idea as to their contents.”

  “Spit out that damned pen,” Bridget interjected peevishly.

  Elonia complied without missing a beat. “The first group of documents is a set of notes and maps on Tiria and the liche’s compound, drawn from the Pargaie files. The information may be out of date, but it’s a lot better than nothing, which is what we have had up to now. The second group is copies of treaties between Arbmante and the White Necromancer, and a description of the contact protocols, which were used to get Kustar and company this far. The third group is an investigation log consisting of entries listed each day on actions taken, leads explored, and theories proven or discarded. This log would indicate that Kustar has been tasked with discovering how the raid on Alantarn was accomplished, the Dark Threll having discarded treachery within their own ranks and new forms of magic. The last document is a draft of Kustar’s final report to her commander on what her investigation has uncovered. I glanced through it, and she lists the Phantom Badgers as the actors, with the Torc being the reason for our involvement.”

  “Just a draft?” Maxmillian asked. “Does that mean she hasn’t submitted her final report?”

  “That’s my artist, always cutting to the fundament of any scene,” Elonia gave the scholar her slow grin, enjoying the man’s sudden flush. “The log indicates that she hasn’t made her report yet.”

  “Then Arbmante doesn't know?” Bridget held her voice steady by force of will.

  “I can’t be sure without careful reading and a round of interrogation, but from my studies I can assure you that if what I have summarized is correct, no one but Kustar knows what Kustar has found, and the only copies of her log and report will be the ones we have taken. Naked ambition is common in the Dark Threll and their servants; an investigator in this situation would make secrecy a priority to insure that no one else beats her to the truth.”

  “But if she knew what was behind the raid, what is she doing out here?” Henri asked.

  “The copies of treaties,” Maxmillian slapped the floor. “She was coming here to negotiate a treaty with the liche in return for the news of the Torc. She wanted to solve the puzzle and bring home a coup.”

  “Would an intelligence officer dare such a thing?” Bridget frowned uncertainly.

  “Not normally, but recall the atingo: it confers an independence of operation that is far beyond normal bounds. Maxmillian is correct, I believe; certainly Kustar could claim sufficient authority. In the realms of the Direthrell success justifies much. Remember, Kustar is a Nepas, a second-class citizen of Arbmante; to pull in a double-stroke could elevate her to the status equal to a full-blood Direthrell.”

  “So what you are saying is that the knowledge of our involvement in Alantarn exists only upon those pages and inside the skull of the woman in the next room,” Henri observed, stroking his mustache. “The Eight must love us dearly to deliver things so neatly into our hands.”

  “Don’t start celebrating too soon,” Maxmillian warned the wizard. “This lets us off the rack for the moment, but I’ll bet my hammer that Kustar wasn’t the only officer assigned to look into the raid, and what one found, so could others. Apparently we weren’t as careful there as we should have been.”

  “Still, it is good news,” Bridget observed. “Arbmante doesn't know the real facts of the raid, or at least they didn’t before Kustar left a week ago, and they won’t learn it from her, ever. Now, we need to extract what information we can, and then proceed upon our original mission. Elonia, make yourself comfortable and set to reading the final report, the log, and the details on the liche’s compound, in that order. Write down any points you feel we need clearing up. Henri, slip down to the stables and pick out the four best mounts, the two best packhorses, and make a list of the provisions there. Mark the horse’s stalls in chalk.”

  “I would rather interrogate our captive,” the Arturian leered. “You can learn more through kindness than pain.”

  “No,” Bridget shook her head emphatically. “None of that. No one touches her without my permission, whether she’s willing or otherwise. Maxmillian, look over the foodstuffs in this suite and put together a meal for us, then give Elonia a hand with the maps. I’m going to take a look at what our Orcs are up to. Splitting up in this area should be safe, as the presence of outsiders will seem natural to any detection spells, if any are even being used here.”

  “Why is it you trust Maxmillian around Kustar but not me?” Henri was visibly irritated. “He’s not made out of stone.”

  “Because Maxmillian has Elonia in the bag, or so nearly so as not to matter,” Bridget shrugged, ignoring the Seeress’ icy stare and the scholar’s burning flush. “So hop to it.”

  The options before her were bleak, but Kustar kept working the angles, looking for a way out of her dilemma. Breaking free was out of the question: she was bound too tightly and contorted into a position which afforded her no leverage to twist or move. The four had moved out of the bedroom; she could hear them talking in the sitting room without being able to make out the words. Shifting position let her see out from underneath the towel without disturbing the cloth’s position too badly, but there wasn’t much to see. Even if she could wriggle across the floor, her weapons were with her captors, and nothing at ground level would cut the leather thongs on her wrists or knees.

  Her best opportunity, she decided, was if one of the men came in the room; seduction was an easy game and a reliable one. At the least, she might be able to sow discord, and there was always the chance of carelessness or a sudden opportunity. The same might apply to the non-Nepas female, if she was interested in that direction. Failing seduction, there was the threat of Arbmante’s revenge, the White Necromancer’s outrage at sundered hospitality, or the hope of ransom. Depending on how gullible they were, there was always the promise to lead them to hidden caches of Pargaie wealth, and the like. As a last ditch, there was the offer to reveal Dark Threll secrets, although that would work with only the densest of interrogators. In any case, time was her real ally: the longer they put off killing her, the greater the chance of Petor (if he was still alive, which she was beginning to doubt), her guards, or the liche’s followers stumbling upon the situation and getting her out of this. Of course, she also had value as a hostage or safe-conduct pass, although either option served only as a temporary reprieve.

  She had decided that it was
safest to keep the other Nepas’ secret to herself; obviously, the woman would watch her like a hawk, and kill her at the first sign of betrayal; more importantly, it was possible that she would subtly work towards Kustar’s release, to build future credit with their mutual commanders. Along that line, Kustar decided that it would be wise to speak openly about her mission and her importance to the investigation, conveying to the mole what a benefit it would be to the mole’s career to see to it that Kustar escaped death here. It would mean betraying some secrets, but that was a problem she could deal with in the future.

  Having exhausted the options and maneuvers, she turned to the problem of who her captors were. One would think that this deep in the hold of the White Necromancer the chances of a casual robbery would be nil; moreover, ‘Coke’ (who she suspected was dead as well) had advised her that normal magic would be largely useless in Tiria for various reasons, yet her attackers had employed some low-level spell or item against her with success and impunity.

  That part of her mind that was cold and dispassionate kept nudging her towards a conclusion that the part of her that was naked and bound wanted desperately to avoid: that these attackers normally wore an insignia that displayed a misty badger. It was the kind of idea that threatened to crack the icy will and iron discipline that had kept her calm and cunning despite the odds facing her.

  After a lengthy wait her captors returned to the room, prompting Kustar to shift her head back under the towel; one dragged a chair to a point in front of her, while two others did something at her bed and then left the room. She was abruptly pulled to a kneeling position that immediately cut off the circulation at the ankles and wrists. The cloth covering her was adjusted by a woman kneeling behind her, who kept the linen in place with one arm casually draped around Kustar’s neck. The light prick of a dagger’s point at the base of her spine told the Pargaie officer that it was the Nepas who held her, and that her decision to keep the dagger-wielder’s secret was a wise one.