Dark Obligations: Book One of the Phantom Badgers (33 page)

“You’re filthy and bloody,” Starr observed as the two murderer-hunters stomped up. “Goblin blood, at that. What have you two been up to?”

‘
Where these two go, can death and mayhem be far behind
?’ Halabarian thought to himself, noting the ugly glare his proximity on the log to Starr drew from Kroh, and, more uneasily, the hard look Rolf gave him as well; he knew from Starr that Kroh was protective of her from some absurd point of Dwarven honor, but he hadn’t been sure that Rolf held interests towards the young Lanthrell. The Waybrother was explosive and short-tempered, but also short of attention as well, and could likely be diverted from most rages by a quick-witted Threll, but Rolf was the quiet type, the kind who would take weeks of careful thought to come to the decision to beat a minstrel to a bloody pulp, and who, once embarked on such a course of action, would take killing to stop. “Bagging the odd scout or two?” the minstrel kept his voice light and unconcerned, and used the pretext of stowing the piccolo in his quiver to put a polite distance between himself and Starr.

“Bagged a whole damned
Odular.
” Kroh dangled a length of cord, suspended from which were the right ears of the dead Goblins.

“Seems like a small patrol,” Starr observed, dancing her fi
ngers in the air as she counted. “Eight.”

“A
Pa
and seven rankers,” Rolf observed, studying Halabarian. “Killed the lot.”

The Threll smiled carefully as
the two smelled of old smoke, sweat, and Goblin blood; the air about them fairly crackled with the feel of violence and anger. One misstep here could bring him a beating should Starr not intervene quickly enough. “Well done, my friends,
very
well done. You must tell me all the details so that I might compose a short ballad about the affair, both to endorse your fame and to reassure the locals, as Goblins are a constant scourge in this area.”

“Yes, do,” Starr exclaimed. “Come sit here, you two, and tell us all about your adventures.”

Rolf sat beside Starr on the log while Kroh dragged a boulder up to use as a stool, positioning himself before Starr in such a manner that Halabarian had to scoot another foot further down the log away from the little Threll.

“We were sleuthing; at least, Kroh was and I helped,” Rolf announced proudly.

“Solving the murder, are you?” Halabarian muttered, digging into his coin purse; buying the two a couple rounds in the nearest tavern would be the best way to get rid of them.

“Murdere
ssss
,” Kroh drew out the last like a snake’s hiss. “There’s five more, now: somebody butchered Wilhelm Lang and his entire family.”

“And you think it’s all connected somehow?” Halabarian asked
absently, sorting coins by touch in the nearly-complete darkness.

“I think the same people killed Emil and Lang, or at least the same group,” Kroh shook his head. “I figure them for a cult: they used choke-poles on Emil, and tortured Lang and his family to death in ways that would gag an Orc. Two murders, two murder-sites, and all done with strange methods rather than honest steel, that says connected to me.”

“Yes, that would seem to be of interest.” The Waybrother had the minstrel’s attention now; the shilling he had dug out idly rolled across the backs of his fingers, smoothly diving between the digits as he listened.

“And they tried to make it look like a Goblin raid, leaving behind Goblin junk and marks,” Rolf offered. “And Kroh figured out that the Goblins we killed were acting strange, too.”

“Acting how, Kroh?” Starr asked, a frown line dimpling her brow.

“The patrol was so small: usually you see twenty at least, even for so beat-down a
Keiba
as the Purple Spider,” the Waybrother shrugged. “What was really odd was this map they had: it’s only about three miles by four, Goblin work, not captured or stolen.” Rolf lit a stub of candle so they could examine the map, which Kroh oriented for them. “So why have such a small map in an area they already know real well?” the Dwarf concluded. “Strange behavior.”

“
Not
strange,” Starr shook her head emphatically. “They didn’t have the map to keep them from getting lost: instead, it’s to keep them in a specific area.” Halabarian nodded thoughtfully. Seeing Kroh’s scowl, the little Badger explained. “They were part of a search party, Kroh, probably a
Serao
split into between eight and twelve of these patrols. Each patrol leader has one of these maps, only each map is for a different area. If you took all these maps and put the drawn edges together, you would have a large area completely covered.”

“So each patrol zigzags over its block until they’ve searched all of it,” Rolf clapped his hands with excitement. “That way they could search a whole forest, step-by-step. Clever.”

“More than clever,” Kroh stroked his beard. “Bad, too: they’re looking for Trella.”

That stopped all three in their tracks. “But the Goblins aren’t the killers, you said...” Rolf began slowly.

“No, but they have contacts with the cultists, probably through weapon-sales,” Kroh tapped the bundle of spears for emphasis. “Think Goblins
like
going into a fight wearing cord armor? Protection made of fiber woven into cords that are woven into a tunic, and which won’t stop much? It’s better than nothing, which is the other choice they’ve got, but it is still second-rate, and they know it. Now, Humans come along and sell them good spear heads, knife blades, arrowheads, and probably a few leaf-mail tunics for the leaders, gives at least some of them a better chance.
That
brings more than gold, it brings goodwill, too. The killers sell weapons to the Goblins, and they want Trella. The Goblins find and kill the old lady, nobody knows otherwise. Last person who knows anything is dead.”

“And they called in the Goblins because they know you two are looking into the matter,” Starr observed. “This map was made very recently; I bet the Goblins didn’t start looking until the last day or so.”

“So we’ve got ‘em worried, anyway,” Rolf grinned tiredly. “That’s something, I guess.”

“We need Trella,” Starr announced decisively. “This is more than just a simple murder of a tinker. Halabarian,
how well do you know this area?”

“Fairly well,” the minstrel sighed inwardly.

“Good; two Lanthrell ought to be able to winkle out one Human madwoman in a single night, Goblins or no Goblins. You two go into town and have some ale, look like you would on an average night; Halabarian and I will slip into the woods and find Trella. We’ll meet back at the cottage later. It’s a good thing I brought all my weapons; pity about my armor being back at the cottage, but it’ll be best if we don’t go back to town. Ready, Halabarian?”

“Of course,” he smiled convincingly. Five winters here
running down hints and shadows while these two buffoons stumble across the entire business in two days, and now he would spend a snowy night tracking down a madwoman while dodging Goblin patrols. Things were not going according to his plans in any particular.

The Bondsmaster was out of breath when he reached the meeting point; he paused to take a few deep breaths and to gulp down a cup of dark ale before making his report. “The two went to Lang’s holding and buried the dead. Our Knotsman stayed a good distance behind them, but from their tracks the Badgers examined the steading very carefully. On their way back to town they encountered one of the Goblin patrols and wiped it out, slaying eight.”

The Master Guide tapped
his fingers angrily. “Damn them, will those meddling fools
never
drop the matter? How did our friends take it?”

“With some grumbling—
we will have to make compensation. Meanwhile, despite an impressive effort, they have failed to locate the woman.”

Silence deepened as the Guide stared at the closed shutters. “And what did the two learn at Lang’s?”

“Apparently nothing, Master Guide. They came into town, cashed in the ears of the slain Goblins for the Imperial bounty, sold some spears to the trading post, reported the murders, and retired to the Fisher Hawk for ale after washing up and storing the more warlike of their gear.”

“So our secret is safe. S
afer still for the Goblins they killed: inadvertently they have made the Langs’ death by Goblin-raid a much more plausible story.”

“What shall we do now, Master Guide?”

“Keep in close contact with our friends. When they find old Trella you are to cut out her tongue, blind her with hot wire, and give her to the Goblins for their entertainment, with a provision to them that nothing of her corpse should be left where it might be found. All would seem to be back in order, at least for the short term. And remember, Bondsmaster, the short term is all we’ve left to concern ourselves with.”

The Fisher Hawk’s common room was a warm and cheerful place, very near full and lively. The news of the two Badgers’ victory over eight Goblins got them a free round of ale from Becker and considerable acceptance from the locals. Rolf ordered dinner (stew, bread, cheese, and sliced raw potatoes with salt and vinegar) while Kroh brought his book of notes up to date with what they had learned. For the first few minutes they fielded numerous questions about how Lang and his family died;
as Starr had instructed the two put it off as a Goblin raid, and the questions quickly tapered off.

Meal finished and
the book up to date, the two leaned back in their chairs, Kroh with his third tankard of ale in hand and a cigar jutting from beneath his mustaches. “Makes you wonder how many in this place are here to watch us,” the Waybrother gestured to the crowd around them with his cigar, leaving a faint ribbon of blue smoke in the air.

“Who, the... Them?” Rolf’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Yeah,
Them.
Obviously we’ve made ‘em nervous; stands to reason they’ll be watching us, probably been doing so since they found out we’re,
I’m
solving the murder.”

“Huh.” The big half-Orc gave this some thought. “Too bad we can’t spot who’s the watcher.”

The Dwarf shrugged. “Anyway, we gotta keep in mind that we’re watched from now on.”

“That’s why you hid the plant-stuff we found at Lang’s in the Doctor’s woodpile on the way over here,” Rolf nodded with sudden comprehension. “So they wouldn’t see us handing it to him.”

“Half the stuff, anyway; I kept the other half in case something goes wrong. Now all we’ve got to do is get to talk with him without being obvious.”

“But what if he’s a cultist
?”

“That’s why I kept
half, Anyway, I’m guessing he isn’t since he’s not a local, and if he were a cultist I don’t think he would have told us so much about how Emil died. Same thing for Claus Becker: if he were a cultist he wouldn’t be asking so many questions about the murder.”

The two sat and drank in companionable silence, answering the occasional latecomer’s questions about Lang. About an hour after their meal luck favored them: Doctor Drewes ca
me in, medical bag over his shoulder, shaking snow from his cloak. Spotting the two Badgers, the young man detoured to their table. “I understand that you found the Lang family murdered.”

“Yes, all five.” Kroh nodded, gesturing to an empty chair.

“I also understand that the killings are being blamed on a random raid by the Purple Spider, which is absurd.” A tankard of wine and a bowl of stew were set before the Doctor by Becker himself, who exchanged a few words of greeting before returning to his bar. “Lang’s steading was isolated, but not so much as to be a prime location for a single raid. Either other holdings would have been hit, or the Goblins had a specific target in mind.”

“The Goblins didn’t do it,” Kroh nodded, keeping his voice low enough that no one away from their table in the noisy room could hear. “That much we know; we guess that Lang was killed because he found Emil’s body, and that the killers are a cult of some sort.” He sketched out the manner in which the Langs were killed.

“I agree with your estimates,” Drewes nodded thoughtfully. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“There’s a leather pouch hidden in the second layer of wood in your firewood supply, nearest your back door. In it are some shavings, plant stuff we found at Lang’s place. It might have fallen off the table the killers were using to store their implements upon. Could
you try and find out what it is?”

“Yes, of course.” Drewes finished his stew and shoved the bowl aside. “And I’ll keep it a secret, as well. I don’t think we should be seen together until I have found something out.” Standing, he wished them good night and moved to another table, this one occupied by several farmers, and was welcomed into the conversation there.

Two hours later the common room was nearly empty; Kroh finished off his tenth tankard and sighed. “Good, for Human brewing. Here, take this and go pay our tab, and ask Becker about the Lang boy; I’ll wait outside.”

The Waybrother paused in the frigid night air just outside the door to light a cigar from
one of the flanking lanterns, and then wandered over to where a trader was unpacking his wagon. “Kind of late to be setting up shop,” the Dwarf observed as the burly man took a break.

“What?
Eh, no, not that at all. I’ve lost a center board in the bed, you see, and so must unload nearly every damned thing just to get to it.”

“Going to f
ix it by lantern-light, are you?”

“I’ve no choice: the days grow short, and
it won’t be long before snows close the blasted cow-paths they call roads in this Eight-forsaken district.”

“Here, I’ll give you a hand.” Kroh grabbed a large case and lifted it off the wagon
with ease. “Hello, what’s this?”

It was well after sunup, nearly mid-day, when the two Threll, weary and travel-worn, entered Hohenfels through the east gate. It wasn’t snowing at the moment, but the sky was leaden with pregnant clouds and the wind out of the northwest was cold. Moving with no apparent haste, they made their way to the Badger’s cottage, conscious that eyes might be watching, but giving no sign of that awareness.

Halabarian noted that Starr coughed twice, sharply, as they drew close to the cottage; at his inquiring glance the little Badger jerked her head towards a snow-flecked bulk near the firewood stack: a massive pig of the sort Dwarves used as war-mounts. The tall Threll shrugged mentally; he had had no dealings with such beasts, and had no idea why it was important to alert the creature, which, other than regular jets of steam erupting from the snout, appeared to be dead.

A sudden screeching wail made both Threll jump, Halabarian getting a second shock at the speed with which Starr drew Snow Leopard; both hesitated, then relaxed as the shriek was followed by a series of sighing wheezes of obviously artificial means. Starr shook her head with a chuckle as she sheathed her sword. “What in the world made
that
?”

“Perhaps the Dwarf is buggering a cat,” Halabarian ventured, winning forth a sharp, clear laugh and a playful punch on the arm.

Inside the cottage they found Rolf, Kroh, and the source of the noise: Kroh held a musical instrument consisting of a leather air bladder, foot-long mouthpiece, and four oboe-like projections radiating from the bladder. “What is
that
, and what are you
doing
to it, Kroh?” Starr giggled.

“It’s
a set of Dwarfish war pipes,” the Waybrother informed them with obvious dignity. “I happened across a trader who had them, and who let them go for a pittance. They’re of first-rate construction, unused, complete with case.” The Dwarf indicated a stout boiled-leather chest on the table. “I’m a bit rusty, and they need breaking in.”

“I’ve heard of them, they’re meant to be played while marching, aren’t they?” Halabarian observed, mentally adding, ‘
To spoil the listener’s aim, no doubt
.’

“Well, I don’t know much about Dwarven music, but I would feel like killing something if I had to listen to that shrieking for long,” Starr grinned at the Dwarf as she hung her bowcase and quiver on a peg and pulled off her heavy coat.

“It takes a while to break an instrument in,” Kroh ignored the jibe. “When broken-in and played properly the pipes wail and swirl like nothing you’ve ever heard.”

“I’m sure they will once you’ve gotten comfortable with them,” Starr smiled at the Waybrother, dancing and shivering in front of the fireplace. “But on to other news: we found Trella.”

“Where? Could she tell you anything?” The Dwarf deflated the bladder and began to pack the instrument into its rigid case. Rolf set Eek, whom he had been grooming, aside and dragged his chair close.

“I was right: the Goblins are searching in a grid pattern using small patrols such as you encountered. We evaded them easily enough, and found her about an hour before dawn, using Halabarian’s knowledge of the area. She was sick, dying in fact. She had been on the run, first from ‘bad men’, as she put it, and then the Goblins; in the process she had lost much of her belongings and food. Age, a hard life, and the cold had taken her to Death’s door. And through, in fact: she died two hours after we found her; I think in some part of her mind she was holding on until she could tell someone what she had seen. Once she had accomplished that, she quit fighting, and just faded away.” The little Threll covertly wiped a tear.

“Why didn’t she just go to a farmstead someplace and tell them?” Rolf asked.

“She was mad, Rolf; mad and very frightened, especially by the Goblins. Anyway, she had seen Emil’s murder: she said he encountered four men, most or all of whom lived at the ‘bad place’. Three of the four were carrying packs that had what she called ‘sharpies’ in them.”

“Spear heads, arrowheads, small axe heads, and knives, I’ll wager,” Kroh observed.

“Yes, I believe you’re correct. It took some work to interpret how she described the event, but apparently Emil came upon the four as they were taking a break. He asked them what they were carrying, and apparently showed some distrust or confusion at whatever answer he received. The four fell upon him and his dog, and killed both. They didn’t attack Lang as they had just put on their packs when he came down the path. They couldn’t fight with the heavy loads they were carrying, so they fled.”

“Where’s this ‘Bad Place’?” Kroh asked, puffing a cigar to life.

“She gave us
sufficient directions so Halabarian or I wouldn’t have much trouble finding it, although it’s well off the beaten path.”

“Killing Lang makes a lot more sense now,” Kroh had his book of notes out and was writing in it. “But are we dealing with a cult selling weapons on the side, or
arms-sellers imitating cultists?”

“I don’t know,” Starr shrugged. “Trella couldn’t give us names or real descriptions of the four killers on the trail. At least we hav
e this ‘Bad Place’ to work with. I’m going to sleep all day, but first thing tomorrow we’ll go have a look at the place.”

“There’s another angle, too: York Lang, Wilhelm’s son, had feelings for Hansine Forst, the brewer’s daughter. We thought we would have a word with her, see if he told her anything about what he saw the day Emil was killed, something he or his father hadn’t mentioned to anyone else.” Kroh shrugged. “Might help.”

“Strange that the killers disposed of Lang and his family, but didn’t harm the girl,” Halabarian frowned. “Being locals, you would think they would know about the boy’s romantic interest.”

“That you would; according to Claus Becker it was pretty common knowledge that York was sweet on her, although he wasn’t faring too well in the courting, not being in town much,” Rolf said. “Probably the killers figured killing a young girl in town was too much of a risk to take.”

“Perhaps. I take it you’ll have a word with her?” Halabarian rose to examine the Dwarven pipes, idly running a finger along one of the projecting flutes: the device was, as the Waybrother had said, of first-class construction, not far from master’s work.

“If we can,” Kroh shrugged. “Talking to young girls is not easy for mercenaries, though: we’re not proper.”

“I may be of some help there,” the minstrel suggested. “I’ve been coming here for years and everyone in town knows me.”

“That could be useful.” Kroh obviously didn’t like the idea, but after pondering the matter
he had come to the realization that neither he nor Rolf were the type parents would allow to speak to a young daughter. Or even an old one.

“Then I might suggest that we set about it at once; I have planned for a long day’s sleep to make up for a cold night’s labors.”

A worker bade them wait while he found his employer; in a few minutes Friedrich Forst came stomping out of the inner works of the brewery, a tall, heavy-set man whose ruddy complexion and vein-studded nose indicated a brewer who knew his wares intimately, and often.

“Good morning to you,” the brewer greeted them politely enough. “What help can I be this day?”

“Friedrich, these are two of the Phantom Badgers, Kroh Blackhand and Rolf Lightseeker; they have undertaken the solution of Emil’s unfortunate demise, and in the course of that would beg your permission to speak with your daughter.” Halabarian kept his tone light, and his expression polite.

“Hansine? Whatever for?” Forst studied the two mercenaries. “You’re the Goblin-killers, aren’t you? Nice work, that.”

“They wish to speak to Hansine because it would appear that she was the last person to see York Lang alive. It’s possible that he told her something of interest.”

“York? Yes, I’d heard he was dead, by Goblins I was told. I don’t believe that he saw Hansine the last month, however, as I put an end to that nonsense weeks ago.”

“You didn’t care for York, then?” Halabarian smiled.

“Not anything personal, you understand, he seemed a steady enough lad, hard worker, that sort of thing, but Hansine has been raised to a certain station in this town, and York was a trapper’s son, not a penny to his name. What sort of marriage could he offer my girl? None, that’s what. Still, if it would help... Edmund, fetch your sister.” Turning back to the trio, the brewer eyed the minstrel. “What brings you into this mess, Halabarian? You hardly knew Emil.”