Mace Tales I

The Leaden Mace Society hostel at the edge of the town of Starkham used to be a tavern, until its owner and pretty much everyone else were killed in a raid by a drow warband looking for supplies. Well, they have been killed by someone, and the tavern was looted, but that was all the information Inquisitor in Training Steelsprocket needed to come to a firm conclusion. Even though the war has ended a while ago, an unlikely number of them were still showing up in both the mountains, and Charred Veld, occassionally raiding a remote household, a small settlement, a farm or a tavern. In return, plenty of town halls in the area paid a considerable bounty for reasonably fresh drow and duergar heads (As expected, this institution was used by a considerable number of drow as a way to enrich themselves and fire a parting shot at their dead rival's dignity), and slaying any of the Lolth priesthood whose name was important enough to be publicly known yielded the lucky shot enough gold to get at least a good hectare of arable land.

At this hour most of the town slept in their homes, except for two men of deceptively short stature, one of which, a scraggly dwarf with a warhammer perhaps a size too big, was fighting an battle with the Common script of the town's bill board, while the second, a wiry gnome, has for the moment exchanged his duty to the law for a duty towards nature. "For the capturee of margi..magister Eugene Wallston, former ... associate of the Saltmarsh Society and suspected diabol..list, and his return to the arms of law, six thousand gold crowns..." He turned towards his far shorter colleague, returning from behind the nearby barn. "Look, another bounty on a Smartarse. And a pretty hefty one... enough for a new brewmaker, one of Oskar Kugelheim's warhammers, and still enough left for a tankard of ale for every inquisitor in the Veld!" "Seen it on Loda - old stoker sent me with Phil since you were off due to a brother's wedding... Say, Thorgar, was it the twentieth this year?" Thorgar grinned. "To a priest of Hanseath, every dwarf is a brother." "You know, I wouldn't mind that much, if not for bridesmaid stupor and uncle hangover. Say, how many walls in Humpback Ulric's tavern are yours already?" "All but the one you almost broke through when you mistook a cat for a drowish assassin. Moradin's beard, Miron. Listening to you one'd think you don't know what ale is." "Paladin to the throat, hexer to the head, and a ploughboy to the arse." The two shared a laugh that would probably cause "old stoker", by his own name Lieutenant Ivan Slater to give them a lecture about proper conduct on duty, and the importance of stealth. With any other partner, Miron would have done the same, but Thorgar simply didn't care, and besides, the usual Mace banter at least kept his mind occupied. Besides, what could possibly happen on a clear night like this. A sudden noise tore through the silence. Both inquisitors froze. "Probably cat.. or a weasel" Thorgar shrugged it off and walked on. "Yeah.. nothing to bother... with!" The gnome gave a brief hand signal, and each of them set towards the dark shape near one of the fences from a slightly different angle. "Stand still! Leaden Mace!" The shadow began to run, his legs considerably faster than that of his chasers. The gap between them widened.. forty feet.. eighty... "Stand still! Leaden Mace! Fuck!" Suddenly, a light flared in the front of his face. Startled and blinded, he tripped, letting out a cry as he fell. Something dropped from his hands. "Got him! Quicker, for Cudgel's sake!" Before he could stand up, or even make sense of what's happened, the gnome was kneeling on his back. "In the name of the Leaden Mace Society, the Church of Saint Cuthbert, and the Crown of Akellon, you are arrested for loitering, criminal behaviour and..what the hell?!" "I... I just wanted some pears...I...make the light go away, please." The arrestee, who turned out to be a rather tall boy, began to cry, and looking around, Miron noticed a good dozen of the fruits lying about. He dismissed the spell. ".. and theft! That sure wasn't your garden you were picking those in, scoundrel! Such as you will one day han-" "Let off, Miron.. I'll deal with him." The dwarf had caught up with them, and pushed the reluctant gnome from the boy's back. "Stand up!" He grabbed his shoulder, and pulled him up. "What's your name?" "..." "Heard me? What's your name!?" "J..j..johnny... C...cartwright." "Good. What does your father do?" "He.. he's a farmer. Our plot is at the top end, near Foley's field." The boy has calmed down somewhat. "What were you doing in there?" "I was.. I wasn't stealing.. I just went to take a few pears... take a few home, too... I.. I am sorry..." Thorgar grabbed him by his ear and pulled. "Next time we tell you to stop, you do it, right?! Now..." He let go ,and while Johnny was frantically rubbing his ear, the dwarf pulled out a few silver coins. "There, take those to your father. The next time I catch you in here at night, i'll ask for them back. Understood?" Johnny nodded vigorously, squeezing the coinage in his fist. "Now, scram!" He darted off into the darkness, almost tripping again. "The hell did you do that for? Such conduct at such age... we should have at least have taken him to the hostel... Ivan would have made sure -" "I told him just as well, Miron. He was just a kid taking some fruit... not a bandit or necromancer. Besides, old Bill Cartwright, remember how he pinned that graverobber with his pitchfork, and waited until the patrol came around? The bugger was almost happy we showed up." "Saint Cuthbert teaches us that like a thorny locust tree grows from a small sapling, a great sin grows from small misdemeanor." "And I'm pretty sure you don't cut saplings down with axe and saw." "No, you pay them instead. He'll do it again, Thorgar. Starts with fruits from others' gardens, then come chicken and fowl, and sooner or later he'll be loitering around the markets cutting people's purses off.I don't wa- " "Allright. Crate of ale if you catch him stealing again." "This is not a matter for bets and jokes. Public order and souls are at-" "Bazdal's black stout." "Twelve degrees." The pair pressed on through the sleepy streets and out of town.
 * Rrrip...fsswwt*



Back at the hostel, Junior Inquisitor Fergal Moore was just about ready to earn another reprimand for nodding off on door duty, when the quiet of the morning was disturbed by a fist banging on the door. "Who the fuck..." The halfling looked at the watch standing in the corner. "It isn't fucking time for patrol change, either." He stepped on a chair to gain the appropriate height, and opened the peephole on the door. "Who's there?" "Fyodor" "Password?" "Hydrargyrum" "That.. is-" "Showing you forgot the bloody password again. Now open the bloody door, I don't have a week." "Fuck you too." the halfling sighed, and unlocked the door. "And fuck passwords." Inquisitor Fyodor Rybin took off his cap, bent over, and entered the room. How can a man measuring over six foot five act as a successful street eye and ear, and stealthy tracker was one of the universe's great mysteries, but then, there was that proverb about the dentures of a gift horse. "Bloody hell, is Peter up? Or Ivan, whoever can cast spells.. forget that, Ivan can't do." Fyodor went off towards the stairs leading to the hostel's library. Archivist Peter Hardy was true to his name - despite pushing sixty, the wizard steadfastly refused to retire, saying he'll catch up on the lying down in his tomb, which quickly became a favourite way of brushing off health concerns among the hostel's staff. In the end, both the Commander and the Lieutenant gave up - after all, archivists with decades of experience don't grow on trees, but they did assign him to train Miron Steelsprocket as his eventual replacement. The door opened. "Careful, you blew out my candle!" The old man ignited another one, and closed a thick tome bound in leather with "On the Subject of Daemons" imprinted on the back and sighed. "You lot should be learning this page by page. Pure-" Fyodor smiled under his moustache. "I heard the section on Succubi is beautifully illustrated." "Because you never seen the real thing, I suppose." The old man grabbed his spellbook from the book pile, turned towards his singular audience, and with a glint to the eyes, continued. "I was about your age when we were called to investigate the disappearances about the Woadley Dale monastery. Turned out a succubus has made its home among the nuns. It was... one of our clerics forced her to take on her true form. People tend to draw them just like pretty girls, but, t's something more than that. Saint Cuthbert is my witness, we just stood there like the sticks in a fence until she went for Joseph's throat. Even so, I was shaking an hour after burning her down with a fireball..." "You know, Peter... the way you tell stuff like this, it's just your luck that the half of us who'd pull you up on the rack as a heretic know you for long enough to know it for a fucking bad idea. Either way, we have wasted enough time already. I need darkvision, and every boost you can pack.. I'm onto something, thoe recent attacks, but need to get a look close up, and best not to go about with a drum on the rabbithunt." The wizard nodded, and began drawing arcane patterns into thin air, with his hand roughly at the level of Fyodor's chest. Soon enough, the inquisitor had to shield himself from the candle's flickering flame, which left a sharp afterimage even as he turned away. "Fuck" "If it was fuck, you'd look a lot happier. Either way, Cat's grace and you're packed." "I swear, if it turns out to be just bloody goblins..."