by RW Krpoun
“Where the hell was that attitude in Iraq? We got banned from checkpoint duty because your idea of a ‘warning shot’ tended to be a round of fifty cal through the engine block.”
“I always put the safety of my men first.”
“Suicide bombers considered you to be excessively aggressive.”
“Nag, nag, nag. Next thing you’ll be bringing up the camels.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Look, Iraq was different because I became disillusioned with the Iraqi people. I still have hopes for these locals.”
“I was with you the whole time going in-when did this disillusion take place?”
“Around the time we left Texas,” Shad admitted.
Derek shook his head. The worst part was that he was the only one who gave Shad much grief for running wild in Iraq; the rest of the squad had followed willingly, or in Fred’s case, enthusiastically. Shad had displayed a gift for twisting the circumstances and rules of engagement to his advantage, and it had not helped that their battalion commander had turned out to be a complete psycho. Or that Jeff had displayed an incredible talent for finding trouble, which Shad would immediately plunge their squad into. Everyone knew that their platoon leader’s troubles with alcohol had its origins in Shad’s leadership of Second Squad, aptly nicknamed ‘the Piranhas’.
In the end Jeff agreed to accept a map from the Sivlic as a reward, and Uttle hugged each of the Black Talons. Jeff gave him the Hobgoblin knife as a keepsake, and the two groups parted ways, having drawn a few onlookers before it was over.
“That got us a bit of free publicity,” Jeff observed smugly as they went in search of rooms.
“Free?” Derek snarled. “That knife was worth at least ten duro.”
“The map is worth more than that.”
“I bet they sell maps here for less.”
“Sure, maps by Humans. No matter what they look like the Sivlic are not at all Human, so their maps will view the world differently. Whatever they lose in technological accuracy will be made up by interaction with the land.”
“He’s just mad he didn’t score a goat-girl for tonight,” Fred grinned.
“I gotta admit, from the waist up there were a couple babes there,” Shad confessed. “I expect the black sashes were a requirement to get into Bloodseep. By the way, why does the town have such a weird name?”
“I got to talking to a guy while I was waiting for Jeff to finally shut up,” Fred muttered. “A ‘seep’ is a spring, and there was a big battle between Protectorate troops and Hobs here before the town was built. They called it the Bloody Seep after the fight, but when the town was built they shortened it.”
“Good to know.”
The Black Talons took rooms at an inn called The Dancing Drover, a large plain-looking building from the outside, but a snug and clean establishment inside. Inside the bartender was in shirtsleeves and the serving girls wore white blouses whose tails hung to their knees, and black stockings.
Their horses stabled and rooms secured, the Talons gathered in the warm, cheery common room for a meal of buffalo kebabs, salad, and freshly-baked rye bread.
“This is good beer,” Fred announced.
“Not bad at all,” Jeff agreed, signaling for another tankard.
“OK, before you two start drowning in the suds lets cover a few things,” Shad kept his voice low. “Tomorrow Fred and I will deal with the buying and selling, so tell him if you need anything. We don’t have money for guns, but we’ll price anything that catches your eye. You two work on charms and hex sheets, and we all keep an ear out for a gig-we need a job to raise cash and move us to a new level. Likewise, watch for any hint of someone or ones looking for us.”
“You really think we’ve got somebody after us?” Jeff asked.
“The XP doesn’t lie.”
“But Derek does, so can we trust our information?”
“I don’t lie,” Derek rolled his eyes.
“Cheating at board games doesn’t count as lying,” Shad agreed. “And denying his fondness for goats could just be the result of being in a state of denial. I think we have to trust him on this one.”
“Screw all you guys,” the Scav/Alienist shook his head.
“Job permitting, lets plan on at least two days here resting up and learning.”
“I would like to know why they all dress alike,” Fred muttered.
Shad was dozing on his bed in the room he shared with Derek, his hat over his eyes and a Colt lying on his chest, when the rest of the Black Talons trooped in, Jeff carrying two pitchers of beer and mugs.
“I never knew anyone who naps as much as you do,” Derek observed. “Being obnoxious must be tiring.”
“Pistol on his chest, just like Iraq,” Jeff observed, pouring.
“Never trust the locals,” Shad muttered, sitting up and slipping the Colt into the gun belt hanging from the bed post. “And I’m sharing a room with Derek. To what do I owe this honor?”
“Its almost time for supper,” Derek sat on his own bed. “You must have slept two hours.”
“The first rule of the Infantry is to sleep whenever you can.”
“I thought it was ‘shoot first, shoot often’.”
“There’s lots of first rules,” Shad rubbed his face. “So, we sold off the pony and a bunch of his load, and bought a mule, a pack saddle, more camp gear, more shotgun shells for Derek’s Le Mat, and the stuff on the list. How did you guys do?’
“The dress code is local law,” Fred accepted a mug from Jeff. “Out of respect for the forefathers who fell fighting to establish the nation. They’re pretty militant, went from a city-state to a sizeable country in a generation.”
“How do the inn girls here get away with short dresses?”
“The dress code only applies to citizens in public, in town. We can wear what we want, and so can inn staff so long as they’re inside.”
“Must be tough to be a streetwalker here.”
“Nah, they just use non-citizens.”
“Compromise is the mark of a civilized society,” Shad said, somewhat obscurely. “Now that the burning issue of the dress code has been put to rest, what else did you learn?”
“The Tek are to the west and south, the Horde is to the north, and the Kingdom of Fathme is to the east. Bloodseep’s on the west edge of the Protectorate, which is a couple hundred miles across east-west, but not very deep north to south. With all the wide-open spaces, borders are pretty fluid, but that’s accurate enough for our purposes. The Death Lords are pushing up from the south, but they seem to be primarily interested in the Tek, although they have clashed with everyone.” Jeff took a long pull from his mug. “Most Celts get along OK with the Protectorate, less so with Fathme. The Sivlic are pretty non-violent and try to get along with all Human groups. A lot of the Celts view the Sivlic as good luck or special, so they don’t have many problems from that direction. No word on Cecil, although we didn’t ask directly.”
“Interesting,” Shad frowned at the floor while Fred passed out the purchases. “So we have the Tek, Humans, Hobgoblins, and the Sivlic so far. Any other races in serious numbers?”
“No dragons, Amid wasn’t lying,” Jeff refilled his mug. “There’s a colony of Dwarves in or near Fathme lands, but the Protectorate doesn’t like ‘em. Lizard men got brought along, although they tend to be further south. There’s some others, but only in small tribal or family groups. And a variety of creatures.”
“They did equip us decently this time,” Fred observed. “Repeaters are not common, although not unknown. Most people have muzzle-loaders or single-shot breechloaders.”
“Yeah, we found out that they can actually manufacture muzzleloaders and some breechloaders,” Shad nodded. “Rifles included. The Protectorate allows the sale of smoothbore trade muskets to Celts, some of which must end up in Hobgoblin hands, which is what got me the other day.”
“This is a weird mix of fantasy and Old West,” Jeff sighed.
“Apparently the breakout attemp
t made a lot more things possible than the original Prison intended,” Shad shrugged. “But as our interaction with the Hobgoblins showed, the non-firearms-wielding types are not at all helpless. What about a job? Any luck?’
“Derek came up with a sure-fired way to get us killed,” Fred grunted.
“Derek and his ideas,” Shad shook his head. “Fifty shades of Gen-Con.”
“Bite me,” Derek shot him the finger. “Look, its within our capabilities, and its got enough risk to ensure a decent amount of XP.”
“Let’s hear it,” Shad made a waving gesture to speed the process.
“North of here about sixty miles is a silver mine, a big deposit. Silver is very important here, its how you kill Undead quickly, it helps protect against hexes…a lot of uses. Keeping it safe is important, so every fifteen miles between here and the mines is a station so the silver shipments don’t have to make camp in the open.”
“I take it the town pre-dates the mines?”
“Yeah. So there’s five stations, numbered north to south. Station number two has a problem, and the mining company wants it solved.”
“If its sixty miles, why are there five stations?”
“Sixty miles as the crow flies; you have to swing west to get to the mines which are on the north side of a line of hills.”
“OK, go on.”
“A vampire wiped out the crew at Station Two. They sent out another crew, and they all died as well. They sent out a group of hunters to track down the vamp, and they haven’t been seen since. The company wants the vampire ended.”
Shad looked at the other two. “Seriously?”
“It looks like vampires here are just a variant of ghoul,” Derek shrugged. “No Ann Rice angst, no Stoker fancy dress, and thank the Lord no Twilight twinkles.”
“But they are faster, stronger, and have better senses than ordinary Men,” Fred pointed out.
“Silver affects them,” Derek pointed out. “And they are solitary creatures.”
“Solitary but more than a match for a crew on alert or a group of hunters,” Shad observed. “So how many kills has Vlad racked up?”
“Two station crews of four, and six hunters,” Derek admitted. “But the bounty is two hundred duro, in silver if we prefer. And expenses.”
“The pay is decent,” Shad conceded. “But if this thing is just a turbo-charged ghoul, why are fourteen men dead?”
“Apparently its clever,” Derek shrugged.
“Apparently.” Shad laid back and stared at the ceiling. “Jeff?”
“The numbers don’t add up,” the Shop teacher shrugged. “The first crew is easy enough, and if it caught the hunters out after dark, or they went into its den…maybe. But the second crew, keyed up, alert, and inside a building? That dog don’t hunt, as they say.”
“They’re sure it’s a vampire?”
Derek nodded. “From the examination of the bodies. Plus it crapped all over the place-they do that when they gorge.”
“Lovely.” Shad continued to stare at the ceiling. “Might as well see if they’ll meet our expense requests. If they’ll front us, we could take a run at The Bourne Nosferatu. Now, as to other business, who gets the magic add-on we captured from the Hobgoblins?”
“If we wait until I hit level three, I can make a better device,” Derek pointed out.
“Isn’t that true of every level?” Jeff asked.
“No, I had to make snap choices setting up, and I didn’t realize until yesterday that level three is where you hit mid-range imbuing. I thought I had it covered via skills.”
“We were pretty rushed in the library,” Shad nodded. “I don’t recall if we were so hurried the first time, because at the time I thought I was dreaming.”
“This whole business seems rushed. Stampeded is more the word,” Jeff agreed. “Hurry us into this place, hurry us to make characters, not all that great of a briefing. I really don’t get it.”
“It rings like a tin bell,” Shad shrugged. “But we’re not calling the tune, although Heaven help Cecil if we ever get our hands on him. In other news, how is the spell prep and charms coming along?”
“Good, for one day,” Derek said, and Jeff nodded.
“Time to get some supper and then drink beer until this place seems OK,” Fred suggested.
The Black Talons rode north an hour before noon the next day, having struck a contract with the Ox Head mining company and acquired various necessary supplies.
Their departure was reluctant, as Bloodseep was a lively enough town with a reasonable friendly population and a good number of creature comforts.
“The thing about Kenzer Company is two-fold,” Derek observed as they rode through the afternoon. “Firstly, they cannot hold to anything resembling a production schedule to save their lives. I pre-ordered the new edition Hackmaster books the instant they advertised, and it was five years before I got the first one. Five years-Wizards of the Coast generates another version of AD&D in that amount of time.”
“That’s because Wizards are pros, while Kenzer is a bunch of high-living corporate types,” Jeff observed.
“Exactly. Secondly, when they do come out with a product they have an excellent concept, innovative features, and high quality production standards. And one or two features that absolutely kill the game. The first Hackmaster had half of its classes unplayable or party-breakers, a crippled Honor system, and an eight-book monster manual. The second version strips clerics of healing and makes ranged weapons useless. Both had very innovative areas, but as a complete product they were hopelessly broken.”
“And there’s the comic book,” Fred pointed out. “KODT. It started out as just that: the Knights of the Dinner table, a nice cheap little comic. Then they pad it with a bunch of articles on how to start your own game company, or how awesome this new system that they’re going to bring out five years after they said they would, and sell it for five bucks, but all you get is the same amount of KODT strips.”
“You might pay five bucks,” Jeff shook his head. “I get mine off pirate sites. Come to think of it, you get copies of mine.”
“You’re right, it’s a tremendous waste of potential,” Shad agreed. “Its no wonder game platforms are taking over.”
The Talons lapsed into silence, pondering the failings of game designers everywhere. “If only they listened to us, instead of just dashing stuff off,” Derek shook his head.
“That would interfere with the limos, high-dollar call girls, and company jets,” Jeff shrugged.
“Man, I am already sick of taking three days to cover an hour’s worth of driving,” Shad moaned. “I would welcome a firefight just to break the monotony.”
“Not even a camel to shoot at,” Derek agreed, but the Shootist didn’t rise to the bait.
“At least the horses make it easier,” Jeff observed. “Not easy, but easier.”
“Yeah,” Fred nodded. “I would never have the Sharps if I had to lug the damned thing.”
“It weighs less than your SAW,” Derek pointed out.
“Yeah, but it was designed without modern ergonomics.”
“Why is there little or no conflict between the Protectorate and the Celts?” Shad asked abruptly.
“Rate of expansion,” Jeff swept a hand to encompass the prairie. “There’s no flow of immigrants, no US Civil War to create economic conditions encouraging farmers to move west.”
“Plus no California,” Derek pointed out. “The USA needed to link up with the west coast, and that meant secure lines across the Great Plains.”
“Here there’s plenty of room, and the settled lands grow slowly,” Jeff nodded. “The Protectorate nibbles away, plowing a few hundred more acres each year, no big land grabs. And you’ve got two hostile powers in the wings which makes both Human kingdoms slow to start trouble elsewhere. In time there will be trouble as the expansion of the two Human nations and the Tek start crimping the Celtic activities.”
“Yeah,” the Shootist nodded. “Makes sense.”
>
The farm lands extended north to just within sight of the hills; the plains between the edge of the farmed land and the hills had no buffalo, but large numbers of other game. The Black Talons shot a few rabbits to add to the quality of their evening meals, but otherwise left the wildlife alone. Except for hyenas, which Shad shot at every possible opportunity for reasons known only to the Shootist, as the other three declined to inquire.
They reached Station House Two late in the afternoon of the second day, a single building of mortared field stone mid-way up the south flanks of the hills overlooking the point where the road turned to the west and circled around to find slopes shallow enough for heavily-loaded ore wains. On the east, west, and north sides glossy pines edged in towards the station house, while the south was a fairly open slope dotted with more pines and boasting two corrals and a wagon-yard.
The building had a stables as its western third, and a barracks/living area as its eastern two-thirds, the two connected by a ten-foot covered walkway which had double doors sealing it off from the outside. All the barracks windows had stout shutters, and the only door in the barracks opened into the walkway, as did the only door in the stables.
“Looks pretty secure,” Jeff observed as the Talons stopped their horses to study the layout. “The windows cover all approaches, the walls and tile roof are fire and bullet-proof, and the only way in is the walkway, so no matter what approach you take, you have to go through two sets of doors.”
“Speaking of which, go over the demise of the two crews, Derek,” Shad said. “One more time.”
Derek pulled out his notes. “First crew, they’re pretty sure that they got careless, left the windows open for air. The vamp ripped out the iron bar from a window and killed them in their beds. The bar has since been replaced. The second time it came down the chimney, having pulled out the security grate during its first foray, which apparently no one checked.”
“It came down the chimney?” Jeff shook his head. “I still don’t buy that.”
“No fire because the weather is warm,” Derek shrugged.
“That’s a tight squeeze and a long crawl for a creature which could be facing enemies at the bottom if it makes too much noise,” Shad observed. “Pretty risky business for a meal.”
