"As I see it, Mr Vizigog speaks sense; there's nothing left in these corpses that's not vile. Let the flames take them." Mahlo coughs, then continues, "And I, too, will turn ghoul if we don't see cleric sooner rather than later."
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Coiling strands of mist coalesce from the air around Mahlo, bringing with them an acrid tanners’ smell; amongst these almost solid wisps, a small blade, dripping ichor. “Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?” Mahlo says as he grasps towards it, but his actions seem to drive it forward, like a twig in the water, “Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.” Mahlo hoped this would not mark a general move to archaic speech-forms in his dream-visions, but followed the dagger forward. Around him, the mists got thicker, but the dagger remained visible; indeed, it seemed to cut through them, and Mahlo found himself, bafflingly, speaking to the dagger still, “Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?” On the ground in front of Mahlo there is a shape, a basket; in the basket he could see baby. Now the head seemed to grow before his eyes, and flew forth on clumsy bird-wings, ”yet another disembodied head,” Mahlo muttered, although this one was crying for the teat as it swooped around the spectral blade in front of Mahlo. Now it was morphing again: out of the head grew long legs, feathers, and then a long bird neck. This was a terror bird intent on hacking Mahlo to pieces with its ax-like beak. Mahlo reeled back, gasping the names of the Great Old Ones like curse words, and with those names black tentacles seemed to come forth and turn the beak aside, while the dagger turned back and started slashing the bird. Mahlo staggered back and stabbed forth with his spear, but it was the small dagger that hacked it down, and Mahlo sighed in relief. “Fair is this blade that fells the fowl, and hovers through the fog and filthy air,” he muttered to himself. He chuckled briefly at his own play on words. As he looked, the dead bird had become a man with a bird’s head, savagely hacked up and down his body. Interrupting his reverie he could hear distant laughter, the laughter of the great beyond that had so tormented him in the past, and Mahlo called the mists around him to conceal himself from the searching enemies. Were they enemies? The laughter seemed to be his own laughter, echoing as if he were laughing into the mouth of a shallow cave. A flickering black tentacle came swinging through the mists; Mahlo ducked, and found himself tumbling, only to wake in a haze in his office. He was at his desk, his book open where he had been researching the history of the town, his body still aching where the rocky blows of the earth elemental had hammered him. He took a shot of whisky, lit a cigarette, wandered over to the window, parting the blinds to look outside. He seemed to be getting used to this, finally; these blows hurt less than they used to, and his visions seemed almost like old friends. There was much to learn in being a detective. Certainly he had failed to exercise the subtlety he needed in recent times. He needed to watch more, listen more, and tread softly—both metaphorically and literally. Words were so often the answer. He knew that if he were loyal to them, they would be loyal to him...
Mahlo is no musician, but he has some gift of the gab and attempts to help Periwinkle jam out some lyrics to a ballad.
"All told, up until now we haven't had need for a secret handshake. We've all tended to know each other on sight." Mahlo smiles infectiously at the halfling. "But the way things are going now, with new deputies and promotions, it might be time to develop one. I'm sure Llewellyn will see the sense in it."
"I’ll answer your last question first: to be perfectly honest, I can't really tell you what Llewellyn's at," responds Mahlo, slower than before, and with a cryptic grin, "Because I'm not privy to that myself. We have been busy and my departure was quite sudden--there was little time for explanations--but truth to tell, I don’t think I’d’ve been told anyway. I’ve got some guesses--but guesses ain’t gonna see Kreed swinging from a tree.” Mahlo is back up to speed now, rattling off speculations. "It might be that Llewellyn thought it best that we don't know. We can’t tell Kreed’s thugs secrets we do not know, after all. As a practised interrogator, I know that there are ways of getting answers; I don't see Kreed skimping on 'advanced' interrogation techniques. In fact, I reckon that he would enjoy them. Although I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t.” Mahlo pauses for a moment, as if thinking about what Kreed and his goons would actually do to get information. “Back to Llewellyn: perhaps he doesn't trust me; for all that we’ve known each other a while, and I am of impeccable character, I am a shady character." Here he laughs briefly at his own joke, a joke which he expects nobody else will get. "On the bright side, it might be that he's got nothing and he's stalling for time, trying to keep our hopes up. I like to think he would do that for us. That’s what a good leader would do." At this he scratches his chin in contemplation. "That would be interesting, because then it would be down to us. "But I think he might have something up his sleeve. Perhaps he can get some help from out of town? Or maybe Baleson had a contingency plan? It could be that Llewellyn is trying to access some ancient magicks. There's some mighty weird stuff around Woodenhead." Mahlo seems to be thinking aloud at this point, fidgeting with his amulet. "This is all speculation, though, and at a certain point your guess is as good as mine. I think we are best to assume that he is depending on us. In truth, I think we might be best to come up with more plans. If we can keep Kreed guessing about what is happening, perhaps we can wrong foot him. That, I guess, is the first of our duties as lawmen." Mahlo takes on a slower, clearer tone now. ”As for your first question: as sheriffs, we swore that oath—to protect and serve the people of Woodenhead, uphold the peace and civil society, and to enforce the law. That oath is what it's about for me. The details of how we do that are gonna change from time to time, and right now Kreed is an enemy to all of those things. So I guess we should focus on him. “As for the rest of it. Woodenhead may be a small town, but it is complicated and there’s a lot that we could be doing. Best to focus on the big stuff for now, and the stuff where people are really getting hurt. Like you said, ‘protecting the meek.’”
Mahlo leaves his horse with Vernon, and enters the carriage. It would seem to be as good a place as any to discuss things. After some time, he climbs out again. ”Greeting once more.“ He has a quiet voice with a hard edge, and he speaks quickly. ”Your Professor has informed me of much; you have done well to gather such useful information. It will be an honour to have as comrades a deputy as excellent as yourself, Mr Wickerfloat, and allies as dynamic as Mr Vizigog and Lambert, Vernon, and Bassa. We will make quite the menagerie.“ Mahlo takes a moment before continuing. ”As to me, as I said, I am Sergeant Mahlo of Woodenhead. Having such an esteemed hometown, you can well imagine that I am a man of class and breeding. “As you are obviously aware, there is much that is afoot in town which will keep Llewellyn busy, so he sent me here in his stead. It might be that he saw something in my particular talents that he thought would be more useful here than in town, or it might be that he was feeling nice, it being such a perfect day for riding, and the darkwoods being so delightful this time of year.” He smiles towards the undergrowth, as if he could see the owlbears lurking there. “At any rate, I have authority to act on his behalf, here. I’m guessing that that won’t hold much sway with the apes and Mr Hells-below here, but I’m sure we can figure out something. ”[/b] Mahlo takes a moment to marshal his words, and speaks them more rapidly, and more quietly, as if to get them done with. ”The news of Baleson hit us pretty hard. It was only because I was impressed by Baleson that I joined the sheriffs , although I have other reasons for staying now. I’m Woodenhead born and bred, and Baleson offered a real hope that it might become a better place, or at least allay its slide into corruption. Certainly he offered some counter to Kreed and his like." His eyes have softened, but harden again quickly as he takes a swig from an earthenware bottle. “The Professor has informed me of your plan, and I think it is a good one, although perhaps I am swayed by my heart; regardless, it has my backing. If Baleson were to return as a hero, that would strengthen his position no end. And if Kreed were forced to support this, then that would undermine any opposition all the further, and contribute to Baleson’s reification.“ While Mahlo is generally implacable, there is now a glint of something in his dark eyes—rage? Hope? Again, this fades slightly with a brief swig from the bottle. ”To business, though. As I said—I think the plan is a good one. Or, at least, the plan may be foolhardy, but offers the prospect of achieving something real for Woodenhead. Perhaps Llewellyn may think it more foolhardy than good, but we should be able to work passed that. “Nonetheless, Llewellyn has plans afoot. We must be sure not to interfere with these. It would not do for us to work at cross-purposes with him, as depleted as we are. Without knowing exactly what Llewellyn is up to, we shall have to keep in contact with him, and listen to his injunctions. He is, after all, our boss, Mr Wickerfloat, and the void knows that this plan is reckless enough without the prospect of fouling up whatever he has in mind. “ Now Mahlo looks back to Woodenhead with a scowl. ”We can be sure that Kreed, too, has plans. Indeed,I have little doubt that he will be moving on them now. We sheriffs are now few in number, and will take some time to build up to the strength that we had. Time that we don’t have. We must move quickly to seize the initiative, and we must be wary of his manoeuvres as we proceed. [b]”So. Let us proceed with your plan. If I have it right our first move should be to take our prisoners, Tsuto and Bruce, to the asylum, where they should be secure. I’m sure they’ll find comfort there. Perhaps more comfortable than they deserve.” Mahlo practically spits Bruce’s name. “Whatever the official chain of command, I am happy to give such support as I can. If it comes to trading blows, I’ll do that, and can summon minions to help, amongst other things; I also have some capacity to cure wounds. Perhaps, however, I am most useful as a detective, and an agent. We shall see. [b]”At any rate, I will strive to make sure that we are working in concert with Llewellyn; perhaps this is the most important thing I can do as we proceed. We may need to change our plans as we go.“ Here he stops for a moment. ”Now. Do you have any questions for me?“
"No. Not the sheriff already." Mahlo looks around at the others. "Llewellyn received your message, and sent me in response. We need to talk." Again he looks around at the others. "As to who I am--Mahlo. Sergeant Mahlo. It's a pleasure to meet you. What I am is more complicated. "Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"
...and a horseman approaches the clearing... He is a compact man in dark colours, with a black cloak, and on a black horse...face is gaunt... He steps down from his horse with what looks like some relief. ”My name is Mahlo,” he says in a low voice, obviously well-used to being listened to, ”Sergeant Mahlo, now.” He shows the badge of Woodenhead’s sheriffs. ”I have come to talk to the Professor.”
There is the thud of hooves and a horseman approaches the clearing. He is a compact man in dark colours, with a black cloak, and on a black horse. There is a spear strapped to his horse, a morning star at his side. Even your untrained eyes can tell that he is an unpractised horseman, but he has ease enough in the saddle. His face is gaunt, and has the complection of someone who does not spend much time in the sun. His leather armour is unconcealed under his clothes. His eyes are dark and deep-set. He steps down from his horse with what looks like some relief. ”My name is Mahlo,” he says in a low voice, obviously well-used to being listened to, ”Sergeant Mahlo, now.” He shows the badge of Woodenhead’s sheriffs. ”I have come to talk to the Professor.” |