After the incident at the Wyrm Hole, newly promoted Sergeant Mugul Hanagark was brought in to answer a great many questions regarding the operation. To be sure, it had gone quite splendidly by department standards since no militia men and no cavalier knight of the Temple of Mystra was hurt in the battle. All told, 23 men and women were killed in action, most confirmed as working for Daimyo Don Culleebrie and were believed to be criminals. Some of those killed in action were believed to be innocent. This of course had repercussions in the community. Some city folk were frightened of the newcomers. There had been rumors of a drow elf being present and had possibly used magic! The frightened community members clamored for answers from their city aldermen or ward bosses. Allentia City was a metropolis, yet word traveled quickly amongst the elite and the populace alike.
Sgt. Mugul was at once celebrated by the common folk for his bravery in leading the militia in taking down one of the nefarious gangsters that ruled the city with an iron fist. He even garnered admiration from the aristocracy, despite their usual disdain for the low-brow affairs of the militia and the military. Mugul had received no fewer than seven letters of congratulations as well as offers of employment for private security services, some from very prominent families in the city. However, Mugul reserved his options, citing the fact that he was still under oath and in service of the Grand Militia of Allentia. He was a proud Half Orc, and truth be told, he preferred working away from the limelight, the glare of which was mostly blinding to those arrogant enough to fall prey to its deadly grasps.
Mugul was questioned by his superiors. Captain Pol Ben Ben, ever seeking said limelight, recused himself from the interrogations since he had secretly ordered the entire attack. He “allowed” Mugul to stand accused and to answer for the many deaths within the Wyrm Hole, for it was no great wonder that Mugul had himself done the bulk of the killing. It was rumored among many within the militia that once Mugul had been set loose within the tavern on the first floor, he had been a whirlwind of death and destruction. He was described as ferocious and relentless. Never mind that Lord Devlin Asher and Lady Clarys Glen had dispatched their own hoard of miscreants. No, it was enough that Mugul of the militia be celebrated, feared, and mistrusted all at once. Let he be the symbol of fear for all criminals. It was a fitting marketing tool to garner more recruits into the fold.
The questions he was posed were statutory in nature nonetheless. He answered as fluidly as possible, having been coached by his friend Guy and Rook, and it was not long before he was released with a full pardon for his time. It was during the interrogation that Sgt. Flint made attempt to usurp Mugul’s position with Cpt. Ben Ben. Flint offered to continue the investigation of the blue crystal since Mugul was “clearly tied up with official matters and would now be exposed to greater public scrutiny.” Cpt. Ben Ben, of course, politely refused, knowing that Sgt. Flint was only trying to gain favor in order to cover his own ass. Ben Ben thanked the intrepid sergeant for his offer and promised to keep a close eye on him should another opportunity arise. Flint stewed and accepted the result for now, but he too would watch closely for another opportunity.
Private Kemp met Mugul upon his release from the administration building. The rain was steadily coming down now and the streets were nearly empty of peddlers and merchants. Mugul was in a surly mood, having spent three hours of his life under interrogation for the incident in the Wyrm Hole. Where had Cpt. Ben Ben been? He had ordered the strike and apprehension of Culleebrie, and yet, the ever publicity seeking officer was nowhere to be found during Mugul’s incarceration! For that is what it had been: an incarceration! They had tried to intimidate him. Tried. Mugul smiled wryly. Far better men have tried, and all have failed. Pathetic. Suits!
“What are you going to do now, sergeant?” Kemp grinned, falling in stride with his taller partner. “You know, still can’t get over calling you sergeant. I mean—we been partners for almost a year now and all you’ve ever been to me is—“
“Well get used to it, Private Kemp!” Mugul said a bit louder than he had planned. When he saw the ashen look on Kemp’s face, Mugul softened. But only a little bit. “Listen, I’ve got to meet up with my friends for now. You run along and do your tours on Ballyntine Way. I’ll come find you later.”
Dejected and abused, Kemp stopped walking. When Mugul turned to look at him, Kemp nodded and walked away. “Yes, sir, Sergeant, sir. Will do. Talk to you later…”
Mugul shook his head. He simply had too many other matters more important to attend to than to worry about the feelings of one private out of a thousand in the militia. Mugul knew that he and his friends were now marked men (and women)! Those gangsters they had not killed would send word to the rest. Mugul and his new friends would be marked for possible retaliation. And then there was the matter of Don Culleebrie himself. The southwest quarter’s daimyo, or overlord, was now in custody! Perhaps Mugul would be granted access and he and his friends could perform their superlative interrogation skills. Yes, that would seem appropriate. They got the collar; they could do the questioning. It was a plan.
And, as plans would have it, some of them just did not pan out sometimes…
Mugul was clubbed in the back of the head! The cudgel would normally not hurt him, but when it was wielded by another Half Orc, it had a lot of mass and strength behind it. Mugul lunged forward, nearly tripping. Another thug entered the alley, barring his path. Two on one would have been fair enough odds, but there were now five of them. Two Half Orcs and three humans. Culleebrie’s men?
Mugul used his momentum to lunge forward, punching straight and catching the other Half Orc in the jaw! The tusked thug grunted and his head snapped back. Mugul followed with a kick to the orc’s gut, doubling him over. He was about to follow up with a knee to the face, but the cudgel slammed into the back of his head again, drawing blood this time.
Mugul went into berserker rage now, at the sight of his own blood! He spun around, kicking to his rear, and missed the orc with the cudgel. He lunged forward, yet another man—one of the humans—had tripped him with a quarter staff. Mugul lurched and fell to his knees. Then he felt a club hit him in the right shoulder. The pain blasted lights and stars in Mugul’s vision as it radiated throughout his core. Another kick to his back sent Mugul face first into the mud in the alley.
Then, the clubbing and kicking began. He was beaten to a near-pulp, if not for passersby walking at the alley’s entrance. The thugs grew instantly cautious and picked him up. Mugul was barely conscious as they carried him away. Blacked out and groggy, in and out of consciousness, Mugul had no clue how many hours or days had passed.
When he awoke, he sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair, his wrists bound onto the arm rests. His ankles were also bound to the chair’s legs, so he was almost completely immobile. A lone figure paced back and forth in front of him. The clip clop of his boots on wooden planks filled Mugul’s ears. He was being stared at by several thugs, yet his vision was too blurry to make out their features. Mugul could smell dank air, musty and moist. He was in some sort of a basement or cave. He could not yet tell.
“So, you’re the hero of the Wyrm Hole, eh? You’re the one who captured Culleebrie,” said the man in boots. “Heard you cut up a few folks in the tavern. Is that right?”
“Come closer,” said Mugul softly. “I will show you how well I can cut.”
The man stopped pacing and seemed to be smiling at him. “No, that’s quite all right. These other men are trained to engage in fist-to-cuffs. I am not so blessed. You could say: I’m a lover, not a fighter. Bahahaha!” He began pacing again. Clip-clop, clip-clop.
Mugul twisted his head about and counted four other men or orcs in the room. One of the half orcs was missing, the one that Mugul had punched out. He smiled knowingly. It was good to at least take one of these bastards down.
It probably was a basement since there were shelves and boxes in the small space. And there looked to be a small window high on one wall, with a curtain and bars trying to block the sunlight. He was in some basement. Good. Probably still within the city. That was clue number one.
“You’re probably wondering why we brought you here, eh? We know you’ve been talking to your friends at the station, but we would like to know just how much you know and how much you told the law. Can we do that? Can he have a bit of a chat, eh?” said Puss-in-Boots. Liked to say ‘eh’ a lot. Clue number two.
For the next two hours, Mugul was questioned on what he knew, what he saw, what he told the militia authorities. And for two hours, Mugul refused to talk, instead absorbing all sorts of blows to the face, head, neck, chest, arms, fingers, toes. He was resolute. A gargoyle. No amount of physical punishment that these lame asses could dish out even phased him. “Untie me and let me talk freely. I’ll tell you all you want to hear,” he had offered time and again. They did not take him up on the offer.
Bloodied, battered, and beaten, Mugul awoke at night in a pool of water, mud, and blood. He was lying in the same gutter in the alley he had first met the five thugs. He groaned out loud, but it hurt to groan. He ached all over. Probably had some broken ribs. Or broken other parts.
It was Pvt. Kemp that finally found him. The young human had made several rounds along this alley and had not seen Mugul at the Widow’s End. “Your friends had gathered there, Mugul. But you were not among them. I was…worried.”
“How long have I been gone? How long since last you saw me?”
Kemp blinked. “Probably five or six hours. Nearly my whole shift. Here, let’s get you up.”
“Take me to the Widow’s End, Kemp. I will find my friends and…we’ll start looking for these assholes that jumped me.”
Kemp nodded and helped his sergeant stand up. Then he slung a beefy arm over his shoulders and helped Mugul walk carefully.
“The magistrate and Cpt. Ben Ben said I should hire my own squad for this task force. I think I will need to take them up on this. Five, maybe six other new and uncorrupted recruits. What do you think, Kemp?”
“I agree, Mugul. I mean—Sergeant. I was hoping…”
Mugul nodded, though it hurt to do so. “Yes, Kemp. You’re my first recruit. I need you now on this force. Help me pick the ones that are trust-worthy. Can you do that? You know enough of them to make such a call?”
“I know most of them, sergeant. I can help weed them out. We’ll go to the academy and pick them out ourselves.”
They finally made it onto Ballyntine Way. The rain was subsiding a bit and the moon shone brightly now. It was a cold night and the Widow’s End looked as welcoming as any home he had ever known.