'The Glove of Shadows' Chapter One- The Deus Family

Annabelle Deus, called Anna by her friends and loved ones, strolled easily from the Gnome-engineered gas stove to her seat at the kitchen table. In an hour or so, her husband, Harold, would be home from the market where he sold his simple wares and homemade jewelry in order to hold up his end of expenses.

As she sat, she wondered how safe he was. The city of Desanadron treated all of its residents the same—meaning that everybody ran the risk of being assaulted or mugged on a daily basis. If you owned a business, you most likely paid protection money to somebody. And you knew who would be attacked at your front door if they crossed into unwelcome territory.

Resident gangs, Guilds, and individual bullies made up a good quarter of the city’s population. Harold, being a simple, naive kind of fellow, a trait she’d always loved in him, simply didn’t hold with the idea of paying for a bodyguard. He didn’t feel he should have to pay anybody in order to have a successful business, except of course the tax collection agents. In addition, Harold believed that a smile and a civil tone could take care of any situation.

Anna knew different, but she allowed her doting husband his thoughts on the matter. After all, she thought with a smile, the ‘boys’ are keeping an eye on him.

A timer in the kitchen went “ding,” and she slowly stood. “Better get to those potatoes.”

She moved with a speed and grace through her kitchen that spoke of a very domestic sort of woman. Strangely enough, few men ever realized that a woman moving like Anna through a kitchen, looked a good deal like an agile fighter on a battlefield. “The boys will take care of things.”

* * * *

Harold Deus pored over the small notebook he used to keep track of his sales. His long, pencil-like pointer finger ran down the sheets item by item, the total price of the product kept next to a running total.

None of his merchandise sold for much—Harold came from a long line of merchants who never got a building for themselves due to something they kept in their hearts. That particular thing happened to be called integrity, a term mostly foreign to the tongues of businessmen in Tamalaria.

His standing policy was ‘sell for only two times what you paid’. In this way, Harold managed to make just enough money to feel he kept up his end of expenses at home. He wished he could make more, so that his loving wife, Anna, wouldn’t have to put in so much time for the Councilors’ Committee. However, he knew it would be impossible for them to survive on his earnings alone. Between his sales and her earnings, the couple lived comfortably.

Harold put his pencil to the paper on the third page, and re-checked the numbers one final time. “Well, not bad all-in-all,” he said aloud, smiling toothily.

Someone behind and to the left of him cleared their throat meaningfully, sending a small, familiar wave up Harold’s spine.

“Oh no,” he whispered to himself, swallowing hard as he turned around to face the throat-clearer.

Before him two men stood, dressed in the simple, tattered clothes of folk whose lives have been supported by the earnings of others. The shorter of the two, a Human, leaned on Harold’s cart with a small knife in his left hand. He cut a slice off of a green apple and popped it into his mouth. His hair, kept under a blue cloth bandana, crept out on the sides of the rag in curls of oily black.

While the Human’s demeanor caused Harold to swallow hard and think of escape, the other gentleman, the one looming over the merchant’s miniscule frame, made him want to scream.

Standing easily at around seven feet in height, the man had the blue skin and the faint stench of a Jaft. Looking up, Harold spied the craggy face and bald head typical of the Jaft Race. He also noted the standard curved, serrated short sword hanging limply from the Jaft’s hip.

He noted the details absently as he wondered how to talk his way out of being mugged.

Behind the Jaft’s massive frame, Harold saw the Human, his long, black sleeves blurring with the speed of his movements, pocket something from Harold’s cart.

He thought over the inventory of his cart, and realized that one of his most expensive items, a bracelet made of pure gold, had been hung from one of the hooks at that end of the cart.

“Um, ah, ha ha, that’s six gold pieces, um, sir.” He pointed at the Human goon around the Jaft’s left side.

Huge, gnarled hands found purchase in Harold’s tunic shirt, hoisting him against his own cart.

He hit with an audible ‘thud’, the wind wheezing out of him so roughly his vision blanked for a moment. Then he found himself once again looking into the Jaft’s cliff-like face, the brows knitted tightly in barely contained violence. The difference was in perspective. Now he was held in front of and over the Jaft’s head.

“Um, then again, you look like you’re good for it, sir,” he murmured rather lamely.

“Glad to see ye be thinkin’ straight, bucko.” The Human thief chuckled. He tossed the half-eaten apple aside, and produced the bracelet from his shirtsleeve, eyeballing it carefully. His moustache curled up along with his lip as he grinned at the jewelry piece. The trinket may have been labeled six gold pieces, but it could be pawned for twice as much.

His day’s work done, the thief turned to his right and prepared to saunter away.

He managed two steps, not looking up from the bracelet, before he bumped headlong into a well-toned chest covered in thick, crimson fur. Those chest muscles tensed visibly in front of his eyes, and a deep, primal growl escaped the throat of the creature before the thief.

Looking up from his treasure, the Human spotted the thin straps of the open-chest vest worn by the Red Tribe Werewolf, a simple patch on its right side.

The patch indicated that the hulking Werewolf was a member of the Hoods, one of the two large thieves’ Guilds in the city of Desanadron.

“Here now, I think I’ll just, ah, put this back,” he managed, placing the bracelet back on its ring hook.

“What the fuck’re you talking about?” The Jaft turned his head slightly to look at his companion.

For a moment, the Jaft felt a tiny, tiny impulse to drop the merchant in his hands and run. An animalistic instinct screamed from the pits of evolution at him, flee now!

Whereas most of the humanoid Races tend to listen to such warnings from within, the Jaft Race still lacked a great deal of civilization and enlightenment. They looked at such instincts as a sign of weakness, and no Jaft worth his weight in salt showed weakness.

“He’s a Hood, Jeff.” The Jaft’s partner backed away from the Red Tribe Werewolf.

Jeff laughed scornfully, dropped Harold roughly to the ground and squared his body towards the Werewolf.

“So what? He doesn’t look like much of a thief to me!”

“I’m not.” The Werewolf cracked his huge, knobby knuckles.

The sound reminded the Human thief of the noise his brother’s spine had made when he had fallen off the roof of their house a few years back. Certain doom surely followed that sort of noise.

“I’m just an enforcer. You will leave, or you will pay for the bracelet, if you want it. If you opt to do neither, then I shall visit great bodily harm upon you.” The Werewolf, let his arms hang limply at his sides. His fingers twitched and curled, his whole body resonating an aura of terrible violence.

Having seen and heard too much for his own taste, the Human thief turned and put as much distance as he could between himself and what would surely soon erupt into a battlefield.

Disgusted by his partner’s lack of spine, and the fact that the Werewolf didn’t seem at all intimidated by him, the Jaft loosed a battle roar and charged his opponent, lowering his head and putting his right shoulder forward.

Hmph, the Werewolf thought. Such pathetic form, even for an amateur.

As the Jaft connected with his bull-tackle, the Red Tribe shifted his weight, wrapping his left arm around the Jaft’s head and throwing his lower body out.

The combined weight and momentum resulted in a roughneck, wrestling maneuver commonly known as a DDT—the Jaft’s face hit the cobblestone street at high speed.

As soon as the Werewolf sprang off of him, he got to his hands and knees, spitting out a shower of teeth and blood. Jeff wobbled a bit as he got to his feet, only to find that his opponent had already assumed a fighting stance.

“You’re good.” The Jaft put his own hands up and approached cautiously.

“You’re not,” the Werewolf retorted.

Damn him, Jeff thought. How can he be so calm?

He lunged forward, throwing a jab-cross combination that the Werewolf easily patted and blocked aside.

He’s mocking me! He threw a volley of wild, roundhouse punches, each knocked aside more forcefully than the last.

Finally, the Red Tribe Werewolf made his own offensive move. The crimson combatant shuffled forward, throwing a low-line kick at Jeff’s shins.

The Jaft saw it coming and moved his hands down to block. But there was no force behind the blow—a feint?

The Werewolf whipped his leg up from the forced block, crashing his muscular lower leg into the side of the Jaft’s head. The impact made a noise similar to raw meat smacking against a metal slab.

As the Jaft tottered back and forth, stars flaring in front of his eyes, the Werewolf shuffled forward and launched a vicious jab-cross-uppercut combination that broke the Jaft’s jaw and fractured his faceplate.

His vision blurring to darkness, the Jaft toppled over onto the street, bleeding and battered.

Harold, who had been watching the fight in stunned silence, clapped along with the crowd that had assembled. In Desanadron, it doesn’t take much to make the mob stand up and take notice. The Red Tribe, barely breathing heavy, glared down at his fallen opponent.

To Harold, and the crowd, which included several merchants who had already been shaken down by the two bandits, he was a hero. To the city guards, his display might make him seem a menace. Before Harold could even thank the man, the Werewolf was off and running. Within a few minutes, he was out of sight.

* * * *

The Red Tribe Werewolf darted down side streets and alleyways until at last he planted his feet in the dirt and skidded to a halt a few feet away from a suspicious-looking Wererat. The Wererat wore the black leathers and belts typical of a man of his profession, looking part road agent and part pirate. He leaned easily against the back wall of a tavern, one leg crossed over the other, cleaning his long claws with a thin dagger.

The Werewolf looked at the ground, and found the Wererat’s tracks had only been made a minute or two before his own.

“Real nice of you to help out.” The Werewolf cracked his neck. “Remind me again why you came along, Flint.” He addressed the Wererat in a low growl of thunder.

Flint chuckled softly, shaking his head and letting the point of the dagger droop until it pointed at the Red Tribe Werewolf like an accusation.

“Mostly to keep an eye on you, Stockholm.” Flint smiled as only rats can smile.

Ignatious Stockholm didn’t care much for Flint’s mannerisms, which always seemed to indicate that he was laughing at you.

“You seemed to have the situation under control, in any case,” Flint returned his attention to his nails. “I just came along to keep an eye on your temper.”

Stockholm harrumphed loudly. He stalked past Flint with a sort of dangerous, militant swagger that had become second nature to the burly Red Tribe.

“Come on, Flint,” he said over his shoulder, stopping just a few yards shy of the street.

Stockholm knelt and grabbed hold of a sewer access grate in the alley—one of the many forgotten ones that nobody seemed to notice, even when they stepped right over them. The only people who felt the grate to be of any importance tended to come from the tavern Flint had been leaning against. Most of those individuals found it made an ideal puking spot. “We’ve got to get back to the Guild hall and make ready for the meeting. William’s coming back this evening, and I’d rather the place wasn’t in total chaos.”

Flint shrugged his shoulders, pocketed his knife, and followed the massive Werewolf down the access ladder, and into the sewers.

* * * *

Anna had just placed their plates on the kitchen table when Harold, opened the front door with a loud grunt and heave on the heavy wood.

“Sweetie!” She ran into the living room and launched herself at him.

Harold caught her mid-air, spinning her as best he could for a moment before setting her down and giving her a deep kiss.

“Your timing, as always, is excellent dear! I just got dinner on the table,” she said.

Harold looked into the kitchen, where she had set their dishes and lit two candles, dimming down the rest of the lighting in the kitchen. The scene held a romantic quality, one that reminded Harold of his wife’s obligations.

“You’ve got another big conference, don’t you?” He looked into his wife’s eyes.

Anna’s smile dropped off a little, but she simply nodded and led her husband into the kitchen by the hand.

“I understand, dear. Being a Councilor’s advisor has a lot of responsibility attached to it.” Harold beamed at his lovely wife. Some folks tended to describe her as handsome, a term that Harold usually assumed should only be reserved for men. But sometimes, just sometimes, she reminded him of her brother, William Deus. So perhaps handsome would be a proper term.

Husband and wife took seats across from one another at the small kitchen table, Harold waiting to push in his wife’s chair before taking off his overcoat and seating himself. He sighed heavily, having had a rough end of business earlier, and having to practically drag their donkey, Mr. Pibble, through the streets. The ornery animal had been a present from the Merchants’ Guild of Desanadron when Harold had joined their ranks the year before, and he couldn’t have been happier at first. Using Mr. Pibble to haul the cart from the Deus residence to the marketplace and back had made things much easier the first few days he owned the beast. After a month, Harold had managed to put some weight on from the meals his wife cooked for him, because he wasn’t burning everything off by dragging the cart himself. However, as animals often do, Mr. Pibble soon developed an attitude. Some days Harold had to drag both beast and cart. Today had been one such day.

“So, how did we do today, hon?” Anna asked before taking her first bite.

Harold stopped his fork halfway to his mouth, trying to think of a graceful way to tell her he’d been accosted and almost robbed. She worried about him terribly sometimes, he knew, and he didn’t like to see Anna upset. He loved the natural smile in her eyes, the way her laughter gave his whole body a weightless feeling. He didn’t want to tell her, but he supposed that, as usual, she’d find out eventually. She’d talk to her Councilor, and he would in turn talk to the city guards. She’d find out, and she’d be furious with him for not telling her.

“Well, dear, we did okay most of the day.” He pulled out his little notebook and read over the figures one more time. “Total profit of eleven gold pieces.”

Anna smiled widely as she chewed her food.

“That’s great. That’s half the month’s rent and one left over. But you do realize you used the qualifier, ‘most’, don’t you?” She gave Harold a sly gaze, and he knew his tongue had, once again, trapped him.

Anna’s own thoughts drifted back on their four happy years of marriage, and the long, dangerous trips that Harold had to make on occasion to Traithrock in the north. He traveled to the Dwarven city in the mountains once every few months for materials to make his jewelry, always coming away with a great deal. She would love to tell him to stop making his trips there, for the road to Traithrock wound through some very dangerous territory, and some day even her own precautions wouldn’t protect him. Anna always provided protection for Harold’s journeys, though he didn’t know. Still, she couldn’t tell him to stop.

Her own line of work took her out of town for weeks at a time, and in two instances since their marriage, months. But every time she returned, it was to a loving husband who accepted the circumstances, regardless of what they might be. Her thoughts doubled back to the present moment, and she waited patiently for Harold to explain what ‘most’ meant, with regard to his day.

“Well, I was doing my calculations, checking the numbers before I closed up for the day…” he delayed the story with mouthfuls of food.

A cheap tactic, Anna thought, but one he’d try until death or divorce did them part.

“I sort of, well, noticed these two fellows—a little Human and a big Jaft. The, ah, Human, well, he tried to pocket one of the bracelets. The six gold ones,” he said, knowing that Anna kept a good track of his inventory. “Well, I told him he’d have to pay for it, and his Jaft friend sort of disagreed, heh heh.” He tried to smile bravely at Anna.

“I see.” She chewed her food meaningfully. “So we’re out six gold?”

“Oh, no, not at all dear.” Harold exploded into details about the Werewolf who had terrorized the Human thief into fleeing. He recounted the fight between the Jaft and the Werewolf, though he carefully left out the bit where he had been hoisted and dropped by the blue-fleshed humanoid.

Anna raised her eyebrows and held them there for a moment, and finally smiled her approval. Yes, she thought, the boys are good at keeping an eye on you, Harold.

“And that’s about it.” He concluded his story and his meal. “Had to fight with Mr. Pibble all the way home, the obnoxious little oaf,” he grumbled, taking his plate to the kitchen sink. “How’re things here?”

Anna put her fork down, hating herself intensely for the continuous lie she had to spoon-feed her husband in a moment.

“I have a conference tonight, Harold,” she said. “The Councilor is most likely going out of town for a few weeks afterward, and he wants me along with the caravan. I’m sorry.” She hung her head in disgust.

Harold smiled warmly at her, however, and the sight of his kindly, gaunt face made her want to break down and cry, tell him everything there was to tell. But she couldn’t, and she knew it.

“Don’t be sorry, dear.” He walked behind her and rubbed her shoulders.

Gods, he’s good at this, she thought.

“Your job is very demanding, sweetheart. I’m frankly surprised you’ve had as much time off lately as you have! No evening sessions for weeks, no trips, no conferences for almost a month. It’s been great having you home every night.” He kissed the top of her head, ruffling her long hair slightly. “Just promise me you’ll do the best you can to come home in a good mood.”

Anna put her left hand over her husband’s right, and almost broke into tears once again. Gods, she hated leaving him.

A familiar, comfortable silence settled over the household then, with Harold going into the den to read one of the used novels he bought from the bookstore every week, and Anna heading to their bedroom to pack. She looked back into the den just once before heading to their room, a single streak of dampness running down her cheek. Stay with it, girl, she told herself. This is the life you chose!

In their room, Anna knelt down beside their bed and pulled her custom-made suitcase out from beneath. A Gnome Tinker friend of hers had built it especially for her, and she rejoiced in having it. She popped the lock and opened a hidden compartment, which in truth made up almost the entire space of the luggage. She checked the contents therein, making certain she had everything she needed.

Length of rope, check, she thought. Throwing knives, lock picks, check.

She heard then the faint creaking of the floorboards in the hallway, and swiftly snapped the compartment shut, her spare dresses and feminine products now the only visible items.

A few seconds later, she let Harold pounce and wrap his arms around her. He’s getting too thin, she thought as she held his arms in place around her. I hope he isn’t getting sick.

“I love you, dear.” Harold rested his head on her shoulder.

“I love you too, Harold. I should only be gone a couple of weeks.” Her words sounded hollow and deceitful to her ears.

“Is that all?” He stood and pulling her up with him.

They faced one another, wrapped lovingly in each other’s arms. He was smiling warmly, though she saw the hint of chagrin in his eyes.

“You’ve been gone much longer than that before. Before we even got married, when we were just living together, do you remember? You were sent out of town for three months! I thought you’d been killed! No thanks to your brother,” he grumbled.

“Now don’t start in with that again, dear.” Anna chided him. “William is simply misunderstood.”

“He’s a bloody thief, Anna! One of the worst in the west.”

Though they often disagreed about her brother William, they never let it get between them. Neither would let go of the other. “I suppose he is family, though. You going to take him more clothes?”

“I may not get a chance to see him,” she replied. Her lies always went unchecked by Harold. He believed her without question. Then again, she thought with a wry smile, most people did. That went with the territory of her profession. “I’ll write you from the road.” She stuffed some men’s clothes into her bag.

Harold rolled his eyes, knowing full well who they were for. Anna may try to say they’d be for the Councilor, but he knew they were for William, in case Anna did get a chance to see her brother.

“You’ll be okay on the road?”

“Of course, dear. The Deus family is a very strong bunch.” She flexed her right arm as best she could. “That’s why you took our name, remember?” She closed the suitcase then and stood up, hoisting it with her. She walked over and gave her husband a long, deep kiss. “I love you Harold.”

“Love you too, dear. I’ll be waiting,” he said.

Together they walked to the front door of their home. She departed without saying another word, both of them understanding that any more good-byes would just make things more difficult.

Harold Deus watched his wife’s back for a long moment before he shut the door, and retired to the den. His books would keep him company until her return.

* * * *

A dark-clad figure darted from alley to alley, keeping to the shadows and away from the known guard patrols. He ducked and dodged around the drunken homeless and their piles of discarded belongings, never staying in any one place long enough for anyone to fix a keen eye on his face. The bandana over his forehead and hair whipped back and forth a bit as he ran, jumping over a refuse bin and kicking off of the wall of a residence to avoid landing on a sleeping dog in the alley.

Stockholm wouldn’t appreciate him landing on a dog, he thought.

A brace of knives rested easily in a belt around the man’s waist, commonplace for members of the Hoods. His Guild waited patiently for his arrival, he knew, but he liked to hustle just a little so as not to wear on Flint’s patience. The Wererat was the figure’s right-hand man, though he lacked the patience of his immediate subordinate, Ignatious Stockholm.

Thoughts of the two men’s clashing styles of leadership propelled the slim, agile man on. He’d hate to think of what might happen if he never came back to keep order over the Guild. The two of them might kill each other. No, he amended, Stockholm would slaughter Flint outright. No contest involved there.

Around a bend in the alley lay the sewer grate that he would drop down through to make his way to the Hoods’ headquarters.

“Time to play the game,” he whispered, throwing the grate open and dropping down in without bothering with the ladder or checking to see if anyone stood in the way. He landed in a crouch, water splashing near him as Stockholm stutter stepped backwards.

“Ye Gods, boss man! Watch where you stick that landing.”

“Cram it, Stocky.” The lithe Human figure he stood up straight and marched forward.

Stockholm fell into step beside him, a torch in his right hand.

“Give me the run-down.”

As they approached the first turn in a series of tunnels, Flint fell silently into step on the Human’s other side.

“Well, it’s been fairly quiet the last five nights. It’d still be nice if our Guild Headmaster put in an appearance more than he does. Hint, hint, William.”

William Deus made a face at his third-in-command as he rumbled on, and Flint clamped one hairy hand over his snout to keep from laughing.

Stockholm curled his lip disapprovingly for a moment before continuing. “Standard operations, essentially. However, our outside advisor friend is here to see you.  He claims it’s urgent.”

William Deus knew, from both Stockholm’s tone and the way he described the friend that the werewolf referred to Lee Toren.

“Lee Toren,” William said aloud, his slightly high-pitched voice rebounding off of the tunnel walls and back at him. William Deus had first worked with the reputed Gnome Pickpocket and self-advertised ‘gentleman’ five years before, when he had been selected as the Hoods’ new Prime by the former Guild Headmaster, Remy Torago. Lee Toren had been contracted on for an expedition to a set of recently uncovered ruins in the northeast, a little beyond the Port of Arcade. The city of Palen at that time sent a group of mages to investigate strange fluctuations of magical energy in the area of the ruins, and they unearthed the entrance to an ancient, underground city. News of the ruins spread quickly throughout Tamalaria.

Most notably, the word circulated around to thieves’ guilds like wildfire. Who knew what treasures lay in wait down there? Remy couldn’t resist sending a team to investigate, and Lee had a reputation across the continent as both a great Pickpocket, and an excellent tomb raider. Remy hired him to lead a group of five of his finest agents into the ruins and filch whatever they could.

William had taken an immediate liking to the quirky Gnome. He proved to be good for a laugh, and competent in his fields. William, Flint, and a handful of others had they plundered the ruins swiftly and profitably. Of course, they hadn’t counted on the mages of Palen posting guards, and a few scuffles had left one man dead and William wounded. The only one among the company who had any first aid knowledge was Flint, and he had learned more about William at that time than any other.

“Yes, Lee Toren, the little trouble maker,” Stockholm grumbled. “William, I know you like him, and I agree that he’s an amusing little fellow. But he’s bad news.”

The trio continued on towards their main lair in relative silence, the squeaking of the occasional rodent filling the air and the splash of sewage into the main ducts filling the air with both sound and scent.

Just before they arrived at the door that would lead to the primary meeting hall, Flint inserted himself between William Deus and Stockholm, taking his boss by the arm.

Stockholm raised a curious eyebrow at the Hoods’ Prime, who smiled winningly at him.

“Just need to have a word with the boss in private fer a tick, heh heh,” he said, hauling William around the corner of an access tunnel.

“Go on ahead without us, Ignatious,” William called out.

A moment later they heard the huge iron door open to admit the Hoods’ Chief, Stockholm’s position.

“All right, Flint. What’s this about,” William whispered, his face scant inches away from the Wererat’s snout in the cramped access tunnel.

Flint looked around, making certain with his eyes and ears that they were in fact alone.

“Still wearing that cheap musk cologne?” he asked his Headmaster. “In case you haven’t thought about that, let me make something plain. The big red woofy-dog we know and love is going to numb up to the silver dust you put in it. I’m not allergic to silver, Werewolves are, but he’s going to numb to it eventually. And when he does, he’ll know.” Flint made another check of the tunnels.

“Oh come off it, Flint,” William said. “Him finding out’s a long way off yet.” Without another word, William headed for the large iron door that would let him into the Guild.

Flint darted around in front of him, smiling his knowing smile.

“Long way off, eh? Not if he sees that strap, sir.”

William looked at his shoulder in dismay, and tucked the blue strap of cloth back under his shirt.

“How d’you forget taking that off before doing the wraps?”

“Look, it’s out of sight now, okay?” William said. “It was a minor slip, Flint. I’ve just gotten back into the routine back home, and at home, without the bra, they sag. It’s not easy, you know. You try cross-dressing for a living, rat.”

“All right, all right, I’m sorry.” Flint waved his hands to keep her quiet. “Let’s just get in there before Stockholm comes looking for us. Okay Anna?”