"The Glove of Shadows" Chapter Five- Preparation

Anna’s head reeled after her meeting with the three agents who would temporarily take over leadership of the guild. Coates, the Human Rogue, had an air about him much like her own—cunning, conniving. But Borshev had made it clear that he would not let her down, and had even made a few threatening comments about what would happen to anyone who tried to usurp and abuse his temporary position. He’d been very graphic, she thought, smiling as Coates had turned greenish in the face.

After dismissing them, she had been further comforted by the sight of Stocky taking Coates by the shoulder and leading him away from her office toward his own. Gods only knew what sort of violent promises would be made there, but she knew that unlike the Minotaur, Stockholm would keep those promises. Nobody in the Guild, or in their rivals’ Guild, wanted to suffer such a punishment as that.

She leaned back in her chair, taking it all in. The legendary Glove of Shadows. “I’d love to have that on my mantle,” she whispered aloud to the four walls. Sometimes, these walls stood as her best friends. They would stand there and listen, and wouldn’t talk back. They couldn’t judge her, couldn’t hold anything against her. Sometimes, she felt, a wall alone could say it was innocent. Unless it collapsed on someone, she thought with a measure of chagrin. She’d seen it happen before; damaged buildings whose large, ominous brick sidings had teetered and tottered just enough to fall flat on someone, crushing them flat. There really wasn’t anything for it. Who blames a wall for anything, except for prisoners who feel they’re too thick or sturdy?

Restless, now that nobody occupied the other chair of her office, Anna stood and stalked around the desk. Flint should be close to finishing his task, and soon the small chamber would be packed as Flint, Stockholm, Styge and Norman each made their way to be briefed on the mission.

The first knock came after only two circuits around her desk, and when Anna opened the door, she found the Wererat standing there, smiling faintly.

“You’ve told them all,” she asked.

“Yes’m boss,” he replied, bowing his head dramatically. “As I’m sure you may have suspected, Stocky thinks the whole idea’s mad to the core. Says you should just leave ‘im behind. I can’t say’s I wholly disagree with him, boss.” He closed the door behind him as he stepped in, the claws on his feet scraping the stones of the floor harshly. “It’s a little crazy to expect Borshev, Hollister and Coates to do the exact same job as us.”

“They aren’t exactly amateurs, Flint,” she said in the three men’s defense. She retook her seat behind the large desk, as another knock sounded, much heavier and with the quality of wood hitting wood.

She motioned her hand at the door, and Flint opened it, admitting Styge, the old Illusionist. He smiled wanly at Anna, one hand on his back, one on his walking staff.

“Maybe not,” the Wererat said, continuing his original argument without a word to Styge. “But they’re not exactly all-pro either. Sort of semi-pro, really.”

“They’ll handle it,” Anna said, putting the hint of masculinity into her voice once more. “Styge, it’s good to see you up and well,” she said to the elderly Human Illusionist.

He graced her with a smile that sent wrinkles over his leathery face.

“Likewise, young man,” he said.

Anna paused for a moment, wondering if perhaps, since he was an Illusionist after all, the old man saw through her disguise. She had to admit to herself that it wasn’t much of a disguise. No fancy makeup or artificial parts to enhance it. If he saw through her, though, he never let on, and she decided that that was well enough.

“You’ll have to remind our Prime here how to properly wake up his elders,” he grumbled, looking up at the grinning Wererat.

Back leaned against the wall, Flint had once again taken to cleaning his claws with a small dagger.

Another knock at the door, light and rapid, announced Norman’s arrival, and before he could close the door, Stockholm ducked down and squeezed into the chamber.

Hail, hail, the gang’s all here, Anna thought. “Close the door would you Stocky?”

As the Red Tribe Werewolf closed the door, she faced the four of them, now on her feet. “All right everyone, let’s get down to business. We’ve got the evening and tomorrow morning to prepare. However, I don’t want to set out any later than mid-afternoon on the morrow, as Fly and his compatriots won’t wait long themselves. With any luck, we’ll get out of the city ahead of them, take a good lead.”

“Where are we even going to go first,” asked Flint.

“Lee Toren will lead the way for the first leg of the trip.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stood as aloof as she could. “He’s already making preparations, so he can get a good night’s sleep tonight. After he’s taken us to our first checkpoint, we’ll have to utilize our information networks. This includes, of course, talking to everyone we can with similar professions as ours.” She looked at the group to gauge their reactions. “I understand that won’t be easy for you, Styge, or you, Stocky, but you’re going to have to socialize. Only enough to get us moving again,” she added, and saw Stockholm sigh heavily.

Styge didn’t seem at all affected by her plan. Old and crotchety though he was, the Illusionist made himself available for conversation and company easily enough. But when he came in contact with other Illusionists, he became fiercely competitive, and refused to speak to anyone until he proved he was the superior practitioner.

“Perhaps if Styge and Stockholm conversed with folks more along the lines of your and my trades, Will, they’d make better progress,” Flint suggested.

“Fine, whatever,” she rasped. “So long as everyone tries to learn what they can. Lee said the first village we’re heading to would be one of the stops on Reynaldi and his company’s path back home. Someone local will likely know where to direct us after that.”

“Hmm,” Stockholm rumbled.

All eyes turned and looked at the timeless bruiser.

“You know.” He moved to a map on Anna’s left hand wall, pointing at Desanadron. He traced his finger north, and then a little east. “There’s lots of little villages about three days north of the city on foot. Does Lee know exactly which one to lead us to?”

Anna nodded.

“Then so did Lee’s companion. The one who offered the information to the Midnight Suns. We’ll have to get one hell of a big jump on their crew if we want to get to the village and make out of there before running into Fly and his men, sir.”

Anna looked at the map, and cursed under her breath. Once again, Stockholm’s growling, bass voice had spoken the truth. If they wanted to avoid a confrontation with Thaddeus Fly and whomever the Black Draconus Ninja brought with him, they needed an alternate route to the village. But since only Lee knew where they would head, they’d have to wait to confer with him. The Gnome Pickpocket gathered himself for the journey even now, elsewhere in the Hoods’ underground lair.

“What do you suggest we do about that Stocky,” she asked. For once, he smiled genuinely at her use of his pet name.

“I suggest we stay the course,” he said, surprising her and Flint both. They stared at him, eyes wild and incredulous.

“What,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “I haven’t had a good fight in a while, and it would behoove us to get a fight with them out of the way as quickly as possible. We can slow them down with injuries, maybe make certain that they stay the hell out of our way for the rest of the trip.” He shrugged his huge, furry shoulders. “Just, you know, tossing the idea out there.”

“Well, I for one disagree,” piped in Norman, adjusting his taped together glasses. “I say we just take an indirect route to the village Lee wants us to go to.” The Gnome Engineer regurgitated the words that had only been thoughts in Anna’s head. “I think it would be most efficient if we avoided confrontations on the whole, particularly with such an unsavory bunch as our rivals.” He looked around at the taller members of the group, his eyes beseeching them to be reasonable, to listen for once to the intellectual of the room. However, the aye’s already had the vote locked—Stockholm’s course of action would be followed, come what may of it.

     “Sorry Norm, but you’re outnumbered on this point, four to one,” Anna said. “Very good. Now, everyone’s to meet here at noon tomorrow, regardless of how much prep work you have left. We’ll decide at that meeting how much longer before departure, but trust me, I’m not going to waste time. Get some prep done this evening, and early tomorrow morning. We should be able to leave in the middle of the afternoon, as I said before. Everyone,” she said, standing straight behind her desk. “You are dismissed.”

They all gave brief nods of the head before exiting the room, one by one, leaving her alone with her friends once more, the walls.

* * * *

Lain McNealy sat in her private chambers, all six of her black candles burning in a loose circle around her.

Her eyes closed, her hands resting limply on her knees, the waifish Necromancer focused her inner sight on the place she returned to when she needed to center herself.

Slowly, steadily, the image of a chamber set in a tomb settled around her mind’s eye. Her body remained still and cold, in the building that housed the Midnight Suns. Her spirit, however, now hovered lightly several miles away from Desanadron, deep in the earth itself.

Surrounded by a host of bodies, each waiting for its turn as one of her servants, Lain spotted one peculiarly garbed body, and floated over next to it for a closer inspection. The clothes appeared rather foreign to her, articles from an era long before any she’d been familiar with. Strange too, she thought, were the weapons the bones held fast to and the ones strapped to him.

Never mind that, she thought after a moment’s hesitation. The body piqued her interest, and so she summoned the magic necessary to force the earthen floor around the body to absorb it and its possessions whole, that they might be transported to wherever she stood when she opted to call it forth in her service.

When Lain opened her eyes and felt once again the soothing warmth of the burning candles, she realized someone stood in the doorway, waiting for her return to the here and now. When she looked, she made out the outline of the Guild Headmaster, leaning against the doorframe. “Headmaster Fly, do come in,” she droned, her body drained by the use of her magic.

The Black Draconus bowed his head to honor her, and stepped into the chamber. He didn’t bother to close the door behind him—where Thaddeus Fly ventured, few dared to eavesdrop.

“What brings you by,” she asked.

“Listen to me, and listen well, Ms. McNealy,” he whispered, glaring powerfully into her eyes. “I know not how long this trip of ours is going to take, but rest assured, at some point Markus Trent shall attempt another maneuver against me. I’m not going to ask you to take sides, Ms. McNealy. That would be,” his eyes roved as he sought the proper term. “Presumptuous of me.”

“How so, Headmaster,” she replied, her own voice low now on purpose, to match his tone.

“I would be presuming that you gave a damn about which of us came out of the conflict the victor. Your loyalties are to the realm of the undead, Lain. Your eventual destiny does not lie here, with this Guild. So it is folly to choose a side, you see?”

But she didn’t see, didn’t understand what exactly Fly was driving at.

“Sir, you have me at a loss,” she admitted.

Fly leaned away, taking a seat on the dirt floor. He stretched his arms out behind him and to either side, lounging.

     “Ms. McNealy, to make it simpler,” he said, his words light and quiet, but his eyes full of fire, “if a struggle occurs between he and I, quietly remain at a distance. Neither of us can then say afterwards that you had anything to gain or lose from your choice of alliance. I’d rather not have someone with your potential go by the wayside because of an internal power struggle in the Guild.”

Without leaving her the opportunity to say anything more, or ask any of the questions she had now forming in her mind, Thaddeus Fly left her chambers.

For an hour after his departure, she wracked her brain, trying to think of why he’d never been so candid with her before.

* * * *

The Black Draconus stalked down the west wing hallway up on the top floor of the ten-story building, the shadows pooled together in large sections. The word ‘murky’ came to his mind as Thaddeus Fly moved softly, silently down the hall, making his way to the only new door in the corridor.

Second from the end, on the right, he thought, turning now and facing the chamber. He didn’t like what he was about to do, but he could think of few agents in the Guild more capable of maintaining order in his absence. Akimaru or Trent would have made ideal and sensible choices, but as they would be accompanying him on his jaunt out of the city, only this man would do.

Fly took a moment and breathed deeply, steeling himself for this encounter. He raised his gloved right hand, and half a moment before he knocked, he heard from the other side of the door a muted, gruff male voice call out to him. “Door’s open.”

Fly sighed, and slowly opened the door, keeping back to avoid any traps the man inside the room had set in the entryway.

“Mr. Striker,” Fly said in greeting.

Striker stood at about two inches shy of six feet, with a wiry frame that belied his actual physical strength. The man stood partially hunched over, a putter in his hands as he lined up a small ball with a plastic cup across the room, near a seldom-used fireplace. His open black vest hung loosely over a simply white tee shirt, the sleeves ripped off, leaving tattered threads hanging off of his shoulders. A pair of blue pants, made of a material recently created by Human tailors called ‘denim’, was cinched around his hips with a long leather belt. His shaggy blond hair was covered with a dark blue bandana, perpetually tied to his head. He didn’t look away from the ball, and tapped it with the putter before he looked up at Fly.

The ball rolled easily into the cup as he leaned on the putter with one hand, the other on his hip.

“What brings you here, Headmaster?”

Striker’s voice reminded Fly of coarse sandpaper being rubbed against metal. The very sound of it made his legs tremble.

“Mr. Striker, you may not be aware, but I’ll be taking several members of the Guild on a mission out of the city,” Fly began, still remaining outside of the room.

Striker moved over to a dresser standing in the corner, next to a simple cot, and flipped a switch.

Fly heard several clicking sounds in the doorframe. He stepped through, unharmed. “Nobody of significant rank will be here to keep an eye on things. I think you may be aware of what I’m going to be asking of you.”

Striker said nothing, rubbing the short, coarse whiskers of his cheek stubble. He smiled at Fly as he went still, revealing a set of steel teeth.

“You need me to take the post of temporary acting Headmaster,” Striker said. He set the putter on his cot and shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “Sure, why not? Any idea how long you’ll be gone?”

“Not at this juncture.” Fly’s hand itched to reach for a weapon, if not to use immediately, then just to keep between himself and Striker. But Fly wasn’t prone to rash actions, and such a sign of discomfort would damage his already tenuous relationship with this man. “We depart tomorrow. Upon our leaving, you will be in charge here, and will have to maintain operations. I know you’re up to the task, Mr. Striker.”

Striker smiled again, wider. Gleaming, dagger-like in appearance, his teeth reflected the torchlight in his room perfectly.

“Very much so, Headmaster. Of course, I’m sure I have no choice in the matter,” Striker took another step toward the taller, reptilian Ninja. “I still have that debt to repay, after all.”

     “I wasn’t about to bring that up, Mr. Striker,” Fly said honestly. “However, since you mention it, yes, you do. And it’s still a long time coming to be repaid.” He let a hint of superiority slip into his voice. “Until it is, we own you Mr. Striker. Don’t forget that.” He jabbed a gloved claw into Striker’s chest.

“Oh, I won’t, Headmaster,” Striker replied in a low growl. “I won’t. Best of luck on your mission.”

The door was shut with a loud echo through the corridor, and Thaddeus Fly once more counted himself lucky that the creature called Striker was good to his oaths. Because if he wasn’t, Fly knew, Striker would have left a long time ago.

And he would have left the Guild’s building a sepulcher.

* * * *

Among other things, Ignatious Stockholm didn’t tolerate stupidity. He had before him a young agent of the Hoods who fit the bill of ‘stupidest of the day’ perfectly.

Since taking a seat across from the Red Tribe Werewolf, Timothy Dent hadn’t said a word. This course of action alone kept him from being officially labeled.

“I want you to tell me what, precisely, you thought you were going to accomplish by this foolishness,” Stockholm rumbled patiently. He leaned forward, his fingers knotted together with his elbows on his desk.

William Deus had advised him to get some sleep, but the Guild Chief had too much work to clear up before they departed the next day. He wasn’t about to leave it behind for Hollister or Coates. Neither would be able to handle the task. “The silence is your cue to speak,” he rasped.

“Oh, um,” Dent stammered, trying to maintain his composure. Dent was a Sidalis, or mutant, whose appearance was mostly Human, with the exception of webbed fingers and feet that resembled flippers. His mutant power was his ability to teleport short distances, one hundred or so yards at a time. He’d thought about using this ability several times since being summoned to Stockholm’s office, but knew that it would prove fruitless. The big red menace would find and corner him eventually, and he knew Dent’s weakness—paper. Whenever Dent came in physical contact with paper of any kind, his powers ceased to function, and his breathing became erratic. Stockholm would use that to his advantage if he had to give chase, and Dent didn’t want to piss the man off, ever.

“I’m waiting,” Stockholm said, his voice low and even.

“Well, sir, that is, um,” Dent started. “I didn’t see any harm in it. I just thought, you know, a little extra pocket change would be good to have around for once.” He gave his most winning smile.

Stockholm shook his head slowly, unlaced his fingers, and reached into the top left drawer of his desk. He pulled out a manila folder, slapping it down on the desk. He tapped it with one long, crimson finger.

“What’s that, sir?”

“It’s your personnel file, Dent,” Stockholm said. He opened the folder to the first of many, many pages. “Says here we recruited you right out of Southhouse penitentiary four years ago, when you managed to escape after discovering your Sidalis power. You were eager to join, your recruiter noted,” Stockholm had already read through the entire file, memorizing it before calling Dent in for this little chat. “He said you knew you could use your abilities to do good work for us. Now,” Stockholm flipped past the statistics sheet. Beneath the first sheet lay a stack of pink sheets—disciplinary reports. “What we have here, is a failure to communicate.” Stockholm grinned wickedly. “You know the rules, Dent. All proceeds procured from any target are to be reported to the treasury and dropped off for distribution on Fridays. Yet, here, we have nineteen incidents of failure to report and drop off all earnings, six conflict reports, and two instances of unsupported extortion.” Stockholm raised his voice, feeding anger into his tone with each set of reports. “Pardon my language, agent Dent, but what the fuck is your damage?”

“Now Mr. Stockholm, you know I didn’t start those fights.” Dent leaned back in his chair as Stockholm edged himself over the desk on his huge arms. “I’m not like that. I wouldn’t hurt a fly, sir.”

     “Except,” Stockholm said, thrusting the six conflict reports toward Dent, “there were at least four witnesses in each of these incidents! You’re already skating on thin ice here, agent Dent. And then you pull this shit again,” Stockholm spun on his heels, taking another pink sheet off of his pin-up board. Flint had submitted the report, so the big Red Tribe had no question of its authenticity. A thief Flint may be, he thought, but he never lied about this sort of thing. “You robbed the house of a police Sergeant,” Stockholm shouted, waving the report in front of Dent.

“I didn’t know,” Dent lied, flustered and afraid.

“Bullshit! Every watchman, every constable or police officer in the city, has a shield hung over their door! Did you forget that?”

He hadn’t, but Dent had been seriously hoping that the robbery would be blamed on the Midnight Suns. However, he’d been seen exiting the house by Flint himself, who had immediately gone back to the Guild and reported his suspicions. When their contact in the tenth precinct had reported the theft to another agent, the young woman had gone to Flint, who confirmed the report and posted it in Stockholm’s office.

“Um, no sir,” Dent said. Best to be honest now, he thought. “It’s just that, well, I don’t make a whole lot here, sir. I don’t think it’s fair.”

“Nobody asked you if you thought it was fair,” Stockholm bellowed, swooping around his big oak desk and standing only a foot or so away from Dent, who remained glued to his seat. “You received information regarding our payment practices before you took the oath, didn’t you? Answer the question.”

“Yes sir!”

“And you agreed to follow the oath once you’d recited it, right? Answer the question.”

“Yes sir!”

“Then what was this about?” Stockholm voice went soft, his movements and words deadly slow and purposeful. He stood now behind Dent, his enormous, clawed hands resting easily on the Sidalis’ shoulders. “Was it the officer who pinched you in the first place, sent you to prison? Did he somehow wrong you in some other way? We’re not big on revenge here, but we do understand it, in a way,” Stockholm said, tightening his hands slightly.

“It was just greed on my part, sir.” Dent burst into tears. He buried his face in his webbed hands. “I wanted some extra scratch to buy a new crossbow, sir. Mine’s all worn and doesn’t aim right. I thought I’d get some extra money on my own and buy a new one, sir. I’m sorry, sir!”

As Dent cried, he became aware of the air around him buzzing with movement, and then a sense of calm. When his tears slowed, he looked up and saw that Stockholm was seated behind his desk again, his feet up on its surface. A small pouch rested next to his bare feet. “Sir?”

“I’m putting this in your folder,” the Red Tribe said tiredly. “We’ll mark it down as an unauthorized operation report. But seriously, one more big one like this,” he said, waving the folder as he put it back in his desk. “And you’re ass is out in the street. Now, take that, and go,” he growled.

Dent reached for the pouch, opened it, marveled at the gold pieces inside, and sped out of the office. Despite his seething anger, the Red Tribe Chief smiled a little before checking his timepiece. Eight o’clock, evening. And he still had eight more meetings to go before he’d go to bed.

“Gonna be a long night,” he said to the four walls.

* * * *

Flint roamed the eighth residential district of Desanadron, his bare feet telling him he was near the border of the ninth district, the soil road about to turn into cobblestone. He turned down Folly Street in order to stay in the eighth district. When he came to the next intersection, he’d be near his favorite dive bar, The Pint Palace.

Once upon a time, the eighth district was a place where the city’s prominent members of government resided. However, thirty years ago, when the city had come under attack by Richard Vandross and his minions, the district had been left in shambles. Minimal effort was put into reconstruction, and now the poor and shady residents of the city’s populace made it their home.

The Pint Palace had benefited the most from the reconstruction, because it turned out that those of low income did a lot heavier drinking than the well-off, a fact the tavern’s owner had come to revel in. His profits had skyrocketed in the years immediately after the attack, and now he had a steady flow of customers. As a Dwarf, he had many years yet to enjoy the profit.

Flint opened the saloon-style doors stepped inside, and was immediately engulfed in pipe and cigarette smoke. His snout wrinkled, though only a little, as he popped a smoke in his mouth and lit it with a match. The usual crowd of ne’er do wells sat around the tavern, seated at the bar or in small groups at the tables—all of which could use a serious washing, Flint thought.

No other lycanthropes here, he noted from the doorway. A moment later, he made his way up to the bar, where a rotund, cherry-cheeked Human by the name of Rudy was tending bar.

“The usual, Rudy,” he said as he exhaled a plume of smoke.

Flint took a seat in the only empty stool at the bar, wedged between a Human who looked as though he’d fallen asleep with his head on the bar on his left, and a stone-faced Lizardman on his right. Flint subtly scanned the Lizardman, and he saw that the gray robed reptile had a spiked mace on his left hip, and an amulet wrapped around his left wrist.

A Battle Priest, Flint thought.

Rudy set a bottle of beer down in front of him, and Flint produced a silver coin, laying in Rudy’s palm.

“Much obliged.” The bartender moved to another customer further down the bar.

Flint turned on his stool to look around the tavern. Mostly Humans and Jafts, he noted, the stench of the blue skinned humanoids masked by the heavy odors of cheap booze and smoke.

The Wererat stubbed out his smoke in an ashtray, and quickly downed his drink. He thanked Rudy for the beer, and made his way out. No good marks here tonight. He’d only come in to see if he could pick some pockets. Unfortunately, he already knew all of the patrons, and knew he’d be taking what little rent money they didn’t squander on drink.

Once outside, Flint stared up at the gibbous moon. Around nine o’ clock, he thought.

“May as well get some shut eye,” he said to no one in particular, moving back toward the sewer grate he routinely used for getting in and out of the Guild. He turned the corner of Folly Street, and bumped into someone, taking a guarded step back as he looked down to find a white clad man standing there, unmoved by the contact. Flint knew the man he was looking at, and wasn’t sure how exactly to react.

“Good evening, Mr. Flint.” Akimaru bowed slightly to the Wererat.

“Uh, yeah.” He checked to make sure his money pouches were still in place and his weapons strapped to his side. All clear, he thought. “Good evening, Akimaru.”

Awkward silence filled the air, and Flint looked around to make sure nobody else was on the streets. But it was late in the evening, and most folks in the eighth district were either in bed, or out and about in other parts of the city. “What brings you out of your cocoon?” the Wererat asked, lighting up another cigarette.

Akimaru shrugged his shoulders vaguely. “Just enjoying the quiet of the outdoors.” The Ninja’s soft tone betrayed nothing to Flint’s sensitive ears. “And you?”

“Oh, me? Just getting a drink, trying to be social,” Flint lied. Well, half-truthed, he thought with a grin. “Look, ah, sorry about, you know, running into you.”

“Oh, no problem, Mr. Flint. My apologies to you.” Akimaru bowed again.

Did the air just get colder out here? Flint wondered.

Without another word, the two agents parted company, each heading back for their respective Guild. Flint had been spurred on by Akimaru’s appearance. He would tell Anna right away, and advise her that their group should leave at high noon the next day. If Akimaru was still around, then so was Fly. And that meant they could get the jump on the Midnight Suns.

When Akimaru got back to his Guild, he said nothing to anybody.

* * * *

Anna slept fitfully, her wraps making her uncomfortable, until around three in the morning, when she locked her office door and stripped half naked, sleeping much more soundly now that she could breath. However, some hours later, when a knock came at her door, she immediately pulled the blanket up over her bare upper body and called out to ask who it was.

“It’s me, Flint,” she heard the Wererat call through the door.

“Oh, all right. Come in, but shut the door behind you.” She looked over at her timepiece. It was only five in the morning. What could be so important?

Flint picked the lock in record time, entered, and locked the door behind him. He turned to Anna, who had set the blanket down and was doing up her wraps.

“Sorry, boss lady, but I had to tell you as soon as I thought it’d be safe to wake you up.” Flint stared at her.

“Eyes,” she said.

“What?”

“My eyes,” she said. “They’re up here.” She directed his attention away from her still exposed upper breasts.

He laughed harshly, turning around until she gave him the okay to turn around again. She was now fully dressed, and in William Deus mode. “Now, what is it?”

“I ran into Akimaru last night.” He watched as the shock registered in her face. “After I left the Pint Palace. Bumped right into him out on the street, boss.”

“Did he attack you?” She inspected him for signs of a struggle.

“No, Anna, he didn’t. And I didn’t attack him. It was weird, but I didn’t sense any hostility from him.” Flint didn’t mention the aura of deathly chill that had radiated from the white clad Ninja.

“Hmm,” she mused. “Still, that changes things. If he’s still around, then so is Fly. We can get a good jump on them if we hurry up and finish preparations. Get the others up.” She spun into motion. “Get packed, and get ready. We’re going to head out a little after noon.”

No need to suggest it now, Flint thought with a smile.

“Lee’s already awake, I’m sure. Find him, and tell him to meet us all on the north end of the city. We’ll head for that village of his just as soon as we meet up. Let him know he’s got to get all of his provisions before we meet up with him. I’m not going to stand around and wait on the fat little prick to buy food after we meet up!”

She was on fire now. Thaddeus Fly would surely bring Akimaru along on the quest to track down and steal the Glove of Shadows. Or, she feared, though she wouldn’t say it aloud to Flint, the Black Draconus had already left the city, and had left the Guild in the care of the enigmatic Akimaru. She sincerely hoped for the former rather than the latter, but she couldn’t be certain. If Fly took Akimaru and Markus Trent, since he’d never leave Trent behind to try to usurp his position again, then who would be left in charge in his absence?

“Striker,” she said aloud to herself. Anna didn’t know much about the man she only ever heard referred to as Striker or Mr. Striker, but over the course of the last three years, it had become apparent to her that her Chief, Stocky, knew something about the man. He had advised Anna, or rather William Deus, as he knew her, to stay far away from the man. He told her he’d handle the man if it ever came down to it, and she’d left it at that. But though Striker may be deadly, what kind of leader will he be in Fly’s absence?

She already knew, because once before, two years ago, Fly had taken Akimaru and Trent to a mixed Ninja clan meeting in the southeast. Striker had been left in charge, and operations had continued as normal for the Midnight Suns. However, several agents mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again. She had the distinct impression that Striker had done them in for disciplinary reasons. Fly wasn’t so harsh, and Striker seemed the type. Would Borshev be able to handle anything Striker threw at him? she wondered.

Anna exited her office, locking it behind her.

In the hallway outside her office, she heard several Hoods agents engaged in early morning conversation, coffee mugs in hand as they saluted her when she passed.

“Oi, Will,” she heard behind her.

She turned on her heel and found Lee Toren gasping hugely in front of her. “What’s this Flint tells me about leavin’ at noon? Are you blinkin’ mad?”

Anna shook her head and set her stance.

“No, I’m not mad, and I’m not joking. We leave at noon, Lee. You’d best go get your provisions now.” She knew how long it took the Gnome Pickpocket to shop for food. He was as bad with that as she was with shopping with her husband for shoes. She never bought a lot—she just liked making one concession to the stereotype of her gender. That, and it drove Harold crazy.

Lee harumphed. “Foin, foin, I’ll go get me foodstuffs then. I’ll wait at the north gates, loik you asked. But really, wot’s the rush?”

“Just trust me on this, Lee.”

Through the chambers and halls of the underground base she stalked, making her way for Stockholm’s quarters. She knew he wouldn’t have gotten much sleep, and hated herself for interrupting the little rest the big crimson Werewolf would be enjoying. But she had little choice, and wasn't about to leave the task to anyone else. She stood in front of his chamber door for a long moment, greeting the agents who passed by casually, finally opening the door and slipping inside.

Stockholm lay in front of the fireplace. A huge, red furred wolf, he was curled comfortably in front of the burning fire, his tail twitching now and again of its own accord.

She saw huge, dark bags under his eyes, and his brow was furrowed as if in anger or dismay. Anna started toward him, then noticed a small, framed portrait lying on the floor in front of his snout. Creeping forward as slowly and stealthily as she could, Anna made her way up next to the slumbering giant, plucking the picture up off of the floor.

It was a painted portrait of a young Tanner Werewolf, his slender arm wrapped around what appeared to be Stockholm’s waist.

Old war buddy, she wondered. Distant cousin? She wasn’t sure, and she looked down at Stocky, making certain he hadn’t woken up and caught her snooping. Setting the portrait back down in its original spot, Anna made her way back over to the door, faced the Werewolf, and cleared her throat loudly, purposefully.

His eyes fluttered open, and his long, lupine tongue lolled out as he got up on all fours and stretched. Stockholm looked up at her, and she watched as his body underwent the swift change from animus to bestial state. Oddly enough, she’d never seen his humanoid form.

Perhaps he didn’t have one, she thought. Some lycanthropes didn’t, just as some didn’t have an animus state. While rare, it often denoted the fact that the particular lycanthrope was highly powerful in one of his or her other states. Anna knew exactly which state Stocky was most efficient in.

“Headmaster.” He rubbed his baggy eyes.

He looked down, snatched up the portrait, and stuffed it in one of the pockets of the vest that had materialized on his upper body.

Anna wondered where a lycanthrope’s belongings went when they underwent their changes. No matter, she thought. Bigger things to worry about.

“Stocky, I know you probably haven’t had much sleep, but we’ve got to get ready. We’re heading out at noon.”

His eyes snapped open.

“I understand, sir. I’ll make my final preparations right away.” Stockholm darted over to his weapons and took his chain shirt off of its hook. “Where are we going to rendezvous?”

“The in-house tavern,” she replied. Just before she left, she felt obligated to say something more. “By the way, Ignatious.” She used his first name in a rare display of concern. She looked into his hardened expression, looking for the little hint of vulnerability she usually found in people’s eyes, the lines of their face. She caught a glimmer of it, fading fast as he became more awake and alert.

“If there’s ever anything you need to talk to me about, you know where to find me,” she said.

He gave her a reassuring grin, and nodded. Anna moved out of his chamber.

When she got to the in-house tavern, she found Norman Adwar and Styge seated at a small wooden table, steaming mugs of coffee set before them.

Styge looks well rested at least, she thought. But Norm looked like a total wreck, his hair disheveled, his hands still covered in grease and soot from the previous night’s work. He had a notebook in front of his bleary eyes, and was furiously jotting down notes and calculations.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” She took a seat between them.

“Mmf, gn mrnerhrm,” Norm muttered, which she mentally translated.

“Top of the day to you, sir,” Styge offered. The old Illusionist already had his rucksack next to him, packed and ready as he blew on his coffee and took a good swig of the brackish fluid. “All is in readiness with me, William. I’ll be ready to go just as soon as the others are.”

“Well, it could be a few hours.” She s gestured to another agent to bring her a cup of coffee.

It was produced in record time, everyone around her high-strung. Apparently, there was a lot of tension amid the Hoods agents over her departure, and the fact that their Prime and Chief would be gone as well wasn’t sitting well with many of them.

“Um, Will,” Norm said. “Is it okay if I bring the autocart?”

Ah, the autocart. The autocart was one of Norman’s most successful and useful contraptions, modeled on an ancient mecha device called an ‘automobile’. The mecha was a cart of metal mounted on a system of chains, pulleys, and four large, rubber tires. The whole big thing moved automatically once it was started, and it could be steered by a device mounted in front of a small leather chair called a ‘steering wheel’. The problem was, Gnome engineering had become notoriously unstable, with a reputation for making things that went ‘boom’. Gnomes made things that weren’t meant to be weapons, yet still these things often exploded. Imagine opening your Gnome crafted refrigerator, and having the motor in the back explode out at you, a flaming heap of metal death.

“You can bring it, but you’re responsible for maintaining it on the road. The second it becomes a liability, we’re leaving it behind.”

Despite her warning, the Gnome Engineer smiled broadly from ear to ear.

“What about you old man,” she said. “Any questions?”

“Just the one obvious question, Will.” The Illusionist kept his eyes shut for a moment. A moment later, after he turned out a bit of flatulence, he smiled and sighed with relief. “Why’re you bringing me along?”

“You know, Flint asked me the same thing.” She accepted a cup of coffee from a middle-aged Half-Elf agent. “You’ve got field experience, and you can offer us some good insight along the road. Plus, you bring your particular talents to the table in our favor. You know the Suns are going to be after the Glove of Shadows too.” She watched as the old man’s eyes turned hard.

     “I’m well aware of that, young man,” Styge said. “I just wish you’d make things a little clearer for me. Like, what’s my primary duty? Where are we going after Lee Toren takes us to the village to the north? And what are we going to do with the Glove once we have it, William?”

Well, she thought. At least I have an answer to those first two questions. She hadn’t, in fact, given much thought to what she would do with the Glove once she got it.

“Fair enough.” She squared her seat off to face Styge. “First, your initial duty is going to be to cover our tracks after we head out. If we try to cover them with conventional methods, Fly and his men will find us out quick enough and give chase. As to that second question, we’ll have to snoop around in the village for details about Reynaldi and his company before we can make another move. And lastly, I don’t presently know what the hell I’m going to do with the Glove once we’ve got it. If we get it,” she amended, knowing full well that defeat was a possibility. Thaddeus Fly and his Midnight Suns weren’t going to be her only opponents in this mission. Anna knew full well she couldn’t saunter up to a Paladin like Reynaldi and simply ask for the Glove. Especially since he intended to destroy the artifact.

“Well, at least we’ll keep it away from Fly, right?” Only the left half of Norman’s face seemed to have taken the full effects of the coffee thus far, leaving his smile slightly marred.

“True, me boy, true. But is that reason enough to take something like that into our Guild?” Styge sipped his coffee.

Damn him, Anna thought. That’s a good point. If that stood as the only reason for taking the Glove, then perhaps it made better sense to let the Paladin destroy it. But the potential uses for such a marvelous item seemed endless to Anna’s mind, the mind of a true thief. Imagine being able to take anything you wanted, off of anybody, and they were left with no idea they’d been mugged. Such an object couldn’t be ignored. But what exactly would she steal, and from who? The Glove wasn’t entirely necessary for most things she wanted. She could take them any time she wanted. So what exactly would she use it for?

“We’ll find a good use for it another time, Styge. The point right now is to get our hands on it first. Once we’ve brought it back here, we’ll talk about how to use it. Until such time, let’s just get our thinking straight. Any other devices you want to bring along Norm?”

“Just the usual stuff.” The Gnome finished his drink. “My pistol, incendiary devices, scanning and scouting equipment.”

Anna gave a brief nod, and stood, her coffee unfinished.

“Where you headed off to, boss?” Anna smiled down at him, showing her teeth for a flash of a second.

“Last minute business to take care of,” she said. “Wait here for the others. Flint should show up soon, he’ll be better for conversation than me right now.” With that, Anna left the Guild’s private tavern and headed for the one room she liked the least of all the public chambers in the Guild—the records room.

* * * *

Thaddeus Fly woke up an hour or so after Anna Deus had parted company with Styge and Norman. The first thought to shoot through his head was finish up.

He had almost completed his own preparations for their departure later in the evening, but had one more personal matter to attend to. He swung his bare legs over the side of his bed, rubbing his temple with one hand. The thick, jet-black scales on his hand felt cold to the touch, yet he knew he had sweat up a storm in his sleep. He always did.

Standing and stretching, Fly took a good long look at himself in his full-length mirror. He thought about the similarities between his Race and the Race of Lizardmen. While similar, the two species were different under close observation. For starters, Lizardmen only came in vibrant green, yellowish green, or brownish green. Draconus, on the other hand, came in as many varieties as there were Dragons in the sky. Secondly, Lizardmen had tough, leathery flesh, lightly scaled all over. Draconus bodies were covered with scales.

These, of course, stood as the most obvious differences. Fly opened his mouth and belched a short streak of lightning from his throat. Another key difference, especially in combat, was that Lizardmen didn’t have breath weapons like the dragon kin. Fly seldom used his, preferring to use the Ninja combat arts. And then, finally, there came the subtlest of all of the differences, one that Fly reminded himself of every day.

Lizardmen lived in packs and tribes. Draconus, however, had little or no sense of family. Once hatched from the egg, a Draconus grew to the size of an average Human adult in a manner of weeks, feeding off of kinetic energy around them. Once grown, the Draconus relied on conventional means of digestion, seeking out food by either hunting or collecting. It had always been the one thing he envied his lesser cousin Race. Despite being a Ninja, Fly never acclimated to the being a loner.

The Midnight Suns’ Headmaster got dressed, attaching his weapons belt and double-checking his rucksack, ensuring that he had everything he would need once they set out later in the day. Silence hung heavily in the air of his private chamber.

How long had it been? he thought. How long since I really felt like a part of something? Sure, he had the Guild, but he was the Headmaster, and was treated as such. He seldom got invited out when he ordered a Guild-wide break. Only Akimaru ever kept him decent company.

As soon as he thought about the white clad Ninja, there came a knock at his chamber door. “It’s open,” he called.

Instead of Akimaru standing in the hall, he found himself looking at Markus Trent.

“Please, step inside,” he grumbled at his second-in-command.

Trent smirked at him and took a couple of steps inside, clearing his throat dramatically.

“Fly, I thought I might try to convince you this morning, since you’ve had a good night’s sleep, to replace Rage and miss McNealy with more experienced agents.” Trent’s voice held a hint of mockery. “Two particular gents come to mind.”

Fly refused to look at Trent, much less give him the satisfaction of asking who he had in mind.

“We will not discuss this matter, Markus.” He turned and faced off with the Human.

Impudent, smug little prick, he thought. I know exactly why you’ve thought of two other agents for this mission. “I have made my decision, and I’ll not have you questioning my judgment on the topic. Now,” he stepped toward Trent. “Do you have anything else to say?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do.” Trent’s hands itched to wrap themselves around the Draconus’ throat and squeeze the life out of him. Ah, my lovelies, he mentally called to his torture tools up in his chamber. How I long to use you against this tyrant. “If you insist on bringing them, I humbly request you leave me behind and replace me in the party. I’ll be able to take care of things here.”

“Absolutely not.” Fly pressed his face a mere two inches from the shorter Human’s. “The last time I did that, you’ll recall, I came back and found myself set upon by a number of my own agents. My men, turned to your agenda.”

“Ah ah ah, you don’t have any proof of that.” Trent waved his finger in the ‘no no’ gesture.

     “If I did, you’d have been disemboweled already.” Fly pressed his size advantage, getting even closer to Trent. “But I know it was you behind their attack, you worm. I had to slay fifteen of my own men that day, thanks to your scheming and conniving.” He sparked a bit of lightning in his mouth as he spoke. Finally, he thought at the flicker of fear in the smaller Ninja’s eyes. “I’ll not risk another attempted insurrection, and I’ll not let you bring your traitors with our company. You'll just have to try something a little more clever, Markus.” He put one hand on the man’s chest and shoved him back out into the hallway. “Try, try again,” he muttered as he slid his door shut.

He heard Trent’s receding footsteps, hard and full of anger. Thwarted again, he’ll be thinking. Once again, Fly felt the need for a family or closer friends. With Markus Trent constantly trying to undo him, a few friends would be nice.

* * * *

Flint never thought much about food supplies. Hunting for wild game gave him not only a thrill, it gave him something to do on the otherwise uneventful trips he took away from Desanadron. He traveled the unmarked Shadow Roads, the paths and routes long before established by the longest surviving thief Guilds throughout the realm of Tamalaria. Few adventurers took the footpaths through the hills, fields and woodlands, as they would certainly be set upon by crafty road agents the moment they stumbled on the paths.

However, for such an open-ended mission, he knew Anna wouldn’t have Lee lead them down the Shadow Roads. As such, he might find himself competing with other travelers for game, so a quick purchase of a new quiver of bolts for his crossbow was in order. After a quick stop over at a weapons shop, the Wererat Guild Prime sauntered over to a small diner and sat by himself by a window.

He checked his wrist timepiece. “Nine-thirty,” he muttered to himself. “Time for a meal and a cuppa. Miss,” he said, hailing an Elven waitress.

Ten minutes later, his meal set in front of him along with his fifth cup of coffee, Flint drew an old map of the continent out of one of his pouches, laying it flat on the table.

“Wotcha’ lookin’ at friend,” someone asked at around his chest level.

He looked over and saw Lee Toren’s smiling mug, coffee in hand.

“Mind if I have a seat?”

The Wererat took a sip of his drink and motioned his rodent snout at the opposite side of the booth.

Lee hopped up into the booth, and stood on the seat, leaning over the map. “So, takin’ a quick look over the land?”

“Sort of.” Flint spoke around a mouthful of breakfast. “I’m trying to think ahead of William, figure the route he’s going to want to go. Where, exactly, is this village you’re taking us too?” Lee looked at the map, and used a small pen to mark the spot.

“Village of Prek,” Lee said flatly. “You gonna eat that toast?”

Flint handed the Gnome a slice, which he quickly covered with jam and devoured.

“S’a small village along the Toag River. Fisherman for the most part, but they also grow tobacco in the fields. Premium grade smokes made there.” He pulled a cigarette from his nearly empty pack and took a long first drag, exhaling out of the corner of his mouth and right into the face of a passing customer. “Somefin’ on yer mind there mouse man?”

Flint ate his food slowly, ignoring Lee Toren for a moment.

“Shows here that there’s an Order of Oun fort not far from Prek. But this map is a little outdated,” Flint finally said. “Reynaldi would head there to report in if it’s still in service. If it isn’t, he may move on towards Fort Flag, more directly east of Desanadron. But either way, we’ll have to head to Prek first to find out, won’t we?”

Lee gave him a short nod, chewing Flint’s other piece of toast.

Flint realized he hadn’t seen the Pickpocket nick it off of his plate. Lee really was very good at his job. “You know, you could order your own food.”

“What, and pay for it? Thanks no, I already did my good deed fer the day and paid full price fer me travel rations. Total rip-off they was, too.” Lee sounded genuinely offended.

“I’ll just bet.” Flint shoveled the last bits of his meal into his snout. “Look. Just don’t lead us into anything unhealthy for us. You have a bad habit of drawing unwanted attention from some very powerful people.” The Wererat pushed his empty plate away.

The waitress dropped off his bill, which he paid with a smile on his face as he exited the diner. “Remember that time when you went and took Councilor Chamlin’s heirloom sword? Tried dropping down a sewer grate?”

Lee thought back on that particular job. Taking the sword had been a ruse—the real target had been a gold inlaid bracer, an artifact kept in the Councilor’s possession for years. Lee hadn’t discovered its function until after he’d pawned the item.

“Yeah, I remember. Didn’t the cops wind up findin’ a coupla’ your boys wiv it?”

“Yes, they did. And we’ve never heard back from those two. I’ve always suspected that Chamlin had them unduly punished.” Flint voiced his opinion on the topic for the first time. He’d never trusted a few of the city Councilors. They were bigger thieves than anyone in the Hoods, and they abused their positions to be so. “To a very, very small degree, I blame you for that,” the Wererat mused aloud.

Lee blinked up at him, grateful that Flint was a fairly forgiving person when it came to business accidents.

“Stockholm, however, holds you almost entirely responsible.”

“No big surprise there,” Lee commented. The two thieves walked down the road as the street market stalls started setting up for the day’s business. “E’d blame me fer anyfin’ he could fink of. ‘Ere now, I’m gonna head up to the north gates.” Lee checked his wrist timepiece briefly, then said, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours, mate.”

Flint nodded, not looking down at Lee. His eyes roved over the assembling crowds of citizens as the city truly awoke with a surge of people going to their jobs, children heading for the school houses if they attended, and other Hoods agents popping in and out of the crowds, earning their keep.

Flint loved the city of Desanadron deeply, and felt certain he was as patriotic as the next fellow. Sure, he stole for a living, but he bore no grudge against the citizenry. In fact, he loved the smiling, jovial inhabitants of the city-state’s main territory. Without them, he’d have no career. Can’t pick a pocket or rob a home with no residents, now can you? However, he was soon going to have to leave her, his fair lady, his beloved home for so many years. And he wasn’t sure he’d make it back to her in one piece.

Sighing deeply, Flint made for the Guild once again. Anna wanted everybody to meet up in the drink hall, or in-house tavern as she called it, and he didn’t want to disappoint.