"The Glove of Shadows" Chapter Four- Assemble the Team

Anna leaned back in her chair, hands webbed behind her head as she stretched her legs out on her desk. Flint sat across from her, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. “The Glove of Shadows. Boss, we gotta have it! Say the word and I’ll round up a team.”

“No, you won’t,” Anna said, interrupting the Wererat. “I will. I’m leading this one personally, but no worries, old friend. You’ll be coming along with me, too. Now,” she brought her feet down off of the desk and leaned forward. “Who’s got the most seniority and rank under ol’ Stocky? Hopefully someone with similar qualities?”

Flint took a few minutes to think her question through, finally arriving at an answer.

“Borshev,” he said slowly, not entirely certain where Anna was going with this question, or of the name’s pronunciation. “Our only Minotaur on the Enforcement Squad. He’ll be good to bring along with us for sure, boss.”

“I’m not bringing him along, Flint,” she said, standing up and moving to her travel bag in the corner of the office. “He’ll be in charge while we’re on the road. We’re taking Stockholm with us, along with Norman and Styge.”

Flint shot up from his seat, his heart racing and his mouth moving before he could think. “We can’t bring Stockholm! That would leave no senior member here to see to the operations.” He pounded one large, furry hand down on her desk to gain her full attention.

Anna looked up from her bag, and saw Flint’s finger pointed toward her office door. “Those men and women out there are skilled, loyal, and energetic, sure. But without you, me, or especially Stockholm here to keep an eye on them, they’re a whole lot of trained monkeys! They need us to keep them in line. One of us has got to stay behind.” He paced back and forth in front of her, running a hand through his hair.

“Do you think Fly is going to bring anything less than his best?”

Flint stopped in his tracks.

She had told Flint every last detail of her conversation with Lee, and the Wererat had flinched when she mentioned that another informant had gone to the Midnight Suns. He knew that Thaddeus Fly would go after the Glove for his own purposes and indeed, the Black Draconus Ninja would travel with only the most elite of his guild’s members.

“I expect Borshev, Hollister and Coats in here, pronto. They’re out counterparts on a lesser level. They’ll be charged with keeping things in order while we’re gone, because as you said,” she set her face set, her tone stern. “Our men are loyal. They’ll listen when I tell them those three are to be in charge.”

Flint thought back on the last time Anna and Stockholm both left the Hoods’ home of operations, and he shuddered. Utter chaos didn’t seem, upon retrospect, an adequate term to describe it. It had been ruination, and had almost destroyed the guild. As soon as the Hoods’ troublemakers discovered that ‘William’ Deus and Ignatious Stockholm no longer stood in their midst, anarchy ensued. Flint stalked the streets of Desanadron that first night, bringing as many rogue agents into line as he could. He found merchants being hustled, elderly Humans being robbed at knifepoint, and guild members pounded each other in the back alleys in order to put to an end long-time grudges.

All of these activities spat in the face of the Hoods’ rules and traditions and Flint had done the best he could to punish the offenders. Punishment, in his case, had consisted of mounting and punching most of the little tits until they apologized. Some found themselves expelled from the guild altogether. But in the end, dozens, perhaps scores of offenses against the rules went unpunished, either because Flint couldn’t possibly witness them all, or he didn’t have enough proof to punish the offenders.

When Anna and Stockholm had returned, the list of injured in the infirmary had doubled, and for perhaps the first time since Anna had become Headmaster, Flint said nothing when she greeted him, simply handing her a pile of disturbance and disciplinary forms. All in all, his time without Anna and Stockholm present had been a disaster. Stockholm had been left alone and in charge many times before, but on his watch, nobody dared break the rules. Flint just couldn’t handle the guild agents as well as the Red Tribe Werewolf.

“Boss,” he said, still trying to reason with the obstinate woman. “The three of us haven’t been on the road together for years. There’s no real telling how well we’ll work together.” He paced back and forth in front of her desk.

He’d started fiddling with his claws, a sign that he was nervous, Anna knew. He really didn’t want the three of them to go. “Norm, he’s smart, clever, very good with mecha, but I hardly think he’s a good choice for a field agent. And Styge?” He turned and faced Anna, his hands on his hips and his head cocked to the side. “That geezer could kick at any given moment.”

“You’d be surprised how good Styge is in the field, my fine, whiskered friend.” Anna leaned back in her chair once again. “He’s got some ancient Illusionist spells and abilities at his disposal, and he mastered them in a much shorter time than most. Helps to be Human, sometimes,” she added, almost under her breath. “One of the spells lets him bring any illusion or artwork image to life for a short period of time.”

Flint scratched his furry chin. “So that’s why he’s always doodling in that pad of his.” He shook his head and threw his hands up in defeat, leaning back against the wall next to her office door and drawing out his nail-cleaning dagger. “Fine, we’ll do it your way, for now. But why Norm? Lee’s plenty capable, and I know he’s coming with us. Why the need for two Gnomes?”

Anna had stood, and began packing extra clothes and first aid equipment into her suitcase for the long trip ahead. They only had a vague idea, from Lee’s information, where they would be heading. They would have to collect further information on the road, and nobody could be certain where Archibald Reynaldi would be taking the Glove of Shadows. Her company could wind up on the road for weeks, even months.

“Because, Norman gives us an extra dimension over Fly and his goons.” Anna closed her luggage for the last time. “Norm knows how to use, create, and manipulate mecha better than most self-proclaimed experts in the realm. He’s been as far east as the Port of Arcade, and as far west as here, Desanadron. He’s yet to find an equal. The Midnight Suns don’t use mecha. They prefer the old ways, the ways of the Obura Ninja clan for the most part. They adhere to the sort of ethos that existed well before the Rise of Mecha.”

“And for good reason, my fair lady.” Flint dug at a particularly difficult to reach bit of dirt under one of his claws.

Anna shot Flint a baleful eye for calling her a lady while he stood so close to her unlocked door. It may have been soundproofed, but anyone at all could waltz in, at any time. Questions would be asked, and she’d have to answer them by shoving a knife into Flint’s eye.

“Mecha and technology nearly brought the world to an end, Anna. That’s historical fact, and proves, at least to me,” he pointed at himself with his dagger. “That mecha shouldn’t be toyed with. You can’t convince me it’ll come to any good.” He waggled the knife tip at Anna before going back to claw cleaning duty.

Flint knew what he was talking about, though not from personal experience. Almost nine hundred years had passed since the Fall of Mecha, enough time that only the long-living Elves, who almost never died of age before two thousand years, could be trusted to accurately depict what they had seen in that time. However, Stockholm’s people, the Red Tribe of the Werewolf Race, were an exceptionally long-living people as well. Stockholm said that he himself had only been a pup when the last days of the Fourth Era, also known as the Time of Mecha, had fallen upon the world. But he had known much of that time, and on the few occasions that Flint could get him to talk about it, the Wererat listened intently, taking in every detail.

His opinion of mecha and technology had been formed mostly out of the information he’d gleaned from those tales, in addition to his own rodent Race’s distrust of machines. Still, he thought begrudgingly, if anyone can handle the stuff, it’s Norman Adwar. “So, what do you want me to do when I’ve nipped out of here, sir?” Flint gave the ‘sir’ a small edge.

“I want you to get Borshev, Hollister and Coates in here. While I have my conference with them, go assemble the others. We’ll be leaving as soon as possible, so put a hustle on it.”

Before she could turn to dismiss him, having gone into a desk drawer to check for her finest flask of booze to take along with on the trip, she looked up and found her office door slightly ajar. Flint had already set about his duties.

* * * *

Stockholm sat a sturdy oak desk in his private chambers, several tall, metal filing cabinets behind and to his side. He took a moment to view his private sanctuary. It really was an enormous room, and contained shelving units all along the walls, each packed to the brim with map scrolls, books and trophies. Racks of weapons rested against the back wall, pressed between two bookcases. An open-faced fireplace stood in the opposite wall, heat gently circulating from the flaming logs therein. No bed could be seen anywhere, however, and he smiled to himself as he looked at the large, cushioned dog bed in front of the fireplace.

The Red Tribe Werewolf stood and walked over to a coat rack and taking down the sleeveless chain shirt he wore under his open fronted vest. He donned the shirt, putting his vest on over it and returning to his desk to read a set of reports. Guild Chief, he thought. Ignatious Stockholm hadn’t moved up or down the ladder of authority in the Hoods for many, many years. He had been present when the Guild was formed, and had been assigned the post the moment it had been named by the Hoods’ first Headmaster, Tomur Rekendo. Now, nearly sixty years later, he still held the post. William Deus didn’t know that, however, thanks to his careful manipulation of his own personnel file.

The entire city above him, mighty Desanadron, had been little more than a withered settlement when he had first arrived, over eight hundred years ago. His previous hometown had been crushed in the Fall of Mecha, the great fifteen-year war that had nearly destroyed all of Tamalaria’s inhabitants. A grand metropolis had developed from the colony he had arrived in, and now he sat in an office, underground, a forgotten cornerstone to the city’s success.

A moment later, Flint, who had decided to talk to the Red Tribe first since he’d probably have the same initial reaction as the Wererat himself, casually tossed the door open and sauntered in, closing the door behind him. With his back to the room, Flint didn’t see the Werewolf move, and thus jumped almost out of his skin when a huge, double-headed axe buried itself in the wall next to his head.

“Hwaagh!” Flint stumbled backward into the room, next to the desk from which Stockholm hadn’t even risen. The Wererat looked, flabbergasted, at Stockholm, the huge right arm still cocked forward from the throw. “What the bloody blue fuck was the axe for?”

Stockholm stalked to the door, removing the axe with an easy jerk on the handle.

“You didn’t knock,” Stockholm said flatly. He carried the axe back to his desk and set it under the leg cubby. “Anyway, what is it you want, sir?”

Stockholm retook his seat and sat with his hands clenched together, his elbows propped on his desktop, patient and formal.

His use of the word ‘sir’ held no sarcasm, Flint noticed. Stockholm only withheld his sarcasm when he was impatient. He sincerely worried about his prospects for leaving the room unharmed.

“No need to be formal, Stocky. No need to be so uptight.” Flint seated himself across from Stockholm.

     “You may be my superior, Flint, but you do not get to call me by that nickname. Now, what is the purpose of your visit?”

“Pack a bag, Ignatious. You, me, Norm and Styge are going with Will and Lee Toren on a road trip.”

Stockholm remained silent for a moment, bursting into derisive laughter. When Flint didn’t say ‘just kidding,’ he shook his head and waved a hand, dismissing Flint’s statement as nonsense.

“Impossible,” the Red Tribesman said. “You or I must remain here to ensure the proper operation of the Guild. And I mean no offense when I say I am better suited to that particular task, sir.”

Flint nodded, trying to think of how best to proceed.

“I would normally agree whole-heartedly with you, big guy, but boss man says Borshev, Hollister and Coates will be left in our stead. She’ll be talking to them soon.”

“Hmm.” Stockholm shot up from his seat, moving swiftly to one of the many file cabinets in the enormous chamber. He shuffled around in the cabinet’s upper drawer for a moment, coming back to his desk with three folders. He sat down heavily, and opened the records he’d selected, reviewing the three men’s files in his head and partially aloud. “Borshev I know well enough. He’s a Minotaur Knight, one of our Enforcers. A good lad, all in all. Hollister, one of our only Sidalis. A good Pickpocket.”

“He’s the fellow looks like a turtle in clothing, right,” Flint asked.

Stockholm nodded.

“Coates worries me, though.” Stockholm tapped the third man’s file. “Human, a Rogue like William. But he’s ambitious, a little too much so. He may try to con Borshev into giving him too much authority. May even get away with it.”

Flint smiled wickedly as he stood up from his seat.

“When Will’s done with them, you wants I should send Coates in to you?”

Stockholm returned the serpentine smile and cracked his knuckles, closing the file folders.

“Yes, you do just that,” he said. “I’ll have a few words with him. Very, STRONG, words.”

Flint left the Red Tribe’s chambers, feeling a little sorry for Coates.

* * * *

Elsewhere in the large, underground labyrinth that was the home of the Hoods, in another private chamber, an older Human gentleman lay snoring on a rickety cot. The floor of the chamber seemed to serve as a sort of flop ground for the old man’s clothes and garbage. A number of art supplies, and a large painting easel with a work in progress on it, dominated the center of the chamber.

Flint opened the door slowly, having heard the old man’s snoring from the hallway. He poked his snout into the room, looking around at the piles of garbage and heaps of clothes. Ah, he thought, reminds me of home.

He stealthily entered the chamber, creeping around the piles of garbage and art supplies. He made his way silently over to the cot, looking down at Styge as the Human slept on his cot.

The old man’s mouth hung open, revealing a set of rotted and blackened gums, most of the teeth missing. His cropped goatee was snow white, and his head was host to a similarly bleach-colored Mohawk. His robes, slightly disheveled and dirtied, rested over his limp form, the purple cloth hemmed with gold string and embroidered with arcane symbols.

Flint knelt next to the cot and gripped the side, smiling all the while.

With a sudden jerk, Flint shook the cot hard.

Styge woke up screaming, clutching his chest tightly.

Flint fell backward into a pile of clothes, laughing hysterically as Styge panted, his legs swung over the side of the cot. Finally, after he wiped away a tear, Flint sat up from his laughing fit. The last chuckle escaped his mouth along with a loud “Ow!” The impact of Styge’s cane with the top of his skull made almost no sound, but Flint had felt it well enough. “What in the Hells is wrong with you old man? That bloody hurt!” Flint groaned and rubbed his head as he stood up.

“That’s the whole point, youngster.” The sixty-three year old Illusionist lit his ever-present pipe. “Wake an old man in the middle of a sweet dream like mine, you’re bound to get smacked.”

“It was the one about the hooker in the red lace again, wasn’t it?” Flint asked.

Styge said nothing in reply, blowing a cloud of smoke in a heavy plume. “And don’t call me youngster, Styge. I’m two hundred and seventeen years old. I’ve seen lots more than you of the world.”

“Maybe so.” Styge shrugged his shoulders and moving over to the three-legged stool before his painting easel. He planted himself slowly on the padded seat, and took another puff of his pipe. “But Humans don’t live so long, you know. The Gods, therefore, give us wisdom and knowledge much quicker than the other Races, boy. Now tell me why you decided to ambush a defenseless old man in his sleep.”

Flint briefly outlined the mission he would be joining with Anna and himself.

At first, Styge said nothing, puffing along until the tobacco in his pipe was burned out. Then finally, he turned on his stool and looked Flint squarely in the eyes.

“All right, Flint. I’ll go along with you young ‘uns. I’ll need a little bit to get ready, though.” He was already collecting sketchpads and art supplies.

Flint gave him a thumb’s up, and left the old Illusionist to his task.

* * * *

Norman Adwar, Gnome and proud Engineer (not Tinker, as most assumed him to be), kept himself sequestered away in a work lab far removed from the rest of the private chambers of the Hoods. The repetitive hammering, welding, and the occasional explosion issuing from his previous lab had drawn down a long list of complaints, and Stockholm had been kind enough to move him to a quieter, more stable room. Currently, the last bits of his current project occupied Norm’s attention as he slid the remaining bolts into place, securing them with tools he’d had specially made by a Dwarven blacksmith up in the city proper.

Flint made sure to open the door to Norm’s lab and living space slowly, but loudly and obviously. Norman scared easily, and when he scared at work, things tended to go ‘ka-boom’.

Norm turned around, and Flint found himself looking at a miniature golem, it seemed.

With the welding mask on, Norman looked more like one of the artificial creatures than a Gnome. A moment later, he cut off the torch, set it on the bench, and lifted the hinged mask. His sweat streaked, yellowish face smiled at Flint, revealing a full set of fake teeth. Norm had lost his own over the years, blowing apart pieces of his mouth when one of his smaller wrenches just couldn’t do the job his mouth could to turn a nut.

“Ey there, Mr. Flint. Dandy you comin’ along just now.” Norm took off his gloves and hopped off of his stool. “I’ve just last night finished a very useful device for the Guild, sir. It’s over ‘ere.” He moved into the back corner of his lab.

Flint took a couple of experimental steps into the room, careful to step around the heaps of failed experiments and the cases housing properly operating machines. He also tried to note the tables housing ancient mecha artifacts, including a weapon labeled ‘rail-gun’ on a plaque at the front of the table. The bulk of the metal weapon gleamed dully in the fluorescent lights Norm had installed in the ceiling, giving it a deathly appearance. Flint imagined, from the bolt plates along its bottom, that the weapon had been mounted to a mecha vehicle of some sort. A large one.

“This’ll really wow you sir,” Norm said with pride.

Flint sauntered over to Norm, pulling his gaze away from the rail-gun and looking now at a tall, cabinet-shaped object under a tarp.

“Sir, I give you, my gift to the Guild!” Norm grabbed a section of the tarp, and ripped it down off of the device.

For a moment, Flint simply stared at the strange contraption, moving closer to get a better look.

“Um, what exactly does it, ah, do?” The Wererat experimentally tapped the front of the device with a long, extracted claw. No explosions, he thought, very good by my book.

“Ere, let me show you.” Norman pulled over a rolling cart with various assorted coins on its surface. He took the upper tray and poured the coins into the open chute on the front. All of the coins rattled inside, clinking and pinging off of one another. After some more grinding noises, a slip of paper shot out of a slot in the front. Norm took it out, and held it up to Flint’s approving snout. “See here? The machine takes and counts all forms of currency coins, and a prints out the totals here,” he said, pointing to the bottom of the paper slip. “I calls it, ‘Norm’s currency counter’! What’cha’ think?”

Flint felt thoroughly impressed. Many of Norm’s purportedly useful trinkets for the Guild had only been useful for those few who knew what to do with mecha, or how to operate them to some degree. This rolling cabinet would come in quite handy, and it hadn’t blown up or injured anyone.

“I think it needs a new title, but otherwise, it seems very sound, Norman. I’d like it moved as soon as possible to the treasury.”

Norman saluted and hustled away to his bench.

“It’ll make the treasury reports a lot easier to put together.”

Norm wasn’t paying attention, however. He was busy scribbling a note on a piece of parchment, and he quickly inserted the slip into a tube, sending along a pipeline he’d installed in his room. The pipeline extended to every chamber in the Guild’s sewer base, and stood as an effective way of communicating to other Guild members, so long as they took an interest in the system. Outside of the Gnome members and the two Kobolds who stood in their ranks, few did.

“There, message sent,” Norm said.

“Still won’t be much good for appraisals, though,” Flint said.

Norm shrugged his shoulders. “I can only work with what I’ve got. Anyway, what brings you round, sir? I know it’s big if you’re here for more n’ a couple of minutes.”

Flint smiled wickedly, and filled Norm in on the mission ahead of them, including the overall objective of obtaining the Glove of Shadows for the Hoods.

“Cor,” Norman said at last. “Guess I should get packing, yeah?”

* * * *

Across the city of Desanadron, in the multi-floored complex belonging to the Midnight Suns, Akimaru returned to Thaddeus Fly’s chambers, setting the jewels in their box.

“Sensei, what would you like me to do now,” the white clad Ninja asked as he bowed deeply to the Black Draconus.

Fly returned the bow briefly, and smiled at his exceptional student.

“We shall pursue ownership of the Glove of Shadows, my pupil.” He sipped of his fresh cup of oolong tea as he walked around the room. “Inform Mr. Trent, the good Miss McNealy, and Rage that they’ll be coming with you and I on a mission of utmost importance. But inform only Mr. Trent of the target of our quest,” Fly added, pointing to Akimaru to make sure the youth understood.

Akimaru remained silent, motionless. A barely perceivable head nod acknowledged his sensei’s wishes.

“Very good. Have them meet me here as soon as possible. We’ll speak at length when all are assembled. Gather them in the order I have stated, and return with Rage at the finish. Dismissed,” he said, bowing to Akimaru.

Watching the enigmatic youth’s back get smaller and smaller as he headed for the stairwell down the hallway, Fly wondered once again, as he had many times, why Akimaru never made a move against him. Akimaru seemed to respect him, seek his approval. While Fly had taught him many fighting skills, Akimaru hardly needed his tutoring. Fly had no evidence, but over the years he had developed the sensation that Akimaru could kill him whenever he chose. Yet somehow, for some reason beyond Fly’s comprehension, the white-clad Ninja sought his approval.

Letting the idea go, Fly sat on the floor of his personal chambers, and thought over the mission ahead.

Markus Trent skillfully drew a razor-thin scalpel through the bird’s abdomen, using a pair of pliers to push the tiny ribcage open in the most excruciating fashion possible. A weak, warbling cry escaped the swiftly dying animal as Trent felt a draft blow across his back from the door of his room being thrown open almost violently. He spun on his heels, facing away from his ‘work table’, as he called it, and found himself staring at Akimaru.

With so much of his face hidden by the white mask, Akimaru could often be hard to read, but Trent saw there in the young Ninja’s eyes something he had never seen before—outright disgust.

“Don’t you ever knock?” Trent spat at Akimaru, then turned his back on the white-clad youth. He found the bird on the table had died of shock and blood loss. Oh well, he thought, not as satisfying as the real thing.

“Master Fly wishes you to meet him in his chambers, Mr. Trent. We are going on a mission. The informant who arrived earlier relayed to master Fly that the Glove of Shadows has been recovered by a Paladin, and it is the sensei’s wish that we claim the Glove for ourselves.”

Trent, a sudden gleam in his eyes, gazed over his shoulder at Akimaru. “The Glove of Shadows? Truly?”

Akimaru nodded, saying nothing.

“That’s big.” Trent mulled the possibilities. “How many of us will be going with Headmaster Fly?”

“Four, plus sensei makes five in all. Myself, you, sensei Fly, Miss McNealy, and Rage. Go directly now to Headmaster Fly.” Akimaru shut the door hard behind him as he left Trent’s quarters.

Trent looked from where Akimaru had been standing to the bird on his worktable. Had such a trivial creature’s torture and death angered the young Ninja, he wondered. Or did he just not like the idea of being on the road with Trent and his precious sensei, where only he and Fly’s own skills stood between Trent and leadership of the Guild? Trent smiled from ear to ear like a sewer rodent, already scheming.

* * * *

Lain McNealy kept her personal chambers on the ground floor, and Fly allowed her free reign to do to the room what she wished, for which she’d been eternally thankful. Her skin resembled paper in color and shade, with the overall appearance of a starving waif of a woman. Her jet-black hair, lank and dirty looking, hung halfway down her back and spilled over her shoulders in the front and back. Her own personal choice in clothes ran to the gothic, which was, of course, very fitting. Lain, alone among the Midnight Suns, studied the magic of Necromancy. She had many years ago earned the title of Sorceress Supreme. The title of Sorcerer Supreme or Sorceress Supreme could only be bestowed by the Council of Power, an assembly of educated mages seated in Palen. One Sorcerer or Sorceress was awarded this title for each of the schools of magic, and in Necromancy, none could claim the sort of power or skill Lain had over the reanimated dead.

Five years before, Thaddeus Fly had recognized the useful applications he could set her to, and had extended an invitation for her to join the organization.

Bored, with little else to do and nowhere to call home, she had accepted. As soon as she moved into the room, she’d asked Fly if he could arrange for her floor to be torn up to reveal the hard packed earth beneath.

He’d immediately dispatched four of the Suns’ largest bruisers to take care of the task. There, over the course of the next five years, she had placed her greatest accomplishments, committing them to the dirt until she felt she needed them again.

Only one of her wonderful Lordly Zombies had remained active and in service. She had eventually released him from his fealty to her, though he never strayed too far from the Guild’s building. She smiled to herself as she knelt before the small stone altar she’d had brought into her room the year before that moment.

Lain felt someone’s presence at her open doorway, though whoever it was remained outside, waiting patiently, silently.

Her eyes remained closed, her hands clasped before her as she made a final prayer to Necrata, the Dark Goddess of Necromancy. After her final prayer, she remained kneeling for a minute, then blew out the candles on the altar and stood. Her long, tattered black dress swished the bare dirt as she turned to find Akimaru standing in her doorway, his hands behind his back. He bowed deeply to her when she looked him in the eyes.

“Miss McNealy,” he said quietly, politely.

“Akimaru-san.” She returned the bow in kind. “I’d like to thank you for not interrupting my prayers. I was lost in deep thought, thinking about my title and my time here with the Suns. Please, enter.” She gave him a black-lipstick smile.

Akimaru slipped forward, barely moving his feet it seemed as he approached the Human Necromancer. He stopped a few feet from Lain, and turned towards the altar, giving it a small bow as well.

“You honor me greatly, Akimaru,” she said. “You know there’s no need for that, though.”

“Respect in all things, miss McNealy,” Akimaru said flatly, his voice low and even. “Headmaster Fly requests your presence in his chambers. You shall be accompanying us on an expedition.” He looked away from Lain’s eyes, once more at the altar. “Please be expedient.”

He bowed once more, and took his leave of her.

The Necromancer woman stood where she had the entire time Akimaru had been in the room, and she realized, now that he was gone, that his presence had numbed her legs. Much like everyone else in the Midnight Suns, she gave pause for a moment, to consider what she really knew about the white-clad Ninja.

* * * *

Orcs had little business in thieves’ guilds. In the general opinion of most of the civilized and enlightened members of Tamalaria’s societies, Orcs stood as one of the Greenskin Races that could only ever be used as muscle and manual labor. Rage fit that bill squarely, but in the Midnight Suns favor.

Standing at six and a half foot, weighing three hundred plus pounds, the green-fleshed bruiser presently twisted his hips slightly to the left, hauling on a handle attached to a pulley, attached to weights. The Orc Berserker was working out—an activity that generally occupied up to fourteen hours of his day. His muscles bulged, and the sleeveless shirt he wore stretched with his efforts. He decided he’d have to go another size up when he went to market later, pulling in the opposite direction of his previous strain.

Thick tattoos, mostly uncolored, lined his upper arms and lower legs. Each depicted one of his most difficult opponents, most with a huge ‘X’ over their portrait. Of the seven figures depicted, only one was female, and one hadn’t yet been crossed over yet. The man whose portrait hadn’t been crossed over yet was Rage’s father. Sometimes, the Orc worried that he would die without getting the chance to mark his father’s face with the black ‘X’.

Rage let go of the handles in his hands, and let the weights crash down unfettered as he felt the presence of someone entering the weight room. The Orc grabbed his sweat towel, and hastily wiped his face and dabbed under his arms before draping the towel over his shoulder. Heavy steps sending small vibrations through the concrete floor, he moved through rows of exercise equipment, passing out of the weight room and into the cardiovascular portion of the gym. Twenty yards away, approaching easily with his hands behind his back, was Akimaru.

“Hey, Aki,” Rage breathed with relief. “Good ta see ya, pal.” Rage bowed awkwardly to the white-clad Ninja. Rage had always liked Akimaru, because unlike many of the Suns, Akimaru didn’t pick on him for being dim, didn’t antagonize him for his way of life, and never tried to pick a fight with him. Akimaru, like Lain McNealy, seemed genuinely interested in him. Unlike the rest of the assholes in this place, he added to himself.

“As it is also a pleasure to see you again, Rage.” Akimaru returned Rage’s attempt at a bow. “Headmaster Fly would like you to join him in his private chambers for a meeting. You will be coming with us on an expedition, honorable Berserker.” Akimaru led Rage out of the Midnight Suns’ gym. When they passed out of the doors, several other Suns walked in after them, not wanting to be around when Rage used the gym for himself.

“Really? We’s goin’ on a trip?” Rage smiled hugely at the Ninja, who appeared positively miniature in comparison to the hulking Orc.

“Indeed, Rage. Miss McNealy will also be joining us.”

At this, Rage smiled and laughed, and clapped Akimaru on the back. The white-clad Ninja, powerful though he was, nearly found himself splattered on the floor from the blow. He could have easily avoided the clap, but knew doing so might make Rage feel badly. He didn't want to upset the Orc Berserker unnecessarily.

“Dat’s great! Anybody else comin’?”

Akimaru hesitated for a moment, and then informed Rage of their other companion.

“Markus Trent.” Rage’s right hand twitched and curled into a tight fist. He hated Trent, because the miserable little Human was always riding his ass about his mistakes, and mostly about being brick stupid. Rage wasn’t a genius, and he knew it. But sometimes Trent’s lashing remarks really hurt him, inside, where he couldn’t put a bandage, as the Orc had once told Lain in confidence.

Aside from the comments, Trent moved too quickly for Rage to pose a threat to him, though Trent could do little to harm the Orc. Together with Akimaru and Lain, however, Rage imagined their expedition would be okay. He might even get to brutalize something on the way, and that suited him just fine.

* * * *

Fly stood at the back of his private chambers, directly opposite the sliding door to the hallway. Trent had arrived swiftly, but the two hadn’t exchanged any words. Lain had arrived some twenty minutes later, smiling to herself and, to Fly’s perception of such things, to the room in general. Fifteen more minutes passed before the Orc, Rage, finally entered. And now, right behind him, came Akimaru, bowing to Fly.

“Sensei, all are present and accounted for,” Akimaru said.

“Very good.” Fly looked around the room. He motioned for Akimaru to shut the door, and once he had done so, Fly grinned at them. “I have summoned you all here, as you now know, because we are going on a little treasure hunt. I have allowed Mr. Trent and Akimaru to be made aware of the object we seek. However, since you two aren’t officially ranking members of the Guild,” Fly said, indicating Lain and Rage. “I cannot at this time divulge to you said information. You need only know that you’re coming with us.”

As Fly said this last, Trent made a face at the Black Draconus.

“You mean to bring along these two,” he asked, incredulous. “You really mean to? I thought that perhaps your little puppet had developed a sense of humor.” He pointed at Akimaru.

“She is just a creepy little necrophiliac,” he said, wheeling on Lain with his teeth bared. “And he’s a bumbling simpleton, who’ll draw way too much attention to us on the road.”

“The term is Necromancer, Trent.” Fly came to Lain’s defense, since she had turned red in the face and appeared on the verge of striking his first officer. “She’s a Necromancer, and a Sorceress Supreme. You would do well to remember her title, and show her some respect, first officer.” He punctuated Trent’s title with sharp, staccato pronunciation. “As for Rage, Markus, I believe you know that William Deus is going to go after the target as well?”

The Human Ninja, in his gray uniform, scowled a little less severely and nodded.

“Then you know it’s possible that he’ll be bringing along that huge red brute of his. Ignatious Stockholm is nobody to sneeze at, Trent.”

“Maybe not, but I don’t think we need Rage to deal with him,” Markus Trent shot back, making it clear to the room as a whole that this moment would stand as another testament, later on, that he more than Fly deserved to lead the Suns. He turned a little at the hips to look the huge Orc in the eyes. “He may be Stockholm’s physical equal in terms of brute force, but the Red Tribe knows a hell of a lot more about fighting and tactics than our bumbling green buffoon here.”

Rage’s left eye twitched, and his blood boiled in his veins. He felt the urge rise in him to lunge across the room and pummel Markus Trent until he turned into little more than a bleeding pile of broken bones and torn muscles. But he couldn’t, not while the Headmaster remained in the room. Besides, he thought, quashing the urge with practiced concentration, if I did that, I’d just be an animal.

“You forget yourself, Trent.” Lain interrupted a minute-long silence that had settled in the room. The only sound that had made itself audible in that interim had been the gnashing of Thaddeus Fly’s dagger-like teeth as he mulled over Trent’s outbursts. “You insult Rage all the time, but do not forget that he has aided some of our agents many times. Often, when cornered by city guards much more adept at fighting than those agents, Rage kept them alive and safe. Don’t forget that you yourself once used his help to evade capture by the police. Who wound up in lockup for three months for that?”

The unanswered question lingered for a time much shorter than the previous silence, as Fly seemed to want to press on with matters of business. He cleared his throat to gain the room’s attention. “We shall take the remainder of this day and much of tomorrow to prepare. I had originally wanted to set out sooner, but we should make absolutely certain we are fully prepared for this journey. No half-ass measures, understood?”

Fly scanned each agent’s eyes with his own slit-like, reptilian eyes. In each of them he could see, even feel the potential. Even Markus Trent, if he could overcome his darker impulses, could be made into a fine Ninja master.

In Akimaru, he knew mastery of the Ninja ways would be honed. But only if the boy allowed someone to connect with him. ‘There is enigmatic, and there is cryptic’, Fly’s master had once said to him. ‘Make yourself enigmatic to your enemies, and to a lesser degree to your allies. But never become cryptic, for to do so will lock you away even from the world’s spirits’. Fly grinned to himself at the memory, his eyes locking now on Lain McNealy. There, oh, goodness, he thought. There’s power in that woman, potential she has yet to tap. Frightening, considering what she was already capable of.

He knew, as many had whispered in the halls he passed through daily, that she did not belong with the Midnight Suns. Some day, he would have to dismiss her with the best of wishes, because she would be beyond them all, way out of their league. Best not to let her waste her time, he thought sourly. I’ll test her on this journey, see if she’s ready yet. If not, I’ll give her time.

Onward, to Rage’s barrel chest and trunk-like arms. Here, Thaddeus Fly had found something close to a paternal instinct, because the Orc, while brutal and capable in close quarters combat, was almost child-like in intellect. Fly resisted the strong urge, natural to his people, to guard the Orc from harm, letting him learn from life’s harshest lessons. Through those lessons, Rage had become an accomplished warrior. True, he sometimes needed a little monitoring while he walked around the city of Desanadron, but lately, he’d been in control of his explosive temper. Thanks no doubt, Fly thought, to his training with Lain. The Necromancer woman had taught him meditative thinking techniques over the course of the last few months. Her success with him had been most impressive.

After closing the meeting by dismissing them all, Thaddeus Fly turned his thoughts towards not the journey ahead of them, the quest for the Glove, but to William Deus. How would he deal with the Rogue and his Hoods if they met on the road? Mulling the possibilities, the Black Draconus performed the movements of a kata, and formulated strategies.