'The Glove of Shadows' Chapter Eight- The Village, the Forts, and Madmen

Thaddeus Fly felt the sutra’s magical connection pull, and he stopped in his tracks as the sun began its decent toward the horizon.

Lain McNealy and Rage fell out of the air itself a few yards away, the large Orc bowling him over as he tumbled through. Lain herself was literally hurled by the force of the magic’s expenditure through the air.

Luckily, before she could smash her face open on a sitting stone nearby, Akimaru caught her deftly, standing her upright and brushing her off.

She was impressed by his speed and hidden strength, and with his manners as well. He didn’t let his hands stray where they shouldn’t.

“Thank you very much, Akimaru. Any reason you didn’t catch Rage?”

“He is many times my size, Miss McNealy. I would have been flattened.”

She giggled a girlish laugh, and thanked him again.

“Well, it’s good to see you’re uninjured,” Fly said.

Rage shook his head.

“Something wrong, big man?”

“I’m feelin’ pretty bruised up, boss.” The Orc Berserker held his ribs on his left side, and Fly noticed a nice lump on his forehead. “The doggy-man gave me what for, boss.”

Fly nodded, saying yes, he could see that.

The group moved on, into the setting night. After another three hours’ walking, they arrived at the outskirts of the village of Prek.

Fly stopped the company, telling Markus Trent to scout ahead, see how many, if any, sentries were posted throughout the small fishing village. When he returned, Trent grinned ear to ear.

“Nobody, Headmaster. It looks like the townsfolk pretty much guard themselves. Not that there’s much to guard,” he said with mild disdain. “It’s a fishing port, little more. Only place open right now’s a tavern, not much to look at.” He pointed at Rage. “Not sure he’d even fit in the doorway. Residents look to be mostly Human and Jaft.”

“Jafts are good fishermen, natural sailors,” Fly commented, not really thinking about what he was saying. “Okay, we’ll all head in, check the place out, see what we can learn. If you get anything pertinent, report it to me right away. Rage, you’ll have to stand outside.” He said that apologetically, but Rage didn’t seem to mind.

The Midnight Suns moved into the village like a pack of serpents, moving quickly and stealthily into the village center, following Trent to the tavern. Rage posted himself like a bouncer at the doors, and Fly, followed by Trent, Akimaru and Lain, walked inside.

The four agents split up, Fly and Trent taking seats at opposite ends of the bar itself, Akimaru and Lain taking seats at two separate tables. The Guild Headmaster discreetly picked over the gathered customers with his reptilian eyes. Trent had given him a good review of the residents—almost all of them were either Humans and Jafts. The bartender was a portly Human fellow, who looked like he was a few years away from a massive coronary, Fly thought. The man to his immediate left stank not only of the flesh of the Jaft Race, but also of fish. The woman to his right, a Human, looked to be in her middle years, and he immediately typed her as a barfly.

The great thing about barflies, he thought with a smug grin, is that they usually know a little about everything that’s going on in their particular haunt. He ordered himself a sake, and when the barkeep gave him a queer look, he sighed heavily and instead ordered mead.

The woman gave him a tipsy smile. “Not exactly from around here, are you, honey?”

Gods, Fly thought, her breath reeks!

“Not exactly.” He let a little of his old south-central plains accent slip into his voice. “Just passing through, looking for some friends of mine.”

The barkeep brought his mead, and he held him for a moment with a raised finger. “One more of what she’s having.”

The barkeep nodded.

The woman graced him with a smile, and he knew he could get any information she might have by getting her drinks. He sincerely hoped that was all he’d need to do for her. Anything else, and he’d have to cut her throat.

“Much obliged, sir,” she said in as sultry a voice as she could muster in her alcohol-induced stupor. “So, these friends of yours, what do they look like,” she asked, taking her drink and draining half of its contents in one go.

“Paladins and Knights, mostly. May have passed through not too long ago.” He looked away from her eyes. They’d screamed at him when he looked into them, the hunger, the need bare for anyone to see.

“Well, I don’t know about that, but there was a big fellah come through about a week back.” She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling as she thought back. “He stopped in here, asked for a scotch. One drink and he was gone.” She was clearly confused at such behavior. “Big guy, looked like a Simpa, but he had black stripes on his arms, like a, what’s they called?”

“A Khan.” Fly realized that he’d purchased her a drink for nothing. She clearly hadn’t seen Reynaldi and his men. He shouldn’t be surprised; after all, what would a Paladin do in a dive bar like this? They only frequented nice, clean establishments. And scotch hardly seemed a Paladin’s drink of choice. Yet, he knew to whom she referred. “The man’s name wouldn’t have been Portenda, would it?”

“Yeah, that was him.” She gave a wide smile. “You looking for him? I hear he’s a Bounty Hunter.”

“He’s possibly the best, but no, we’re not looking for him.” Fly said nothing more, paying for his drink and hers and heading outside. He needed to clear his head. He usually had more patience than this, but he knew that William Deus and his Hoods would only be a few hours behind him. Even if the Hoods stopped to rest, Lain and Rage were exhausted. One of Deus’s small throwing knives had landed her a glancing blow on the thigh, bleeding her pretty good before Lain noticed it. And Rage was stiff with bruises, having been struck several hard blows by the Red Tribe Werewolf.

The Midnight Suns themselves would have to stop for a rest before the sun came up. And that may very well put Deus ahead of him.

“Sometin’ on yer mind, boss,” Rage asked from the other side of the tavern’s doorway.

Fly could smell the odor of cheap beer and cheaper patrons wafting out into the calm night air.

“Indeed,” the Black Draconus Ninja muttered, half to himself. “I am finding that there are a few flaws in our present travel strategy. If we take too long here, we’ll be caught up with. I refuse to deal with the Hoods again so soon. What we need,” he said, thinking long and hard. “What we need is a lead, and then a route that Deus won’t take. We need a ruse, something to slow him down,” he said.

“Sensei,” Akimaru said as he stepped out into the night air. “I have learned something of value.”

Lain and Trent came out only a minute later.

“Go ahead,” Fly said.

The group huddled like a sports team, keeping close together.

“One of the customers recalls seeing the Elven Paladin. The customer was once a Knight on duty at Fort Flag,” Akimaru said. “He informed me that the other fort, the one closer to Prek, is still in service. However, he also informed me that Reynaldi is an Elf while the nearer fort to Prek consists mostly of Dwarves, Werewolves and Cuyotai.”

“Dwarven Paladins?” Lain asked incredulously. “That’d be strange to see.”

“No, Dwarves do not make themselves Paladins,” Fly explained. “They’d be Knights or Soldiers in service to the Order. So, Reynaldi would most likely go to Fort Flag. But we don’t have to let Deus know that,” he said with a smile. “Akimaru, go back in there and bring us that gentleman directly.” The Midnight Suns’ Headmaster positively cooed. “We need to have a few words with him.”

* * * *

“Oh, wow,” Anna said.

Stockholm’s confession hadn’t been as earth shattering as she had assumed it was going to be, and in truth, she couldn’t say as she thought it mattered much. But apparently, it mattered a great deal to Ignatious Stockholm. His secret hadn’t had anything to do with his age, which she still didn’t know. It hadn’t been a grisly family secret or curse. The secret hadn’t even explained any of his other sometimes strange or mysterious behavior. He wasn’t some heir to any kind of throne.

Ignatious Stockholm was homosexual.

Lee Toren, Stocky explained, had never meant any harm by walking into his private chambers in the underground base of the Hoods. But he had caught him at an awfully awkward moment, conjoined as he had been with his partner.

“And that’s about the half and whole of it,” Stockholm said.

A trivial matter, Anna thought, yet this big guy acts like it’s the most important secret he’s ever kept. Time to trump that, she thought with a light chuckle.

“Stocky?”

“Yes,” he said, and found himself staring wide-eyed at his Headmaster. As he’d been telling her about Lee’s interruption, she’d undone the uppermost wraps around her breasts. As soon as he’d said ‘yes’, she popped the upper buttons of her tunic undershirt, revealing herself and her secret to him.

“Oh, mighty hell,” he whispered.

She did up the wraps again, and smiled wider than she had all day. It felt good to let somebody else know, especially someone as close to her as Stockholm had been over the years.

“You’re Anna,” he said—not a question, but a flat statement.

As William Deus, she had told her many agents over the years that she had a sister in the city—a sister by the name of Annabelle. She’d also ordered her ‘brother-in-law’ be protected, and so he had been.

Stockholm had to suppress a laugh. “No wonder Harold’s so miserable when you’re down with us!”

“No need to remind me.” She looked back toward the rest of her company. “Until now, it was just Flint who knew. He found out when he treated my wounds, back when we were plundering those ruins about seven or eight years back,” she said. “Only reason the Guild was left to me when Remy died,” she whispered. Stockholm placed a huge, hairy hand on her shoulder, ever so gently.

“That’s not true, Will. I mean, Anna.” He gave her a gentle squeeze. “You were left in charge because you were the Prime, and because nobody else keeps things in order as well as you do. Nobody else in the Guild thinks with the sort of strategy you do.” The Red Tribesman looked over at the rest of the company then, nodding sagely to himself. “There’s something else I’ll bet you don’t know about me,” he said.

“What’s that,” she asked.

“I’m one of the only Red Tribe Werewolves in Tamalaria who doesn’t know a lick of traditional magic,” he said with a smile. “My peoples are renowned for their prowess as mage-warriors. There’s only a few of us who don’t know something about elemental magic. Me, I’m one of those few.”

“Doesn’t seem to slow you down any.” She headed over to the rest of the company. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get these slackers up and moving. We’ve lost enough time on Thaddeus Fly, and I don’t intend to lose any more.”

The rest of the company was awakened, and they got themselves moving north again. Lee took the front once again, this time with Stockholm.

Anna hung back in the middle of the pack along with Flint, and she walked next to him easily, smiling as she walked under the moon’s guiding light. Flint looked groggily over at her at one point, raising an eyebrow as he lit a cigarette. He offered her one, and for the first time in many months, she accepted, lighting it with a match she lit off of her belt buckle.

“What’s got you so perky, boss?” the Wererat asked quietly.

She leaned over and tiptoed as close as she could toward his ear.

“I told old Stocky my secret.”

Flint stared ahead, and a moment later, choked and sputtered on the smoke he was holding in.

“May I ask why?” He took another pull on his smoke after one final, ragged cough.

“I had to, Flint.” She realized that their entire conversation was being held in whispers and hushed tones. “He trusts me so implicitly, and it just seemed wrong to keep it from him any longer. Besides, he’s not going to out me on it.”

“What makes you so sure? I mean, I trust the big red menace as much as the next guy, but come on.” Flint tossed the spent butt into the near distance and lit another cigarette.

Mighty Groma, Anna thought, he’s on the road to being a chain-smoker.

“Let’s just say, I know something you don’t, now.”

Flint smiled back at her and let the matter drop.

* * * *

“So you understand what you must say to them, then?” Thaddeus Fly asked.

The former Knight in service to Fort Flag smiled nervously, trying not to let the fog in his head tip him forward. He nodded only slightly—too much head movement would send his throat down on the kunei Akimaru held just a few inches away.

“You should speak your answers for now, my man,” the Black Draconus said.

“Yes, I understand. Reynaldi serves out of what is now Fort Branick. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it,” the former Knight said.

“Very good little man,” said Markus Trent. Fly would have let Trent hold the blade, except that the Human Ninja’s own tendencies would cause the weapon to get too close to his throat.

“Headmaster, we should probably be away now. Deus and his group may be approaching very soon.”

Fly nodded, and Akimaru vanished his weapon once more. No straps or sheaths could be seen over the white uniform clothes, and not for the first time, both Fly and Trent found themselves trying to see exactly how Akimaru made the weapon disappear. Neither came away any better informed.

Thaddeus Fly led the group away, east and south, their march now taking them towards Fort Flag. It would be a three-day trip on foot, but he was thankful for the edge the misdirection would give him over Deus and the Hoods. However, he thought, what happens when we get to Fort Flag? How are we going to get the information we need? And what are the odds that Reynaldi hadn’t even stopped at the Order of Oun Fort? He had yet to discover which of the many Order Forts across the continent served as the Elven Paladin’s home base, and without that knowledge, they would be forced to try and pick up information as they could.

Instead of dwelling on their lack of knowledge, he thought instead on how to approach the problem of Fort Flag. No chance that Trent, Akimaru or himself could even get inside. Their clothes and equipment spoke volumes about what they were. Sneaking into a Fort would result in immediate imprisonment. Lain McNealy would also be known for what she was on sight. No Paladin would mistake her for a pilgrim—that much was certain.

But what about Rage? he asked himself. Sure, the big Orc Berserker wasn’t precisely articulate, or clever for that matter, but he followed orders to a T. With the right coaching, compliments of Ms. McNealy, he’d say anything. Dim as he was, he’d believe anything they told him, so no Knight could detect a lie from him. Because, in essence, he wouldn’t be lying. “Rage, Lain, if I could have a word with the two of you as we walk." He smiled like a demon.

* * * *

Midnight arrived, as Anna and her company reached Prek.

The village, they all saw, was small, and the inhabitants didn’t seem to be out and about.

Flint looked in all directions for constables, until he finally realized there wouldn’t be any in a village of this size. His nostrils flared, however, at the scent of Jaft residences, his lycanthrope nostrils exceptionally sensitive to their natural stench.

Stockholm, he saw, had a hand clamped over the end of his snout, and the big guy’s eyes were watering.

“Not always an advantage to have a more sensitive snout than mine, eh,” he chided the Red Tribesman.

Stocky shot him a warning glance, and he laughed.

Anna scanned the streets, her ears picking up on loud and boisterous conversation, the kind every small town had this time of night. She led the company over a couple of streets, and found the source—the town’s watering hole.

“Okay, who’s going in?” She looked around the gathered company.

Lee and Norman had already ducked inside for a drink, and Anna rolled her eyes. Even though the Gnome Race was a collection of thinkers, they drank nearly as heavily as their mountainous cousins, the Dwarves.

“Styge, you going to partake?”

The old Illusionist frowned and shook his head.

“Flint, Stocky?”

Flint nodded and headed inside.

“Keep an eye on things out here,” she told Stockholm.

The Red Tribe Werewolf nodded, and stood outside the tavern with his back to the wall.

As his Headmaster ducked inside, he smelled something familiar on the wall—the scent of Orc flesh.

Rage, he thought with a deep growl that startled Styge, who had taken up a spot next to him, sitting on the street with a sketchpad in hand.

“Be at ease, elder,” Stockholm said to the Illusionist. “I growl not at you.”

“They’ve already been here, you know,” the white haired Human said without looking away from his pad and pencil.

Stockholm nodded, and concentrated on his senses, focusing on the smell of the air, the ground, the tavern itself. Though the stench of Jaft flesh nauseated him, he had to search with his nostrils for what his eyes couldn’t tell him.

He didn’t have the heightened hearing of Flint, because that was a talent latent in Wererats. His kind had their snouts to rely on, and he tried to take advantage of that now, coming up finally with the scents of the Black Draconus, the Human Markus Trent, and the scent of death. That would be Lain McNealy.

There was a curious addition to these smells, he noticed. One of the lingering scents reminded him of the smell the air took on just before a lightning storm, the smell of burnt ozone and spent power. Whose scent is that?

Inside, Anna strode up to the bar and took one of the two empty seats available, ordering a gin and tonic.

The barkeep, a rosy-cheeked fellow with a big, fake smile, handed it to her, along with a scotch.

“From the Gnome gentleman at the other end of the bar,” the barkeep said.

She looked around the barkeep at Lee Toren, who raised his glass to her.

She could see that his free hand had found the money pouch of the patron next to him, and he was already stuffing it down the front of his pants. Always working, that one, she thought.

She nursed her drink and listened in to the nearby conversation, until finally Flint showed up next to her, seemingly out of nowhere. “I think I’ve got something boss.” The Wererat took a drag of his cigarette, and led Anna over to a corner booth where a single middle-aged Human sat, his breath and clothes already heavily scented with cheap house whiskey.

“Mr. Johnson, this is my employer, William Deus,” Flint said by way of introduction.

Anna sat and shook the man’s offered hand.

“Will,” Flint said. “Mr. Johnson and I were talking about Paladins, and he remembered something. Would you care to repeat it for Mr. Deus?”

“Sure,” the middle-aged man said. “I used to be a Knight, served out of Fort Branick. T’other day, an Elven Paladin, name of Reynaldi, passed through here, recognized me, and gave me an invitation to come back to the Order. I turned him down, of course,” he said, taking another sip of his whiskey.

“Why so, Mr. Johnson?” she asked.

The man looked up, and she saw there a deep, anguished soul.

“Because the Order isn’t what it used to be, Mr. Deus,” he said, his tongue heavy and his speech starting to slur ever so slightly. “And I’m no longer fit to call myself a Knight. Most days, I spend my daylight hours working on the river. At night, I come here to forget everything. Drink enough, and you’ll forget why you started drinking.”

He looked out of the small window set next to his booth. Anna and Flint gave each other a glance then, in the awkward silence. “Anyway, I told your employee here that Reynaldi served mostly out of Fort Branick, when he’s in the region,” he said, making certain to play to the script that the Black Draconus and his goons had given him.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Johnson. We happen to need to catch him up, and you’ve been very helpful in that regard.”

When she stood, the former Knight had an instantaneous moral crisis, and he clamped a heavy hand onto her wrist.

She looked him in the eyes, and knew he had something more to say, something to get off of his chest. She also noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that Flint had a hunting knife held against his leg, ready to strike the drunkard.

She stayed him by putting her free right hand over the Wererat’s. “Something else, Mr. Johnson?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Fort Branick has a lot of records on the higher-ups, personnel files and whatnot,” he said, staring at her. His eyes cleared a little of the alcohol-induced fog, and she saw the man behind those eyes clearly for a moment. He had seen something, an event awful enough to make him abandon the path of the Knight. An event to make him take to drink, to help him forget. However, something of the Knight he’d been lingered, and she saw it there, just faintly, beneath the surface. “You may find more information about Reynaldi there, vital information,” he said, letting go of her hand at last.

“Thank you again.” She moved away from the booth and stalked over to Norman and Lee, who had already gotten themselves tipsy.

She grabbed Norman by the back of his tunic and hauled him up, setting him down roughly on the wooden floor. “Come on,” she said, as Flint duplicated the maneuver on Lee. “We’re leaving, right now.”

The four of them made their way outside where they found Styge packing his tools away.

Stockholm was down on all fours, sniffing intently at the ground.

“Gentleman, make ready. We’re going to start for Fort Branick, due east of here,” she said.

“That’s not where Fly and his troop went,” Stockholm objected. “Their scents lead away to the south and east, to Fort Flag.” He looked at Anna, who shook her head and started east, out of town.

“That doesn’t matter, Stocky. Let the Midnight Suns flail and twitch in the wind. Reynaldi may have gone that way, but that won’t be where the Paladin is heading. We’ll find out where he’s going, and then head there ourselves, because Mr. Johnson back there just told us everything we need to know.”

She intended to go to Fort Branick and look through Reynaldi’s records, find where his home was.

Instead of following the Paladin, they would head straight for his destination. We may even be able to throw him a welcome home party, she thought with a grin and a chuckle.

The company walked in relative silence, moving out of the village, across the river via one of the many large, stone bridges crafted by the mountain-dwelling Dwarves some hundreds of years ago. The plains and wooded areas this far north tended to be dangerous, and Anna chose, for once, to stick to the main trading routes that travelers kept to when traveling the lands. She didn’t want to encounter the more hostile denizens of the night right now. They were going to have trouble enough when they got to Fort Branick.

By Lee’s estimation, which Anna couldn’t be certain she should trust, they had a day and a half’s travel ahead of them at a moderate pace. If they hauled ass, he’d said earlier in the night, they could make it in less than a full day. However, it had been a good long time since Anna had been outside of Desanadron’s walls, and walking out in the countryside felt good. The city, while it contained all of the life and business she could handle, just felt oppressive.

When she retired, she thought, she’d like to get a nice little place out in the middle of the plains or forests, settle in with Harold and be nice and cozy, away from the hustle and bustle of the big city.

At around four in the morning, she called the company to a halt after Norman complained for the umpteenth time about his feet hurting him.

“Your feet hurt because you spoil yourself with your trinkets, young man,” Styge offered as they sat huddled around one another for warmth. No fire would be lit, Stockholm had said, at least not in the region they had passed into. Despite an Order of Oun Fort nearby, he had explained that the sparsely wooded area they were passing through was inhabited by madmen, Goblins, and Troke, the fiercest of the known sentient Races in Tamalaria. Made of a strange material, the Troke were a Race of shape-shifters, able to take on the appearance of any living or non-living thing they touched. But most Troke were still wild, primal beings that hunted small territories, claiming them as their own.

“They don’t go down easy,” Stockholm had said to the group as they settled in for the brief respite. “And it’s even harder to keep them down.” And so, they had abstained from lighting a fire, and Flint kept his cigarette cupped in his hands, to hide its glow. Norman agreed not to tinker with any of his equipment, because at a moment’s notice, the company may have to move out if threatened. Nothing came at them when they got their things together and headed out again.

Anna wondered how long their luck could hold out. Travel in Tamalaria was uncertain at best, and even if one took the main roads. The dark of night brought creatures that had to be slain to be dealt with.

Yet they made it through to the morning hours, the sun coming up to warm them as its light wound its way through the woods and flatlands. The way had been largely easy to travel, but Anna saw now, as the sun illuminated their path, that easy travel was about to disappear. Huge stumps of trees long since cut pocked the ground, as did the corpses of animals, and some of men and women less fortunate than she.

She thought back on something Remy had once told her as she looked at the first of the crow-pecked bodies. ‘The worst monsters in the world are the ones that don’t go back into hiding when the sunlight strikes them.’ How very, very true, she thought.

Flint, now up front with Stockholm, looked around the expanse of cleared woodland, listening to the surrounding area as his crimson companion sniffed the air deeply.

The rest of the company came up behind the two lycanthropes, now relying on their keen senses to scout around them for danger.

Flint knew that Stockholm would probably smell any danger before he heard it, but he still wanted to be helpful. Stockholm moved off a little to the south, leaving the company a good forty yards away. He stood there, sniffing the air, when Flint heard the first indication of trouble to the north of them. He turned his head sharply, keeping his left ear directly open in that direction, concentrating.

He couldn’t make out the words, but he knew the sound of the language well enough. What were they doing this far north?

He turned back to face Anna squarely, and saw Styge muttering under his breath and making small and forceful hand gestures that made the sleeves of his robes billow and swish.

“What is it?” Anna’s face twisted with worry.

     “From the sound of it, it’s Illeck. Dark Elves,” he whispered. “I’m not familiar enough with the language to understand it, but I recognize it.”

He turned to look for Stockholm, and his heart dropped when he didn’t find the Red Tribe Werewolf standing where he had been only shortly before. “Where’s Stockholm?”

“I saw him duck back into the wood line,” Lee said.

Styge finished his incantations and the air fairly shimmered around the company.

“Nobody make a move, and try not to make a sound,” he rasped at the company.

Flint understood what the old Illusionist was up to. He’d made them appear as natural formations in the environment, so that they would not be seen or heard by anyone outside of the company, or the spell’s range of affect.

A surprised cry went up to the north, and four Illeck emerged from the underbrush, their eyes wide with disbelief. Their query had just, well, disappeared.

“Spread out, and find them,” a voice shouted. Its owner stepped into Flint and Anna’s view.

The man was garbed in strange, long purple robes, and on his head rested a sort of crown tinged with rust. Without doubt, the man’s Race was Half-Elf. From the ashen cast of his skin, the Elven half was clearly Illeck.

Anna couldn’t see his face, but his movements seemed jerky, random.

When he sauntered over to a corpse being claimed by a murder of crows, he shooed them away, and starting himself picking pieces of dead flesh from the body.

Well, she thought dismally, we’ve found the first of the madmen.

One of the scouting Illeck crept to within ten yards of the company. He stood there, staring right at them, yet not at them. He seemed to be focused on a spot some hundred or so yards behind the company, and Anna breathed a small sigh of relief as he turned and stalked away.

The Illeck didn’t appear to be armed with anything more than some short swords, but she was sure that one or two of the marauding madmen would know some magic. Elven folk were naturally attuned to magic, after all. Insane or not, they’d know how to use a few choice spells.

After nearly a half an hour, while they stood about helplessly, tensely, the Illeck scouts all returned to their crowned leader, shaking their heads sadly.

Words were exchanged in the harsh, guttural language of the Dark Elves, and four of the five scouts turned on the fifth man, running him through from all sides.

As he lay bleeding on the woodland floor, their leader reached down, grabbing for the scout’s face. Anna felt her throat fill with bile at the sound of the scout’s screams as the mad Half-Elf plucked his eye out and bit into it. She held down the urge to vomit.

Norman, it turned out, wasn’t so strong.

* * * *

Stockholm, it has already been noted, was much traveled across the continent of Tamalaria. He’d been across the Southern Blue and visited the continent of Tallowmere, returning with a head brimming with information, which he quickly recorded in a thick set of blank tomes he purchased in Desanadron. His trip had taken him away from the Hoods for a year and a half. Nobody currently in the Guild’s employ knew about the tomes.

In that strange land, he’d learned to appreciate different religions, and so upon his return to Tamalaria, had devoted himself to re-learning the ways of the many official religions, cults, and sects of the lands. In Tallowmere, one’s religion was one’s life. The Red Tribe warrior had found this odd, but he didn’t hold it against the peoples of Tamalaria—or that of Tallowmere. One’s way of life should never be questioned too thoroughly, he’d thought. Best to live and let live. Perhaps, if he’d kept that in mind long ago, he wouldn’t even be here.

In his studies of the cults that formed in the Third Age of Tamalaria, as recorded in the histories and cultural texts from the era, he had come across a particularly fascinating order. By outsiders, they were known as the Madmen of Maragshet. Study in Desanadron’s largest library had revealed to Stockholm that the members of the order referred to themselves as The Blessed Children of Maragshet.

One of the only gods in Tamalaria’s history to survive the constant shifts in philosophies and ideologies, Maragshet was recorded as a god of madness and chaos. The Red Tribesman had known about that all too well, even before reading the information in Tamalaria. Curiously, nobody in Tallowmere knew of the mad god.

Stockholm had gone far to the east, near Palen, where a well-known church had been erected by followers in the Fourth Age. The church had become a compound about fifteen miles due west of the city. The compound, at the top of a hill, was surrounded by marshland, difficult to traverse in the best of conditions. But traverse it he had, arriving at the gates of a very sturdy facility. He had been met by a wizened Human, who had told him that the Great Maragshet had told him of the Red Tribe warrior’s coming.

“Your god gives you good foresight,” Stockholm had said evenly to the elderly Human. The man cackled like a hyena, then performed three cartwheels back through the gate. He bade Stockholm follow him inside, which the Werewolf did. 

Inside, he was given free access to the compound. Inside, he had observed many forms of madness, taking hold of every occupant therein. He had stayed for ten hours before he asked the elder to pardon him, he really must be going. As he’d left, the elder had pushed an ancient, leather-bound book on him.

Upon returning to the Guild, Stockholm had devoted two whole weeks to the study of the book. It had been penned in the blood of many creatures. Judging from the book’s contents, this had been the journal of a man whose name had been Maragshet. The journal had started in the early years of the Second Age, and followed the man’s journeys for several years, telling of the strange things he felt compelled to do.

Apparently, Stockholm had thought, sitting in front of the fireplace in his chambers beneath the city, the journal had fallen into someone’s hands. Someone very impressionable, he thought. Maragshet’s life and ways had been interpreted as holy writ, and now he was a god. Or at least, that would be how most interpreted what he read. He himself knew better.

Seeing the inside of the compound, Stockholm had seen many men wearing rusted, battered crowns. Through his research, he had learned that the Blessed Children of Maragshet organized themselves in small families, and the leader of such groups wore crowns to identify themselves.

When he’d seen the man with the crown from atop a tree some fifty yards away, he’d gone in search of the family’s home—where they would keep a small altar in honor of their god.

He had found it only been ten minutes into Anna and the company’s wait. The family home was a ramshackle building, made mostly of hardened mud and thatch. Inside, he found the altar.

It was a strange thing, in the shape of a two-headed turtle and a red herring, as were all of the cult’s altars. This one had been made out of small pieces of kitchen utensils, and Stockholm knelt down before it. What he was preparing to do, he had only done twice in all of his long, long life, but everyone would be the better for it. He closed his eyes, concentrated, and called out to Maragshet.

The response was almost immediate.

He was baffled that any god would respond so quickly to his calling. As twice before when he’d performed this task, he found himself standing in a misty chamber with the god.

Maragshet appeared as a homely man, all rough scar tissue about the face and shoulders. His left arm hung all the way to the floor, hairy and muscular like a gorilla, while his right arm was of normal Human length. He was wrapped in a suit of bird feathers affixed to some sort of animal pelt, and he smelled of the fecal matter he’d used to paint arcane symbols on his forehead and the backs of his hands. On his head, he wore the hollowed skull of an ox.

“What brings you here, to me, outsider,” the mad god asked, his eyes locking onto Stockholm’s.

The Werewolf fumbled for the right words for a moment, baffled by the appearance of the mad god. After the initial hesitation, he knew exactly what he had to say.

“Great and mighty Maragshet, father of the Blessed Children, I come before thee truly as a mortal and an outsider.” Stockholm bowed deeply. “I pray you forgive me. However, I must ask that you allow myself and my friends safe passage from your Children, lest we be forced to take up arms against them.”

Maragshet rubbed his chin, apparently letting the Red Tribesman’s words sink in and take hold.

“Many have taken up arms against my Children in the past, crimson wolf-man,” the old, mad god said slowly. “My Children remain faithful, however rough the road gets.”

“This is true,” Stockholm said, folding his arms over his barrel chest. “In the Fourth Age, the last era before the Fall of Mecha, your followers were hunted down and slaughtered wholesale by the Order of Sergia. They formed in the Elven Kingdom, and saw your Children as a blight upon the lands. Thus, they sought to exterminate them. However,” he said, really grabbing the mad god’s attention now. “You told your Children to go into hiding, to worship you in smaller ways, in subtle ways. You told them to go happily into the asylums and madhouses, that they may be free to worship without restraint.” Stockholm quoted one of the lecturers he had listened to in the compound outside of Palen so many years ago.

The mad god stared in wide-eyed shock at the Red Tribe Werewolf. Then, he smiled the smile of the truly benevolent and kind. “I wasn’t always crazy, you know,” he said in a soft, warming voice. He tilted his head to one side. “One day, I woke up, and there were these ideas in my head. Strange ideas, you understand? And I couldn’t get the ideas to go away, until I did what they were suggesting. But, you have no time for this. I shall grant you and yours safe passage, and in return, you shall do something for me, crimson one.”

Stockholm stood rigid, proud, and nodded his consent.

“On the fifteenth day of this upcoming month, you shall take a fish, and you shall beat it first upon a house of brick, and then upon a house of wood. Then, you shall eat the fish, whole. Yes, that’s it,” the mad god said, his eyes spinning in opposite directions. Stockholm bowed low once more.

“It shall be done, Maragshet,” he said, and stood from the altar back in the mortal realm. Without another word, he left the shack, heading back for his allies.

* * * *

As Norman Adwar thunderously lost his lunch, Styge’s illusion failed.

The group found themselves exposed, and the Illeck all turned and stared at them, mad glee in their eyes.

Their crowned leader directed his gaze skyward. His lips were moving, but Anna couldn’t make out what he was saying.

From the woods behind the mad Illeck, Stockholm strode like a man tempered of steel, his pace even, his eyes and jaw set in his face.

Before he came over to Anna and the rest of the company, he stood before the crowned Half-Elf, and whispered something into the man’s ear.

There was a loud, harsh laugh from the man, and he barked an order to the others. They all shuffled away, seemingly no longer interested in them.

“What in all the Hells was that about,” Flint screamed as Stockholm faced them, crossing his arms over his chest, his favorite posture. “We might have had to kill them, you know!”

Anna led the group over to the Red Tribesman, her eyes searching for any signs of injury on the big man. Where had he been?

“You might have, but you didn’t.” Stockholm slouched, suddenly very weary. “Now if you don’t mind, I need a nap.”

His body thumped the ground as he hit the dirt.

Anna had Flint tear the Chief’s chain shirt off, and they searched his upper body for wounds, while Norman and Lee opened his eyes and checked for a reaction.

Nothing but the soft rise and fall of his chest indicated that he was still with them. Still, they found no injuries, and Anna decided that they would have to make do with that.

Several hours later, Stockholm awoke, and found that only Anna had remained awake to keep watch over the company.

Instead of growling that somebody else should have been awake to protect the company, he looked around the small clearing, and saw the Blessed Children of Maragshet standing about, keeping watch in all directions.

Anna roused the company was roused, and they left, continuing east between two of the Illeck, who gave them waist-level bows. Anna looked at her Chief, and once again wondered how many more secrets he had up his sleeves.

* * * *

The remainder of the company’s trip to Fort Branick passed without incident, a point that warmed Anna’s heart, but delivered them unexpectedly quickly to the area surrounding the Order of Oun Fort. The woodlands ended about a mile away from the Fort, which sat in a small valley depression, skirted on the north by a stream.

They had a clear approach from the west, but before they had covered a quarter of the distance, Norman spotted guards with the use of his binoculars. They were patrolling the area, he said, and looked to be comprised of four man teams.

Norm withdrew a small gadget from one of the back compartments of his belt. He inserted the device into his ear, and attached a long piece of wire to it. From deep inside of his rucksack, the Gnome Engineer withdrew a circular dish device. He plugged the free end of his wire into the base of the device, and flipped a switch.

“No offense meant, Mr. Flint,” he said with a lopsided grin. “But I think this baby will pick out their conversation at a better range than your ears alone.”

Flint gave him a begrudging nod of approval.

Anna was about to ask Norm what the device was when he held up a hand to silence them all.

The rest of the company crouched low or lay on their backs up on the incline west of the Fort. The sun descended toward early evening, and Anna decided that playing things safe for now was the best approach. She was thankful she’d brought Norm along, since his technology gave them another much needed edge.

Norman adjusted a small dial on the base of the device, and listened intently through the static and the sounds of the natural world that his eavesdropping device picked up, trying to filter through the stuff he didn’t need to hear. Finally, he had a snippet of conversation, and he carefully adjusted the dial down further. “No, I think we’re stuck on patrol for another couple of hours,” a gruff, Dwarven voice said through the static. “It’s all right. I figure they’ll give us something to do tomorrow, lads. No worries.”

“That’s what you said yesterday.” The second voice was low and cumbersome, as though normal speech didn’t come natural to its owner. Norm thought he could pick out the accent of a Jaft, though he couldn’t be certain.

He picked up his binoculars, and confirmed his suspicion. Three men slowly made their rounds around the Fort, a Dwarf, a Jaft, and a tan-furred Werewolf. Norman set the binoculars down and listened in again.

“I don’t know about you two,” said the Werewolf. The voice was husky, but definitely female. “But I’m getting a little tired of my duty here. I was promised a post at Fort Peril in the east.”

Peril, Norm thought. That’s up north of the Port of Arcade.

“Oi, we were promised lots o’ things, missy,” the Dwarf said. “Especially better wages than we’s makin’ roit now. Just hang in there, we’ll get what we were after soon enough. You think I wanted to come ‘ere?”

The Jaft joined his slight chuckle, Norm noted.

“Nobody wants to come here,” said the Jaft. “It’s just one of the first places they stick you. Dat’s what my cousin told me, couple of years back. There’s worse places than this, believe it or not.”

A loud harrumph of disbelief came through the earpiece, probably from the Tanner Werewolf.

“You don’t believe me? There’s this one Fort, really small place down in the south central plains, what’s it called?”

“Oh, roit,” replied the Dwarf. “Fort Waves. That was one of the first Order of Oun Forts, set up way back in the Third Age. Place is a total dump, but they still keep twenty or thirty guys hangin’ about. You know, fer appearances and the loik.”

“Why bother,” asked the Werewolf, and Norm realized that the feed was getting quieter as the trio moved away from their position. He would have to adjust his instruments to keep up with them or let them go and try for another spot in or around the Fort to listen to.

Something about the three guards rubbed him a certain way, however. He had noticed the lack of enthusiasm, and the sarcasm from the Dwarf. He’d also noticed that none of the three sentries seemed concerned with the goings-on around the Fort itself.

“Anything,” Flint asked, his rodent snout right up next to Norm’s unoccupied ear.

Norm just shook his head. “Nothing useful at any rate.” The Engineer pulled the device out of his ear and packed the whole assemblage away. He kept his voice down, in case the next patrol had better hearing than the previous one. “But if I had to guess from the flow of their conversation, and their tones of voice, nothing much is going on around here.”

“There’d be some sort of hubbub if a big-shot like Reynaldi had come through,” Flint sulked. “We’ve been had.”

Lee Toren didn’t show any signs of aggravation, but he seldom did, and was being paid by the day. The Wererat watched him pull out a small notepad and add up another day’s expenses to the tab. Suddenly, he wanted to plunge the knife into the smug little Pickpocket. “How can you be so calm about this, Lee?”

“Look at your boss,” was his only reply, and so Flint did.

Anna was already deep in conversation with Styge and a smile split her face almost from ear to ear. Flint felt relieved and confused. “Way I figure it, he’s got something in mind.”

“He always does,” Flint said.

Anna thanked the Illusionist, and gathered the party together in a huddle.

“What’s the plan, Will?”

“Styge used Norm’s binoculars while he was using that, well, no offense Norm, gizmo thing-a-majigger,” Anna said.

Norm didn’t seem offended at all, and Flint and Stockholm both sniggered at her choice of words.

“He saw that the most recent patrol included a Jaft, a Dwarf and a Tanner Werewolf. He’s presented me with some options, though what he suggests is a tad dangerous.”

“A tad.” The old man coughed wretchedly. He took a moment to get his breath back, feeling the bite in his lungs from the serpent of illness he was certain would claim his life some day soon. “More dangerous than a tad young man. If my spells go poof, you’ll be locked up pretty permanently. And it’ll be three agents gone, just like that.”

“So we need volunteers.” Anna pretended to ignore the old man’s warning. “Stocky, you’ll have to be one. We’re going to take that patrol’s place inside the Fort, with a little help from Styge, and you’ll be playing the Tanner. Shouldn’t be hard.”

“Except the Werewolf’s a woman,” Norm interjected.

Styge spat his pipe out from laughing so hard, and Lee had to put a cloth sack over his head to keep them all from being spotted by the currently passing patrol. They would surely have heard the old fool’s laughter had Lee been a second or two slower to act.

When Styge stopped shaking, he removed the bag.

“Not a problem,” said Stockholm. “Just change the color of my fur, blunt my snout a bit, and give me tits instead of pectorals. Shouldn’t be hard to pull off, should it old timer?”

Styge managed to keep a straight face. “I’ll have to reduce your visible height about half a foot, too. No worries there, Chief, I’ve done lots harder before. Now, who’s going to be the Dwarf?”

“I’ll do it,” Lee said, to Flint’s surprise. “Got to earn my pay, after all.”

“Very good. Lastly, who’s going to be the Jaft? It’s not going to be easy to pull off, because I’m not very good with smells,” Styge admitted. “Whoever goes as the Jaft will have to be quite adept at it.”

“I’ll do it,” Flint said after a long silence. “Can’t risk letting the boss man go in, and I can get myself out of any pinch. Any idea how long we’ll have once we get inside?”

“Two or three hours at the outside,” Norman said. “And you’ll have to be very careful not to, ah, bump into yourselves outside the Fort,” the Engineer added.

Styge prepared his spell, weaving his magic into his hands, and finally, carving through the air around the three volunteers to make them look, sound, and smell like the patrol that Norman had listened to. Styge had each of them speak, and Norm gave them pointers to help make the Illusionist spell take stronger hold.

After a few minutes’ adjusting, they had their roles down.

Flint pulled a small, corked vial from a hip pouch, and poured the liquid inside over his, apparently blue and bald head. Styge and Norman both wrinkled their noses, and when the aroma hit Anna she nearly gagged. She saw that Stocky had clamped the end of his snout. “What is that stench,” she asked.

“Sewage, from back home,” Flint said with a wide grin. “I keeps a bit with me whenever I go topside, in case the police sick the dogs on me. Really messes with their heads.”

Flint, Lee and Stockholm waited until the patrol went past, and then Norman gave them the go ahead signal. They were gone in an instant, and before the sun had set, they were inside the Fort.

* * * *

Thaddeus Fly’s company had a full day’s travel ahead of them before they got to Fort Flag.

Under Lain’s guidance, Fly had arranged for Rage to approach the Fort, claiming to be recently abandoned by his tribe, and looking to make a new home and life for himself under a solid, trustworthy organization. The Order ate shit like that up, he’d said.

Rage had professed confusion, because his tribe hadn’t abandoned him. Thankfully, Lain had managed to convince him that it was just what he had to tell the nice men at the Fort.

Markus Trent, Fly noted, had been in a bit of a funk since leaving Prek. The company hadn’t encountered any hostiles on the road, and without anybody to do bodily harm to, the Human Ninja was starting to come undone.

Fly decided he’d better have a talk with him.

Walking at the front, as usual, Trent didn’t try to hide his building sourness when Fly came up alongside him, leaving Akimaru at the rearguard position. “What do you want, Fly?”

“I want to know if you’re going to do something stupid that we’ll all regret when we get to Fort Flag,” the Black Draconus retorted. “I know you want to do something a little more, active, but for now, we have to play things close to the vest. Remember, until we have to, we’re not going to kill anyone.”

“That’s my problem,” Trent grumbled. “Seems like there’s nobody else on the roads these last few days, and according to your plan, we’re going to be avoiding the Hoods. I don’t like it, Fly,” Trent said. “You don’t hesitate like this when we’re in the city.”

“I know the city, Trent. That’s why I operate well there.” The grass underfoot had gone from soft and springy to brown, dried, and a little coarse. The region had been torn apart during the War of Vandross thirty years before, when the marauding armies of Richard Vandross had swept across the area from Fort Flag to Desanadron, waging war on both the outpost and the city. Life had a hard time clinging to the land here, and it awed Fly to think that anyone had attained the sort of power that the one-eyed warlock had. Then again, that very power had proved to be his downfall.

Too much ambition, Fly’s sensei had said, leads to too much vulnerability. Keep your goals in sight, and your dreams as well. But never let either get bigger than yourself.

Fly decided that Trent was a lost cause, for now, and he’d have an easier time dealing with the moody, deranged Ninja when he found something to pierce with his daggers. The Black Draconus fell back into step with Akimaru, who gave him a slight bow. “Anything to report to me, Akimaru? Thoughts, or opinions?”

The white clad Ninja remained silent for a long while, and Fly thought that perhaps he simply hadn’t heard the question. But in time, Akimaru answered.

“Sensei, when first I spied Markus Trent conversing with one of the tracker agents, I believed he meant to have us followed. Now, however, I am not so certain.” His words came slowly, as if from another time and place entirely. “Also, when next we stop for rest, I must meditate. There is something I must see to.”

Fly agreed to the meditation, but further inquiry about what was on Akimaru’s mind resulted in silence.

* * * *

The trio returned around daylight, full of smiles. Stockholm handed Anna a thick brown folder, and she scanned the papers until she found what she needed. Archibald Reynaldi, Second Class Elite Paladin in the Order of Oun and ranked as a Free Commander, made his home in the richest district of Ja-Wen. The issue of Ja-Wen being clear across the continent didn’t even get brought up as Anna gathered the company together, and informed them that they were heading back to Desanadron.

After perhaps a half an hour, Flint dropped back to join her, and asked why they were heading home.

“Simple, my mousy friend,” she said. “We need long range transportation. There are a few people who can provide that for us, but one young Alchemist in particular. Lee knows him fairly well, as does Norman. We’re going to Ja-Wen, and it’s going to take us no time at all to get there, with young Mr. Staples’ help.”

 

Interlude

 

Corporal Trogum had joined the Order of Oun in order to secure himself a steady paycheck. As a Dwarf, he’d have the option of a pension plan after fifty years of service. Not bad, when he considered the unstable economic situation of his homeland in the southeast. He hadn’t worried about seeing exotic locales, or serving the god Oun, or any of the other nonsense that hooked so many of the Order’s young members. He just wanted to keep his head down, do his time, and pray that another war didn’t spring up during his time in service.

Keeping his head down meant staying out of trouble, so he wasn’t sure why he’d been called down to Commander Jorlof’s office.

The Snow Tribe Werewolf, whose fur was whiter than paper, had a reputation as a fair and hospitable man, a Knight whose passion and faith in Oun put many Paladins to shame. But equally well known were his harsh ways of punishing those who broke the rules, and one was only called down to his office directly if they broke the rules. Trogum felt certain he hadn’t broken any rules, so why was he here?

When at last he was admitted to the office, Commander Jorlof, one of the shortest Werewolves in Tamalaria, growled at him to sit.

The Commander ranted and raved about rules and regulations, proper protocols, the chain of command, and the chain of custody. He preached for nearly an hour the merits of keeping a tight ship, even if Fort Branick did seem a little dull to the younger recruits. Still, he concluded, it was no reason to pull the sort of prank that Trogum had.

When the Dwarf asked what prank he’d pulled, the Snow Tribe Werewolf had gone ballistic, throwing furniture around his office, clawing the desk immediately in front of the corporal, and foaming at the mouth. “What kind of prank? How dare you?” he’d fumed. “How dare you! But in the end, the Knight’s ability to sense the truth ate its way through his tribe’s natural tendency toward anger and violence. Trogum was in tears as he babbled.

“I swear, I don’t know anything sir.” He hid his proud, Dwarven face in his hands. Dwarves didn’t cry, but few Dwarves encountered the fury of an enraged Snow Tribe Werewolf. Jorlof put an easy paw on the corporal’s shoulder and apologized.

“Look, I’m sorry corporal. But the records keeper said you and the other two members of your patrol went down there, and signed out Lord Reynaldi’s file without using your real names. I just thought you were being smart asses.”

He produced the sign out sheet, and Trogum stared blankly at it.

“Um, sir? That’s not my handwriting,” he said. “And at the time the file was signed out, I can vouch for my whereabouts, as well as the others.”

“Where were you,” Jorlof asked, raising a bushy white eyebrow.

“We were still on patrol, sir. Um, sir? I think we’ve been robbed. Of a personnel file, sir.”

And after Trogum left, Jorlof destroyed his office, his mind a blank fury at the slack incompetence that had permeated the Fort.

* * * *

The next day, further south and east, at Fort Flag, a big, lumbering Orc was allowed passage into the Fort’s walls, where he was wrapped with fresh blankets and offered a hot meal. A priest of Oun offered him his prayers, and the Orc thanked him for his kindness—he was sure his tribe hadn’t meant to be so mean, but sometimes they were like that.  He sure didn’t want any part of their war-like ways anymore, no sir.

The priest and the Knights and Paladins who met the big Orc smiled and nodded, each thinking to themselves, well, he’ll make a fine addition to the Fort.

And he’d asked, very politely, if any of them had ever heard of a Paladin by the name of Reynaldi, and hey, wouldn’t you know it, the big guy had just missed him by about three days. They gave him new clothes, fresh food, and a room to stay in, and by nightfall, nobody had any idea where the big Orc had gotten to. But there was an awfully big hole in one of the secret doors near the southern gates out of the Fort, and could somebody get down there to fix it?