'The Glove of Shadows' Chapter Ten- I Remember

Teresa Evergreen enjoyed her work. As a tracking agent in the Midnight Suns, she kept her head low, her nose clean, and had avoided promotion and singling out by being as invisible inside the Guild as she was to the rest of the world. It was her gift and her power.

As an Illeck, it wasn’t a natural ability, but it was an ancient magic she had focused on and studied for years. It let her slip, unnoticed, through some tough spots.

It wasn’t just that she could make herself invisible to the naked eye. That wouldn’t have been much use, as lycanthropes in the police forces could have just sniffed her out. No, she had studied the magic and learned how to erase every sensory trace of her presence. No scent, no visible trace, and she made no noise when she focused. Only one other member of the Guild knew this—her lover, Markus Trent.

He had sent for her just before he departed with the Headmaster. “Keep an eye on Lee Toren,” he had asked her. “And if you get the chance, keep an eye on Striker, too. But the Gnome is your primary target.”

“Why,” she asked.

“Because, if he and the Hoods get to the Glove of Shadows before we do, he’ll inevitably take it for himself. He’s good, Teresa. I don’t doubt he could spirit it away right from under William Deus’s nose if he wanted, and if he does, you’ll be there to take it from him.”

“Do you want me to hurt him at all, love?” She had blinked at him in that puppy-dog way she used to lure him to her bed. This time, she noticed, it didn’t faze him.

     “No,” he’d said. “Just keep watch.” And that had been that, she thought. Now, she watched Striker make his way from rooftop to rooftop across the city, back toward the Guild.

Instead of following him, she kept up with Lee Toren for a while, following him to the Flaming Tongue, where he got himself stupidly drunk.

So stupidly, she mused, that he led her right to the Hoods’ home base.

The Headmaster knew the Hoods dwelled in the sewers, but he did not know the exact location.

Now, Teresa Evergreen memorized the route, and watched with detached interest as the Gnome Pickpocket fell asleep on a couch in some sort of main meeting den. She made her way out of the room, down a side corridor lined with Hoods agents swapping notes and stories, to a single, empty chamber.

The room was huge, expansive in a way she could never hope her own assigned room to be. It was well organized as well, with racks of weapons on the far wall, sets of bookshelves lined with historical texts and a few fiction novels, popular back when she’d been a gel. Curiously, she saw no bed in the room, just a dog bed by a cold fireplace. When she saw the red fur matted to it, she knew whose room she was in, and her heart nearly exploded. She had to get out of there, immediately.

Ducking back out into the hall as fast as she could, she lost a little of her focus, and the door banged shut behind her loudly. The sound echoed down the hall, but happily, nobody seemed to notice. She made her way back to the den, and from there back to the surface of the city.

She remembered her only meeting with Ignatious Stockholm and the hot, flushed feeling she got when he had pressed her by the throat against a brick building. He had such power, such raw ability, and it drove her to the edge of lust. She had only escaped with her life because he’d been disgusted by her sexual requests and he’d dropped her to the ground roughly, stalking away.

She remembered his power, and wondered if he was around, since Lee Toren was back in town. But her sense of duty to Trent kicked the thought aside, and she made her way, unnoticed by anyone, back to her own Guildhall. Time to check on Mr. Striker, though she would never probably learn much about him.

* * * *

Flint read through the last of Hollister’s reports while Anna sat across from him, in his office for once, reading through the first one he’d handed her. He remembered a time when this was how they’d sat, he in the seat of authority, and she on the other side of the desk, a mere peon. Just another agent, he thought. It seemed so long ago. How much longer would he remain with the Hoods? Another two, three years maybe? But he’d thought this exact same response three years before, and yet, here he sat, Prime of the Hoods.

How long would she stick around, for that matter? He couldn’t be certain, but he recalled the confused, boyish look she’d given him back when she’d first joined the Guild. He’d mistaken her for a teenage boy, and this idea wouldn’t change for several years yet. He thought back to that first introduction.

“Hail and well met, Prime Flint. My name is William Deus,” she’d said.

“Hail and well met, agent Deus. I’m told this is your first actual day with us.” Too young, he’d thought then. Just a boy. “Well, have you met our Chief yet?” Anna’s smile had disappeared, but she’d nodded. “Don’t be too troubled, everyone finds him terrifying when they first get here. You’ll warm up to him soon enough, lad.” He’d given Anna a light slap on the back, leading her down to the common agents’ quarters. After he’d knocked on the door, he remembered, Gladys Rim had opened it, giving him a big middle finger when she did. Gladys was a female Wererat, and felt the post of Prime belonged to her more than her male counterpart. Flint had smiled coldly at her. “Gladys Rim, meet your new roommate, William Deus. I know, it’s not fair, being roomed with a young man, but yours is the only room right now with a free bed, so tough shit.”

With a shove, he’d propelled Anna into the dingy chamber.

He’d left her there, making his way to Stockholm’s office to register William Deus as Rim’s roommate. When he’d entered, Remy was sitting with the Werewolf, and he peered at Flint with those piercing, ocean colored eyes. “Flint, what is it?”

He remembered Remy fondly as he sat with the last of Hollister’s reports in front of him. A man of integrity, Remy never kept more than his share of the hoard. He gave some of his earnings to other agents when they needed it, especially the ladies of the Guild who found themselves with child. However, in Remy’s days as Headmaster, after a female agent gave birth, she was expected to remain above ground with her family. She would essentially be discharged until the child was at least two years of age. Most of the women didn’t return. Gladys Rim had been a member of the minority.

“I’m just here to register Deus as Rim’s roomy, boss man.”

Stockholm shook his big, shaggy head. “What’s the matter? Sure, he’s a lad, but he’s a young lad at best. Surely he isn’t going to mind bunking with her?”

“Sorry, Flint,” Remy said. “I’ve seen the Deus boy in action, and he doesn’t belong with the common rabble. We’re putting Chambers with Gladys, moving William to her room immediately. You’d better go fetch him.”

Flint had done as he was asked, and Anna, confused and a little bewildered, had been shuffled along like a leaf on the wind. When Flint had unlocked Chambers’ former abode, he’d growled at Anna.

“What’s wrong, sir? Did I do something wrong,” Anna asked, cringing away from the Wererat.

“Boss man’s already taken a liking to you, boy,” he’d snarled. “Takes a lot to impress the head honcho ‘round here, lot more to impress me. Watch your step, William Deus.” Flint had pressed the tip of one of his hunting knives against Anna’s stomach, just enough to let her know it was there. She hadn’t even seen him draw the weapon, and he’d seen fear in those big, feminine eyes. “I don’t take with anyone who doesn’t pay their dues.”

Flint came hurtling back to the present when Anna wrapped him on the head with the finished report. “I said, next one, Flint.” She laughed at him as he shook off his nostalgia. “What’s got you all distracted?”

“Sorry, Anna,” he said. “I was just remembering the first time I met you.”

She gave him a brief smile.

“Suppose I should apologize for the whole threatening to kill you thing, eh?”

“Think nothing of it, my mousy friend.” She opened Hollister’s second report as Flint handed it to her.

“Do you remember what it was like, for you?” She looked up from the folder, and looked off into the upper corner of the room, thinking back.

“Oh yeah, I remember.”

* * * *

“Who’s been in here,” Stockholm whispered to himself as he stepped across the threshold of his chamber. He could sense that the room had been disturbed, but he finally chalked it up to Coates having used his room in his absence. He changed shape, moving over to the dog bed and lying down for a brief nap. He fell almost immediately asleep, and he dreamed. He dreamed of times gone by, and nightmares conquered.

Ignatious Stockholm stood on the corner of Fifth Street and Broadsword Lane, in the city of Shengone. His deep blue officer’s uniform fit snugly over his rippled muscles, the cloth creaking threateningly whenever he crossed his arms over his chest in his trademark posture. The badge over his left breast pocket glimmered in the noon sun, and he waited patiently for somebody to do something stupid. Automobiles sped past on the pavement, and the city’s populace milled about, going about its daily routine, but nobody nearby seemed eager to try anything illegal. It looked like it was going to be another boring day on the beat.

Stockholm reached back over his shoulder, thwacked the edge of his war axe, and listened to its deep vibration. He checked his belt for the hundredth time, making certain they hadn’t mixed up his custom built revolver for a standard issue, as they had many times before. But no, he thought with a satisfied smirk, they got it right today. The high caliber weapon rested easily on his hip, and he drew it out, popping the chamber open to make certain it was loaded. “Very good,” he said aloud, before holstering the weapon again.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stockholm realized this was just a dream, another memory surfacing to play out like a badly written play before his mind’s eye. Yet he could not seem to change anything he was doing. He knew the Fall of Mecha was coming, that it would come to its apex twelve years after this remembered day, but his younger self, the gruff and slightly arrogant Red Tribe officer, could no more stop the coming events than he could fly.

The speaker on his left shoulder buzzed with incoming static as the dispatcher spoke through the channel. “Attention all units, attention all units. Incoming report of an armed robbery of a weapons shop over on Sixth Street, suspect is armed with conventional and mecha weapons of an automatic fire system, copy.”

Stockholm grabbed his handset, pressing the button to respond.

“This is Sergeant First Grade Stockholm, I copy. I’m on the corner of Fifth and Broadsword, I can be there in five minutes.” He was already sprinting along the dusty sidewalk. He let go of the button, and listened to the static. He covered half the distance to the corner of Broadsword and Sixth before another officer replied.

“This is Patrolman Second Grade Hastings, I copy. I’m on my way for backup, Iggy.”

Stockholm smiled, comforted that the competent and capable rookie was on his way. Timothy Hastings was a Tanner Cuyotai, an excellent marksman with both his crossbow and his rifle, which he took everywhere. Not so good in a melee situation, Stockholm thought, but that didn’t matter much. He didn’t foresee the situation deteriorating that far, especially if the suspect was armed with an automatic weapon.

The two canine officers almost ran into one another as he turned the corner of Broadsword and Sixth. “Whoa, big fellah,” Hastings said as he took a step back. They smiled knowingly at one another, and Stockholm’s heart accelerated just a little. He hadn’t known how he felt about Tim at first, but a few nights spent at his apartment had told him. It had told him a lot about himself, truths he’d carry for the rest of his mortal life. “I think I passed the place on my way to get you, Iggy. You ready?” Stockholm drew his firearm, and nodded.

“I was born ready,” he said, and Tim laughed.

“That’s funny,” Tim said as the two of them crept along the sidewalk, making their way for the squat weapons store. “You didn’t have dinner ready when I got to your place yesterday.”

“Now is hardly the time to talk about this.” Stockholm got himself in front of Timothy, now only about twenty yards from the weapons shop. “Besides, I don’t remember you complaining about dessert.”

“Keep it up, big guy, and you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Stockholm chuckled under his breath. He straightened and stood with his back pressed flat against the wall of the weapons shop, next to the door.

“I’m gonna go in first.” Stockholm set his face, his tone deadly serious now. “Be ready if he gets past me.” He kept his voice low.

Timothy Hastings nodded, and got his rifle ready, sprinting across the street and taking up a sniper point while he used hand signals to direct the few surrounding pedestrians back into their homes, stores and workplaces. The street cleared, and Stockholm set himself square to the door, blasting it inward with a solid front kick.

The scene inside caused him to hesitate just a moment longer than was safe. The storeowner, a morbidly obese Human with his wig askew, was dead on the other side of his counter, a single row of bullet holes marring his chest. His three customers sprawled around the main shop, torn apart by some bladed weapon. No suspect was anywhere in sight. The door leading into the back stockroom was ajar, and the Red Tribesman leaped over the counter, bursting into the back room with his weapon raised, shouting “Freeze!”

Once again, he was puzzled to find no perpetrator in the room.

He scanned the room slowly, ducking down and sweeping his weapon back and forth as he peered beneath the two benches in the room. Nothing, and no back door. However, a set of metal rungs led up to the roof.

“Oh, shit.” His heart dropped into his stomach. He rushed back through the door enough to shout to Timothy in warning, but too late.

A single, booming report of gunfire, and Timothy’s skull burst apart, showering the street with his blood and brain matter.

Lycanthrope fury took hold of the crimson warrior as he watched his lover die. The world blurred, and his vision suddenly flooded with the color of his fur, the color of blood. He recalled, vaguely, spinning about as his body stretched and expanded even further, his uniform shredding apart at the already stressed seams. He recalled feeling bullets riddle his arms and chest as he flew through the air—a frightened and maddened Human atop the weapons store, pumped round after round of ammunition into his body. But he was in thrall to the Huntress, the spirit that called forth to all lycanthropes when their anger and despair turned to bloodlust. He was in thrall to her as he caught a bullet aimed at his face, crushing it into powder. He was in thrall to her when he snatched the machine gun away and broke it in half over his knee.

He was in thrall to her when he ripped the bastard’s arms off at the shoulders with casual ease, tossing them over the side of the roof as he pounced on the man, ripping his throat out. His dream faded, blurred, and reformed itself into the discharge office, where he was signing the last of the papers that declared him no longer fit for duty. He took his meager pension, shook the police chief’s hand, stalked out of the central headquarters and into the streets. He felt an emptiness inside, one that could not be filled by getting another job, or moving to a new city.

He had learned, after killing the suspect, that Timothy’s weapon had jammed when he tried to fire at the suspect. The Cuyotai sniper hadn’t been fooled, and a witness reported that he had reacted in an instant to the flash of a gun barrel on the roof. But when he’d taken aim, his weapon hadn’t responded. A mecha in his hands had failed to save him, while one in the hands of the perpetrator had sealed his fate. On that day, Stockholm resolved never to use a mecha weapon again.

When he awoke, after only an hour-long nap, he was surprised to find he was crying.

* * * *

Lain McNealy certainly had a talent, Trent thought, watching the zombies lay waste to two of the thresherbeasts. The monsters couldn’t figure out why their meals had started moving, and when their claws did nothing more than slow them, they panicked. In an attempt to escape, two of them stumbled over one another, and were quickly slain by undead Minotaurs. The third escaped, only to be pelted with twenty shuriken thrown by Fly and Akimaru. Finally, Rage crushed its head with a mace.

Fly, having borrowed Trent’s ‘interrogation’ pliers, removed the teeth, pocketing them swiftly.

Trent and Lain rejoined Fly, Akimaru and Rage, and together, they went on.

Lain let the corpses of the Dwarves and Minotaurs drop to the ground, dead again, for the final time.

As Trent wondered how Teresa was coming with her assignment, she suddenly contacted him, using the same method that Fly had used to contact Striker. Markus, love, I think I have something interesting to tell you.

What is it? He looked over at his Headmaster. He prayed to the various gods who would hear him that the Black Draconus wasn’t aware of his contact.

I just got back to the Guildhall. I’m following Striker, but at first I didn’t notice anything unusual, until now. Do you know what this guy eats?  

Trent shuddered as he pictured it.

I’m well aware of his, dietary needs.

I’m sorry, but that’s just disgusting. Anyway, he doesn’t seem to be doing anything to worry yourself over. I’ll get back to you when I can. Trent thanked her, and continued at the front of the company until the sun started to set. Fly called a halt to their progress and they struck camp. Trent kept his distance from the moody Draconus, who seemed lost in thought.

Fly cycled through his memories, thinking back on the last days he spent with the Obura Ninja Clan. He had roamed the wooden halls of their training grounds, shackled hand and foot, led by elite guards of the clan. He’d held his head high, unashamed of his choices. He had done what no other in the history of the clan could do—he had slain his instructor, one of the most talented Ninjas in all of Tamalaria.

After his graduation ceremony, Thaddeus Fly had felt empty, as though his whole training period had been for nothing. He had been granted the purple sash of his clan, to signify his elevation to the rank of agent, but the accomplishment felt hollow. As the Obura elders bowed to him, he bowed in return, and donned the sash. He had left the Hall of Ceremonies with it tied around his waist, and had left it on when returned to his private chambers.

A soft knock came at his door. One of the other graduates, Markus Trent, slid the door aside, and smiled in at him.

He really was my friend, then, Fly thought as he recalled the Human’s smile. It had been genuine, then.

“Congratulations, Thaddeus,” Trent said. “Head of our class! I thought it would have gone to Kenachi,” he said, referring to one of the only Obura Clan Wererats in the compound.

Fly shook his head, slowly, methodically forming an idea in his head. He sat still on his bed as Trent entered the room and shut the door behind him. “Where’s Aki?”

Akimaru had been assigned to share a room with Fly two weeks before, and the elders had declined to tell Fly why. They told him only that it was important that he keep an eye on Akimaru, because even they knew very little about the fifth year student. With two years left before his own graduation, Fly would have assumed that the white clad Ninja would have many questions for him. But no, the mysterious youth had said little or nothing in the time he’d been in Fly’s company. Trent had made it plain that he didn’t like him early on, but Fly had assured his friend that Akimaru was no threat.

Students of the Obura often killed one another, as a matter of course, and sometimes, for extra credit. The clan brooked no weakness, and rewarded students for weeding out the class numbers. “So, now that you’re an agent, you think Akimaru will try anything? It’d be one hell of a feather in his cap,” Trent said with a grin.

“No, he won’t.” Fly’s voice remained flat, void of inflection, but only because his revelation was now upon him. He knew what he had to do to prove himself better than a mere agent and head of his class. He had the presence of mind to elaborate on his answer, however, before he addressed his friend with his revelation. “Akimaru just doesn’t seem the type. I don’t know why, but I don’t think he’ll try anything with me. Trent?”

     “Yes, Thaddeus?” Trent was reading a small paperback novel, a privilege he enjoyed now that he was a graduate. He’d actually smuggled the book in a few months back, in readiness for his graduation. Fly saw he was already halfway through the story.

“I know what I’m going to do tonight.”

Trent looked up from his book and grinned ruefully at the Black Draconus. “You’ll get completely shitty on cheap booze and opium like the rest of us.”

When Fly didn’t laugh, his smile fell. “What are you thinking of doing?”

“Markus, if I did something, something that would get me kicked out of the clan, would you leave with me?” The question came out abruptly, unexpected. But Trent, Fly was glad to see, didn’t hesitate.

“Without a doubt, and without a backward glance. You’re really going to do something crazy, aren’t you?”

Fly nodded, but said nothing more. He didn’t want his friend to be interrogated after he completed his self-assigned task, and so he sat in silence, until Trent left a couple of hours later, off to go celebrate graduation in the nearby town.

Fly drifted into the town only long enough to purchase an expensive bottle of wine, and returned immediately to the wooden training compound. Down several hallways he stalked, the purple sash getting him respectful bows as he passed by both trainees and instructors, all of which he returned in kind. He made his way, without error, to his instructor’s room. Sensei Dolan, he thought. Tonight, I honor you with death.

He wrapped lightly on the door, and his instructor, a lithe Red Draconus, slid the door open. Candles were lit on his small altar at the back of his room, opposite the door.

“Thaddeus Fly. Agent Fly, I should say,” Dolan said with an impish grin. “I am pleased to see you. What can I do for you now?”

“You can share a drink with a humble former student, sensei.” Fly bowed his head and held up the bottle of wine.

Dolan took it, seeming to measure its weight. He grunted, and stood aside, admitting his former student into the room.

Fly saw a wall scroll with several tribal paintings on it, each representing an ancestor. “Ancestor worship, sensei?”

Dolan nodded, and procured a pair of drinking bowls. He sat with his back to the altar, and handed the bowls up to Fly, who fumbled one and dropped it. It broke on the wooden floor, and Fly bent to pick up the pieces.

“It’s okay, agent Fly,” Dolan said.

“I apologize, sensei. However, I did bring my own bowls.” He pulled a pair of smaller drinking bowls from a hip pouch. “I offer you one of my bowls, to replace the one I have broken.”

Dolan accepted the bowl, and uncorked the bottle, sniffing its contents with an air of deep suspicion.

“Is there a problem, sensei?”

“It’s nothing,” the Red Draconus said, his voice deeper than the ocean and just as full of contained fury. “I was smelling for poisons.”

Fly gave him a wide-eyed look and started to guffaw, but the older Dragon-kin put up a hand to stop him. “It is no offense to you. It is simply that students in the past have tried similar stunts.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Fly said.

“That’s because I saw through their deceptions and killed them where they sat,” Dolan said evenly. He poured a measure of the wine into each bowl, and raised Fly’s to him in toast. “In recognition of your graduation, Thaddeus Fly. May many moons pass you by without notice.”

“And you.” Fly drank deeply from Dolan’s bowl. They both smacked reptilian lips after the first bowl, and set them down, staring each other in the eyes. After a few minutes, Dolan’s eyes went wide, and Fly stood to his feet, slowly, menacingly. “I did not poison the wine, sensei Dolan. This I told you in truth. But I did apply poison to my drinking bowls,” he said with a smile and flourish. In his left hand, he held the other of his drinking bowls.

“How, how did, you know, you’d only drop, one, of my, bowls,” Dolan said through ragged breaths. His innards were on fire, and he was grappling with his throat to get the words out.

“I didn’t. The paste I applied to the lining of the bowls has an anti-toxin, which must be taken prior to consumption. I took my pill an hour ago,” he said, now drawing out a long knife. “How about you?” He cocked his head to one side, and watched as his former sensei gagged, puking up blood. “I applied a second coat to both bowls, to make certain it would act faster than normal. I couldn’t have you catching on too quickly, you see.” He walked around the side of the room behind Dolan.

“You, won’t, get away, with, this,” Dolan muttered. Fly was on the verge of manic laughter, feeling the triumph well up inside of his heart. The hole was filled, he thought. I am a true Ninja, now.

“I just have, sensei. Now, I shall honor you by granting you a swifter death than this.” With one hideous jerk of his arm, he slashed the Red Draconus’ throat, spilling his life on the floor.

Fly’s memory blurred for a few minutes as he stared into the fire, pulling his eyes away to look over at Trent. They had been friends, once. Why had that changed?

His mind’s eye fogged over, and he found himself once again in shackles, back in the Hall of Ceremonies. The elders had found him standing over Dolan’s body, as they had gone to fetch him so they could do their own celebrating. Fly had been tackled and chained up immediately, but much to his own surprise, he hadn’t been executed. Instead, they’d dragged him to the Hall of Ceremonies, where he stood smiling in silence.

Dolan’s corpse was deposited a few minutes later, right on the floor between Fly and the elders, who were all knelt in deep thought across from him. “Do you know what you have done,” asked one of the gray haired Human elders.

“I am aware,” Fly replied. “I have assassinated an instructor. I have slain one of your lesser elders,” he said. The elders nodded, and muttered amongst themselves.

“This has never happened. No student, not even an agent graduate, has ever slain an elder, much less their own sensei,” another Human elder said, his voice almost awed. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Less than a day,” Fly said, and there were more whispered mutterings from the elders as they crouched closer together, to better confer with one another.

“Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t hate him. I granted him an honorable death.” Fly filled his voice with confidence.

The elders seemed to consider this, and they fell silent. The eldest among them, an Illeck who had been of the second generation of Obura, stood and spoke.

“Thaddeus Fly, you have us at a loss,” he said. “You shall remain bound and guarded for three days, while this council decides what is to be done with you. Guards,” he said, turning his back on the Black Draconus. “Take him to his quarters. Akimaru will be moved when he returns from the town.”

The guards had manhandled him to his room, and tossed him inside without a word. He laughed at them as they slid his door shut, laughed like a madman who knew the world’s best punch line.

The first twenty-four hours passed without a word. The guards refused to talk to him, and when Akimaru was let inside to collect his things, he said nothing. But Fly saw the awe and respect in his eyes. That look alone said all that needed to be said, as far as he’d been concerned. The second day brought him a visitor, Markus Trent. The guards had let him in, a little grudgingly, and he stood on the other side of the room, just staring at Fly.

“They’re going to execute you, you know,” he whispered to the Black Draconus. “What were you thinking? I thought you were going to pull a gag on someone, maybe a really bad practical joke, but this? This is madness!”

“If they let me go, will you still come with me,” was Fly’s only response to any of this. Trent stared at him blackly for a long time, saying nothing. Then he nodded, and asked the guards to let him out. The third day passed the same as the first, and before he knew it, he was being let out by the guards for a walk around the hallways. Eventually, they led him to the Hall of Ceremonies, where Markus Trent and Akimaru both stood, much to his surprise.

The eldest of the council alone stood, the other elders sitting with their hands on their knees.

“Undo his shackles,” the elder said, and the guards complied immediately.

“Give him his weapons,” he said.

The guards handed him his belongings.

“And now, Thaddeus Fly, come forward.” Fly was a little confused, because as far as he knew, executions didn’t go like this. Shouldn’t he have been stabbed by now, his throat cut, or looped with a noose?

“Thaddeus Fly, the council of the Obura Clan has come to a conclusion regarding your punishment, and we have decided the following.

“Thaddeus Fly was never with us,” the elder said, and Fly stared mutely as his file was set into a cooking pot, the papers smoldering inside the otherwise empty pot. Soon, he realized, they would start on fire. “No such student ever attended this compound. No such student has ever been a member of the Obura Ninja Clan,” the Illeck elder said loudly, as if proclaiming this all in the name of the gods.

Fly stared at him, unable to speak. He was not being executed, he was being outcast! No, he thought, that would require that they acknowledge I’ve been here. Which, apparently, they no longer will. 

“Sensei Dolan, the records shall show, was taken from us by a lowly, cowardly sneak thief,” the elder announced, and Fly felt the words strike him like a slap in the face.

He touched his hand to his nose, expecting it to come away bloody.

“Let the records also show that, bereaved by their sensei’s death, the students Markus Trent and Akimaru took their leave of us. Neither student reached graduation.”

As the Illeck elder ripped Fly’s purple sash off, the Black Draconus saw that a guard had cut Trent’s from him as well. “Go now, you three, and stay gone. Stay well away from this compound, for if we ever see you again, we will kill you,” the elder said.

“Trent,” Fly said, back in the present.

The Human Ninja came over, passing by Lain, Rage, and Akimaru on his way to the Headmaster. He stood next to Fly, who reached up and grabbed him by the front of the uniform tunic, pulling him down toward him.

Trent was taken aback, not expecting such a sudden, harsh movement from the Midnight Suns’ Headmaster.

“Yes, Headmaster?”

Fly said nothing, just holding him down so that their heads were level with one another as he stared into the fire.

“Was it the sash?” He let the question hang in the air, unexplained, unfinished, but he felt a sudden tension build in Trent. The Human shrugged his hand off, and started to walk away again.

“As I remember, that was just the start of it,” Trent whispered back at him.

* * * *

In the late evening, Anna realized that she was going to have to sleep sometime in the stopover in Desanadron. But her mind raced and wheeled, and she darted from shadow to shadow, making her way to the Alchemy shop. It would still be open, but only for a couple of hours. She wanted to make arrangements with Jonah Staples ahead of time, so they wouldn’t be springing a surprise on him. A surprised Alchemist was a dangerous Alchemist, after all, and she didn’t want her company to wind up in the ocean. One wrong line in a Focus Site, and they could even wind up with each other’s body parts. That’d be a rude awakening, wouldn’t it?

She made it to the front entrance of the Staples and Staples Alchemy Store, opening the door and listening as the quaint little jingle sounded above her.

“Welcome to my store,” said a young man’s voice from an adjoining room. “I’ll be out in a minute!”

Anna sauntered around, taking in the various assorted gadgets, powders, potions and scrolls. Pre-written Focus Sites accounted for a high amount of Jonah Staples’ business, she knew. Of course, she knew this because she’d had Flint break in one night and look over his sales ledger.

She heard a female voice from the other room say something in a low tone, the words just beyond her ken. Anna had heard a lot of Elven folk use their natural tongue, but she just didn’t have a knack for the language. Jonah Staples came out a minute later, and gave her a wave.

“Mr. Staples. Good to see you again.

“Yes indeed,” he said, mopping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

I’m no lycanthrope, Anna thought as she smiled at him, but I know the smell of sex.

“What can I do for you?”

“Myself and some associates need to travel to Ja-Wen, and we need to do it tomorrow. Late morning, around noon,” she said.

Jonah took out a pad of paper and started to jot down notes.

“How many in your company?”

Anna thought on this for a moment, because two of the members of her company were rather large, and two rather small. Styge wouldn’t appreciate being moved through space-time so roughly either, so she had a few factors to take into account.

“Well, there’s myself, a Red Tribe Werewolf, a Wererat, a pair of Gnomes, and an elderly Human,” she said, careful not to give names.

“Hm. And I assume the old timer’s not going to want to go too fast?”

Anna smiled at young Jonah and nodded.

“All right. Well, the total’s going to come to about two hundred gold pieces,” Jonah said.

Anna paid for the trip up front, with two white gold coins. She was about to take her leave of the shop, when Jonah cleared his throat.

“Um, are you going to need lodging when you get there?”

She hadn’t considered that, mostly because she was used to having a place to stay at all times. She would camp when necessary, and didn’t mind the idea of leaving the city’s limits to do so, with the right equipment.

“You know, I think we may at that, Mr. Staples. Any suggestions?”

Jonah pulled a small business card from a vest pocket, and handed it to her.

“This is just an address,” she said.

“I know. Around this time of day. First floor, room 107. That’s where the super’s office is. You’ll see a bell somewhere around, just ring it to get his attention. And don’t worry, sir,” Jonah said as he headed back for the adjoining room. “He may look menacing, and he can be a real jerk, but otherwise, he’s an okay guy.”

The trip arranged, Anna headed back to the Guild, and lay on a cot she had hidden in the wall of her office. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

* * * *

She is six years old again, reading a paperback book intended for students in their Scholar years of school. The room around her is tiny, dingy, and the smell of the rotting wood that makes up the building itself permeates the air.

Better than mama’s perfume, she thinks.

The sounds from the next room are blissfully muffled by the layers of pillows she’s nailed to the wall over the last year. She is absurdly intelligent for a girl of her age, but then, she has to be. Her wits are her only means of survival.

“Mama,” she whispers, the noises not completely blocked out. She can hear the bed knocking against the opposite wall. She is precocious at six, but still has no idea what her mother is doing on the other side of the pillows and wood. She won’t know for a few years yet. At the time, she thinks her mother lets the strange men, whose names all are apparently John something, beat her up for money.

Little Anna Deus hops off of her bed, book still in hand. She dog-ears one page, closing the book to carry it more easily, and heads off down to the park.

The night sky is brilliantly aglow with the light of the moon and the stars. This light filters down from the heavens above, and illuminates the city in a way that makes her eyes want to drink in the scenery for as long as possible. The slow, steady procession of city guards, their boots thumping hollowly on the streets, brings to mind images of the creatures she is reading about. In her current series of books, the creatures are called Thumpa-Thumpa, and they feed on the greed of others around them.

But her vision clears a little of the magic instilled by her imagination, and she sees no Thumpa-Thumpa, only the tired, haggard faces of those officers unlucky enough to pull the night shift. One of the guards, an old Jaft, his flesh oozing the stench of his people, kneels down in her path as she makes her way toward the park. Anna has never trusted the big blue men, because when they got hurt, the hurt place just disappeared. She thinks they are a Race of strange wizards, and she thinks the smell that comes off of them in eye-watering waves is because they don’t like to take baths.

“You’re in my way,” she says bluntly.

The old Jaft officer’s face creases with a friendly smile, and he puts his hands up to show he means no harm.

“You have my apologies, young miss,” he says. “But shouldn’t you be at home, in your warm little bed? It’s late, and late time brings out real weirdoes. You shouldn’t be out so late without your papa or mama.”

Again, he smiles, and the absence of malice in the smile puts little Anna at ease. Enough so that she feels she can tell him the truth. After all, mama always said she could trust nice policemen, the ones who didn’t yell at little girls.

“I have no papa, and mama’s working,” she says, easy as you please.

The Jaft’s smile turns a little sad, she sees. He nods, however, and stands up.

“Well then, you stick by me, for now, okay?”

She doesn’t refuse the officer’s request.

“Where are you headed?”

“To the park, to read with the moon and the shadows.” It’s a line she read in the last novel she ripped through, and she sees it works wonders.

The Jaft looks at her with mild curiosity. “Um, donaga,” he says. It is one of the few words of his language she knows. It means ‘little one’. “What is your name?”

“Anna,” she says.

He takes her to the park, where she reads until the sun rises. He walks her home, and the whole while, they do not speak. At the foot of the stairs that lead up to her home, she almost passes out, but he catches her. She tells him she lives on the third floor with mama, and remembers no more.

She is ten years old, and after reading some textbooks borrowed from the library, she now knows why men named John pay mama for her time at night. It is winter, and the snows come hard and furious. The men come less, but mama makes enough to get them by. It is an early morning, and mama is making her favorite breakfast. Omelets made with three eggs, strips of bacon, and chilled orange juice. She has a question for mama, but she wants to wait until she has her food in her stomach. She knows enough to know it’s going to upset mama.

The meal eaten, she pushes her plate aside. “Mama, are you a whore?”

There is the sound of a plate breaking on the kitchen floor, and then nothing. The wind outside howls, a maddened banshee thirsting for the chance to choke someone on their own frozen vomit. Stillness, absence of movement. The inside of Anna’s home is stopped in time, unbending, unmoving. Perhaps, Anna thinks, if I take a single step back toward my room, I can avoid the horrible slap I’m about to get.

But the blow never comes. Instead, there are words, words she has never heard mama say to anyone, even when she is angry as hell.

“Get out of here,” mama says. “Get out of here and don’t you ever come near me again, Anna. If I see you,” she says, turning to look at her daughter with tears pooling in her eyes. “I swear to every god there is that if I see you near this apartment again, I will throw you out of a window. Get your things.” She moves into her own room.

Anna doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t cry, she doesn’t sulk, and she doesn’t beg her mother to reconsider. She could shout, I’m only ten! Who throws their child out at ten years old? But she knows there are Races whose children never even meet their parents, except maybe on accident. She moves like a spirit into her room, and packs a large duffel bag with some clothes, and a selection of her favorite books.

In particular, she takes the James Colt novels, stories about a great master thief who gets through life without paying a single copper piece for anything. She is wise enough in the ways of the world to know that her mother’s way of making money can be lucrative. But James Colt’s way is much more exciting, and in a way, she muses as she tucks her only weapon into the bag, cleaner.

Out in the stairwell, mama hands her a small pouch of gold and silver pieces. “Take this, and get gone, fatherless child. Go see what the world is really like! Go out and live in the world where a child can call her mother a whore!” There are tears, crystalline and perfect, dribbling down mama’s cheeks. She doesn’t really want her to go, Anna realizes. Well, the joke’s on her now, isn’t it?

“Good-bye mama,” Anna says. Without a glance back, she’s gone.

Out on the street, she hefts the second money pouch to weigh it. She’d taken it right off of mama’s waist, and the older woman hadn’t even noticed. “I have a papa, all right,” the ten-year-old girl says. “His name’s Jim Colt.”

* * * *

It was said in Tamalaria that too much time in the company of a friend could make them your enemy. Could too much time in the company of an enemy make them your friend? Markus Trent didn’t bother thinking it over.

The sun poked up a little over the horizon, almost seeming afraid to shed its light and warmth to the realm. The look on the Human Ninja’s face could certainly do that, if nothing else. He hadn’t been able to sleep, and so he’d kept a silent watch over the group with Akimaru, who patrolled the edge of the camp. His mind burned with Fly’s question the previous evening. ‘Was it the sash?’

Of course it had been the sash, but that had only been the beginning of his hatred for the Black Draconus. He had agreed to be exiled, to be outcast from the Obura. He had never agreed, however, to be so thoroughly wiped from record.

Markus Trent had spent his entire adolescence learning about the elusive Obura Clan Ninjas, and when he had proven himself worthy of their tutelage, he started toward his dream. Thaddeus Fly’s impulsiveness resulted in the destruction of that dream, and since his assassination of sensei Dolan, there had been no more of that spark in the Black Draconus. Fly, over the course of the next twelve years, had become lax, talkative, indecisive. He had killed an elder to prove a point, to make certain everyone knew he was the best. And now, Markus thought, he’s become one of those doddering fools. Akimaru and he had sacrificed their honor to join him, and thus far, Trent didn’t feel he’d regained anything worth the price. For that matter, he wasn’t sure Akimaru had either.

He studied the white clad Ninja from across the fire, wondering what made him tick. In the twelve and a half years he’d known and lived with him, Trent hadn’t once seen Akimaru without his mask. He’d never seen Akimaru bleed either, a fact which, at that precise moment, made him hate Fly even more. He should have been friends with the white clad Ninja, but Akimaru always seemed to be in the thrall of the Black Draconus. As a result, Trent had to take refuge in the company of his tools and weapons. He’d never been let in on any of Akimaru’s secrets. He wondered if Fly had, either.

Akimaru came around the camp’s perimeter, approaching with an easy stride. Trent listened for the sound of the switch grass under his white boots, but heard nothing. No sound at all escaped from Akimaru, he thought.

A stiff breeze blew down from the north, rustling the fire in the center of the camp, ultimately snuffing it. Soon, Trent and Akimaru would have to rouse the others and get marching east again.

As Akimaru closed to within fifteen yards, Trent felt a cold chill race up his spine, a familiar effect of being in the white clad Ninja’s proximity. He scanned Akimaru’s face, his eyes locking onto the shorter Ninja’s pupils. He could glean nothing from this look into the windows of Akimaru’s soul. Perhaps, Trent mused, a pang of true fear resonating from his stomach, Akimaru had no soul.

“It is almost time to awaken the Headmaster and the others,” Akimaru said, his tone calm, neutral. “Before we do, however, I must ask you something.”

Trent raised an eyebrow at him, but rolled his left hand, asking Akimaru to continue.

“For what reasons do you despise sensei Fly, and scheme against him?”

The question didn’t surprise Trent, though having Akimaru ask it made him highly uncomfortable. How best to answer? Certainly not with the response he gave to others in the Guild, which was simply to mind their own business. He couldn’t brace or intimidate Akimaru any more than he could a tree, so perhaps a semi-truthful reply would be best.

“I have several reasons, Akimaru,” Markus Trent whispered.

The sun now spilled light over the fields to the east, showing the way they would have to travel. Trent looked into the middle distance, and saw the signs of a nearby village. Farmlands cropped up about a mile and a half away, and would inevitably supply a village, town, or hamlet not far after that.

“The first among them being the loss of my sash. You had no sash,” he said, turning his attention back to Akimaru, who had come within a foot of him. He hadn’t heard any movement, hadn’t felt any disturbance in the ground, yet here the white clad Ninja stood, within striking distance.

Could he fell Akimaru if necessary? Best not to think on that, he concluded.

“So you wouldn’t know what that was like for me. Six years of my life disappeared in an afternoon, Akimaru. All so he could prove a point.” He looked over at Thaddeus Fly, who was stirring from his rest as sunlight spread over his body. “Other reasons I shall tell you at other times, Akimaru. Our Headmaster awakens.”

In his heart, Trent knew that Akimaru would hold him to his word, and come back for further explanation. But would he tell Akimaru the reason he most hated Fly? Would he divulge that information to someone he hardly trusted, or knew anymore? No, he decided, putting one foot in front of the other as the company struck out. He’d rather die first.

* * * *

“Anna,” a voice called to her from outside of the fog of her dream memories. She felt a gentle hand upon her shoulder, shaking her.

She opened her eyes, and was nose to snout with Guild Prime Flint.

“Come on, boss lady. We’ve got to shake a leg.”

“What time is it?” A dull throb, centered behind her left eye, beat a staccato rhythm against the alabaster walls of her skull.

“Nearly nine o’clock, Anna.” Flint lit two cigarettes and offering her one.

She took it instinctively, dragging hard off of it and hacking explosively.

“Easy girly, easy! Don’t need you getting sick on us too soon,” he chided, helping her up off the cot.

She stuck the smoke in the corner of her mouth, and crouched down next to her travel bag, double-checking that she had everything they needed, including the business card. Just an address, she thought, flipping it over and over in her nimble fingers.

“Is everyone else up and ready to leave,” she asked.

“Oi, ‘tis so boss. Old Stocky seems in a bit of a mood this mornin’, and Styge isn’t at all pleased with our chosen course of action. Swearing up and down that he doesn’t trust this so-called science. Norm’s spent half the morning trying to convince him it’s as safe as any magic.” Flint stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on Anna’s desk.

She slung her rucksack on, and faced the Wererat squarely. Her own dreams had plagued her all night long, and she could see her face reflected in Flint’s huge, starry eyes. She looked like hell.

“Flint, did I ever tell you about my childhood?”

The Hoods’ Prime seemed nonplussed.

“Can’t say as you ‘ave. Why?”

“No reason,” she lied, shaking her head. She exited her office, Flint right behind her. “Remind me some time to tell you about it. I think someone should know.”

She had never told Harold about her early life, choosing instead to lie to him about her background. She couldn’t stand the thought of seeing the hurt in his too-kind eyes and she wanted only to love him forever, not drag him down. She felt guilty about offering the tale to Flint and not her own husband, but she needed to unload on someone. Flint was the natural choice, though now, she may find council with Stockholm as well, since she had revealed herself to him.

The streets of Desanadron already swarmed with morning market shoppers, travelers, and all manner of grifters, plying their trade as best they could in the light of day. Her heart swelled with pride—this was her city, the bright metropolis of Desanadron. Through wars, decay, and the decline of civilization, she felt certain this city would stand tall and strong, as would she.

She let Flint guide her to an open porch fronting a small eatery down the street from Jonah Staples’ shop. The rest of the company lounged at one of the tables, eating and drinking their breakfasts with casual ease. Anna saw that Stockholm’s face was as dark and forbidding as Flint had suggested, so she opened up with a simple “Good morning, everyone,” to the group.

Greetings were exchanged, and she took a seat between Flint and Stocky.

“William, I still don’t like the idea,” Styge complained around a cruller. “Not too keen on the idea of using mathematical mumbo-jumbo for anything.” He looked down at his sketchbook, adding rough lines to a drawing of an enormous sword.

Anna could tell from the scale of the thing, that only Flint or Stockholm would be able to use a weapon of that size.

Her eyes found Stockholm’s line of sight as she looked at him, and she followed it to Norman Adwar’s hip. He had a mecha weapon strapped to his waist, something she knew was called a ‘pistol’. Seething hatred for the object swam in Stockholm’s vision. Anna would ask him about it later.

“Well, like it or not,” said Norman, “it’s the fastest method of transportation available to us.”

“And let’s not forget,” chimed in Lee Toren, sipping his cuppa. “Just because Reynaldi’s home is in Ja-Wen, that don’t mean that’s where we’ll catch him up.” The members of the company digested this statement in silence, and Anna ordered herself a meal.

When the time of their appointment approached, she led the way down to the Alchemy shop, small talk striking up behind her. When she entered, she saw that Jonah was handling a few customers, and his wife was checking a clipboard—probably for inventory, she thought.

“There you are.” Jonah smiled to a Kobold, the small, rat-like face of the little humanoid beaming as the Kobold left the store.

“Hail and well met, Mr. Deus,” Jonah said as her company piled inside. “We’ve been waiting for you. Please follow me.” A large Focus Site had been inscribed on the floor of a side-chamber in charcoal, large enough that all of them could stand within the circle.

“Everyone just get in the middle there, and I’ll get things started, okay?”

“Still don’t trust this,” Styge grumbled. He looked up at Flint with a dour cast on his face. “If I die because of this, I want you to burn my body and all my drawings.”

The Wererat laughed heartily, as Jonah Staples muttered under his breath, clapping his hands together. Twice more he clapped his hands, and the air filled with the smell and taste of ozone, glittering sparks of energy leaping from Jonah’s pressed hands. With a flourish, he slammed his hands down on the edge of the charcoal symbol, releasing the energy into the Focus Site.

It glimmered brightly for a second, and then the world around Anna and the company dissolved.

Weightlessness, she thought, that’s the word. She felt as though she were floating in an ocean of empty air, her body hurtling through time and space faster than a man could blink.

When she tried to turn her head to look for the others, she found that she could not move at all. After a short period, a portal ripped open at her feet, her eyes forced there by the force streaming over her head.

With a scream of surprise or fear, or a mix of both, she flailed out, crashing atop Flint on a cobblestone street she had no familiarity with.

She landed heavily, and heard his pained “Hoomph!”

She rolled off, looking up at the rift in the air just in time to avoid being crushed by Stockholm. She scrambled out of the way, and felt the Red Tribe Werewolf’s impact through the street. She watched with fascination as Lee Toren and Norman Adwar fell through, landing on top of Stocky and bounding away quickly. Stockholm stood up, brushed himself off, and without looking up, put his arms out. He caught Styge just as the old man came falling through, screaming his head off.

Stockholm deposited the aging Illusionist gently on his feet, and took in the surrounding city. He noted, the new buildings around him, for he had been at this particular intersection before.

The company had been deposited at the intersection of Mill Road and Sky Lane, in the fourth residential district. Stockholm had lived here for a short while a number of decades back, taking a break from his time in Desanadron. He’d lived in a nearby apartment complex, earning his keep as a handyman around town, as well as a bouncer for a couple of the rowdier taverns.

“Okay, anybody got any idea where we are,” Anna asked.

“Fourth residential district,” Stockholm and Lee said, in harmony.

Lee continued. “I have a sneakin’ suspicion I know the landlord our friend Jonah was referring to, and I don’t loik it a bit.”

“It’s decided then,” Anna chided playfully. “We’ll go meet him right away.” She pulled out the business card as Lee grumbled unintelligibly in his native tongue. The building they wanted was only a few hundred feet away. She led the way, and within minutes, after passing by several street vendors, they arrived in front of an eight-story apartment building.

She tucked the card away, and entered the main lobby. The air inside had a bluish tinge of old cigarette smoke, the scent mixed with that of the old Jaft who sat on one long, red couch, himself puffing away like a man on a mission. Several Kobolds passed the company, two of them actually using Stockholm’s legs as an archway to pass beneath. He looked at them incredulously, but let it go.

“Wait here.” She went to the room that Jonah had mentioned and entered a small, grubby office, with several weeks worth of dust on every surface, including the waiting chairs. She blew motes of dust off of the bell, and rang it, once.

A gruff voice called out from somewhere behind a curtain on the other side of the desk. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Anna returned to the lobby, where everyone except Stockholm had taken seats.

No surprise there, she thought.

A moment later, a door down the hall creaked open, carving a track in the floor as it scraped the wooden floorboards. From the doorway, a larger-than-life man lumbered out, a man so large she felt completely dwarfed not only by his size, but his stature and presence.

“Greetings,” the stripe-armed Simpa said, his voice a deep, rolling thunder. “My name is Portenda. And you are?” The Bounty Hunter extended a hand toward Anna. His hand was big enough to palm her face if he had been inclined to do so. She took his hand, amazed at how gentle the grip and shake were.

“William Deus,” she replied. “Jonah Staples recommended we come to you about getting a place to hole up for a few days.” She tried to pull her hand away, but Portenda held her still for a moment as he probed her eyes with his own. His were a strange, ashen color, gray as thunderheads. She didn’t care at all for the feeling. Finally, she wriggled her hand free of his, and rubbed her wrist.

“I got a couple of apartments available.” Portenda’s tone was curt and businesslike. “Especially seeing as Lee is with your group.”

“You know him?” Stockholm looked at Lee, who grinned.

     “Unfortunately, yes,” Portenda muttered. “I’ll put you in 214, up on the second floor. Rent is eight gold pieces flat for the week.”

Anna produced the coinage, surprised at the low rate.

“Head on up, it’s unlocked. Keys will be under the mat inside.” Portenda pocketing the money and moved back into his office.

Anna instructed Flint, Lee, Norm and Styge to head upstairs and get settled in. As they moved out of sight, into the stairwell, she turned to look up at Stockholm. “What’s your take on him?”

     “Not a man to be trifled with,” he whispered. “Thankfully, I didn’t get any sense of ill will from him.”

She nodded, and took in the lobby. The building appeared to be in the renovation process, but she doubted very much that it needed it too badly. There appeared to be enough residents, as a few more people made their way past her and the crimson Werewolf. “Anything else, or shall we head upstairs?”         

“Not just yet,” she said. “Do you still have any old contacts or friends in the city?”

“One or two.” Stockholm cracked his neck with a loud pop.

“Good. Find them, and glean whatever information you can about Reynaldi. If he hasn’t shown up yet, all the better. And Stockholm?”

“Yes,” he asked, already heading for the door.

“Um…” she wasn’t sure exactly what to say, or how to say it, but over the course of the last few days, she had come to appreciate him in a way she hadn’t before. “Thanks, big guy. For always being there.”

He smiled at her then, a beautiful, genuine smile that gave him a softer, younger appearance for a brief moment.

“I always will be, when the gods allow it.” He opened the door and left the building.

She would remember that statement in later years, but that is a tale for another time.

* * * *

 

Interlude

 

Archibald Reynaldi sat patiently in the stone council hall of Fort Stone, turning the Glove of Shadows over in his hands like a child’s plaything. Strange, he thought, that such a simple, humble-looking object could be so coveted. Yet every thief in the lands of Tamalaria would be clamoring to get their hands on it, if they knew of its discovery.

“My lordship,” a gravely voice intoned from the open hall doors.

Reynaldi looked up from the Glove, and saw one of the Fort’s commanding officers, Major Horace Vents, standing as tall as he could in the doorway. The Dwarven Knight maintained order in the Fort, and was well-liked by his superiors and subordinates both, but Reynaldi felt nothing for him. In his opinion, the Order of Oun should not keep Knights or Soldiers that did not worship mighty Oun in their ranks. Vents made it clear that his god of choice was Goragatha, an old Dwarven god, worshipped highly among the mountainous Dwarf folk.

“What news, Major,” Reynaldi asked, his face set in stone.

“Your lordship, one of your company members has come to make confession to you. He claims it is urgent, that he must have your forgiveness for a crime against the Order.” The Dwarf’s grin said he relished the words. “Shall we send him in?”

“We?” Reynaldi grit his teeth. His eyes fell to Major Vents’ knuckles, which he saw had a raw, well-used cast. Flecks of blood stained the thick, dark flesh. “What have you done to my retainer?” Reynaldi surged to his feet and dashed around the long table.

Before he could reach the Dwarven Knight, one of his own Knights was dragged two Human Soldiers into the room and tossed to the floor. They’d beaten the man within an inch of his life.

“We have interrogated him, lordship.” Vents dismissed the Soldiers with a wave of his hand.

They retreated from the council hall, stepping onto the stone abutment that connected the main Fort to the tower the council hall stood in.

“When he admitted betrayal of the Order, he fell squarely within my judicial jurisdiction. Commander Thompson has agreed to let you speak with him before he is tossed from the Fort and the Order.” The Dwarf stepped back out through the door as the Elven Paladin crouched next to his injured retainer.

“Just give a knock when you’re done with him, your lordship.” The Dwarf’s sarcasm dripped from the word ‘lordship’.

     Archibald Reynaldi used a minor healing spell on the young Knight, stopping the blood running from his puffed face in rivulets.

The young man was still on hands and knees when he looked sorrowfully up into Reynaldi’s eyes.

“Speak, Townshend. Tell me what crime you have committed against our Order. I may be able to aid you, right the wrong you have done.”

“You cannot,” muttered the young Knight miserably. “I have sold information, Lord Reynaldi. To a pair of thieves! I told them about your discovery in the ruins.” Townshend clutched at Reynaldi like a leper seeking a miraculous healing.

Reynaldi stood, roughly pushing the man away. Damnation, he thought, someone is definitely going to be snooping around.

“Who were the thieves?” He didn’t look down at Townshend.

“I only know one by name.” The Knight coughed up a gout of blood. “Lee Toren, a Gnome Pickpocket.”

Reynaldi walked away from the young man and stood before a large, open window. He knew exactly who Lee Toren was. The Gnome had arrest warrants pending in several city-states, and a handful of the smaller kingdoms throughout Tamalaria. Of course, many of the warrants could be eliminated by paying legal fees. Reynaldi knew that Lee Toren’s thefts went largely unreported. He could easily pay off the fees with earnings from other jobs, and he had done just that many times, according to records.

Reynaldi also knew that the Gnome had a number of outfits that he sometimes worked with. “Where did Toren go after he purchased information from you, Townshend?”

“Desanadron,” was the immediate response.

Reynaldi tried to remember the organizations that operated from the metropolis in the west. There were two groups, he could think of, the Hoods and the Midnight Suns. Toren would likely sell the information to both thief Guilds. The Elven Paladin would have to contend with both groups and possibly Toren acting on his own to steal the glove after he’d sold the information. In all likelihood, they were already on the move, hunting him down.

He would make ready for them.