'The Glove of Shadows' Chapter Twelve- Trapped!

Travel through the marshes proved difficult for Thaddeus Fly and his company.

Upon entering them, Rage had stopped and sat on the muddy earthen floor to stare at a glowing mushroom. He’d been so wrapped up in it that Fly had needed to enlist the aid of both Akimaru and Lain to drag the big Orc away. Only fifteen minutes later, he’d repeated the process with a moaning strand of algae sticking up out of the muck.

Fly had shaken his head, and dutifully pried Rage from the sucking mud around his rear end.

The whole first day in the marshes was spent carefully maneuvering around the dangerous portions of the quagmire and muck. Having studied for a year in these very marshes, Lain McNealy proved most useful in this respect.

Necromancers from all over the continent, she told the Headmaster, spent at least a year in this marshland, known to magic users of her kind as ‘The Murk’.

“How very appropriate,” Fly spat.

The rest of the first day passed, thankfully, without incident. On the second day, the wintry air from the plains beyond the marsh started to permeate the region. By late afternoon, Lain had excused herself to duck behind a tree and changed into thick blue jeans and a hooded sweatshirt with a skull design on the front.

Akimaru and Rage seemed unfazed by the change in air temperature, and Fly himself didn’t mind too much. But the temperature was the least of their worries.

At around noon, Fly heard the soft, muted sounds of other creatures approaching them from all sides, an ambush set for any unwary travelers of the region. Within minutes, Goblin marauders and their large, wild dogs streamed out of the dank woods and mud pits.

Rage stampeded into the Goblin forces coming at them head-on, while Akimaru defended the group from the rear, his short swords and sickle and chain flashing out in streaks, leaving a swath of bodies wherever he darted. Lain conjured up the fallen Goblins and dogs, setting the undead against their former comrades and sending fear racing up the Greenskins’ spines like desert cobras.

Fly simply stood in the path, waiting for the marauders coming from the south, or right of the path.

As soon as a clumped mass of attackers came within range, Fly opened his mouth, discharging pure lightning force into their midst.

The front ranks of Goblins and dogs sparked and fried, dropping to the ground in burned husks of flesh while their allies stumbled and tried to retreat. But Thaddeus Fly hadn’t released a discharge of his natural power in a long time, and he had a great deal of it available for use. He opened his jaw wide and released another long trident of electricity into the fleeing attackers, splitting them apart and rending them asunder.

Eyes and skulls burst apart as the power surged through their bodies, leaving broken Goblins and dogs in a dotted trail to the southern marsh.

The company brushed themselves off, and continued on through the marsh. Lain kept one of the undead dogs, letting it stray from the path now and again to bring her herbs and assorted plant roots.

That evening, it strayed too far off, and they found it half an hour later, permanently dead.

As night fell upon them the second time in the marshes, they made camp, starting a small fire to keep themselves warm. Rage and Akimaru lay down, though Fly had his doubts that the white clad Ninja actually slept.

Lain sat next to Fly in front of the fire, uncomfortably close for the Black Draconus’ liking.

He tried to inch away, but each time he did, she scooted closer again.

“Would it kill you to try to share some body heat,” she chided.

He looked at her, nonplussed. “I’m cold blooded, Lain, remember?”

“Oh.” Now it was her turn to appear nonplussed. She stared into the fire, nodding her head back and forth, humming a soft, quick tune. Finally she spoke again. “So, you really don’t think I’m cut out for this Guild business?”

Fly considered her question for a few minutes, and spat into the fire.

“It’s nothing against you, Lain,” he mumbled, keeping his voice low. Though Trent wasn’t around, there were a few things he wanted to keep close to the vest. “It’s just that, well, you’re too good at what you do to waste your time with us. You’re very good with Rage, though, I’ll admit that.”

Unbidden, Lain shot her left arm around Fly’s right, stopping his breathing and his heart for a moment.

“What if I want to waste my time with you?”

He looked at her pale, lovely Human visage, scanning her eyes to see if she meant what he thought she did. Yes, there it is, that little twinkle when she bats her eyes. Oh, gods, how did I miss something so obvious?

“Well, um, Ms. McNealy, ah…” Thaddeus Fly, while a fully competent and capable Ninja, had not a clue how to approach a romantic situation. His hands felt suddenly clammy, his soft palm scales covered with a cold sweat.

She leaned close against him, her ample chest pressing against his arm.

Oh gods, oh gods, what do I DO? “I guess that would be your prerogative.” He stood quickly and took a few steps away, then faced away from her, his body quivering and buckling under the sudden pressure he faced. He just wanted to steal an artifact—how did things get so suddenly complicated?

She put one hand on the small of his back, running a finger up his spine.

“Lain, it occurs to me that perhaps we should let this topic of conversation wait until we get back home.”

Her hand stopped, and stiffened a little.

“Very well. Perhaps we can discuss the subject more, privately, back in Desanadron.”

Fly waited for a good ten minutes, turning around finally and finding that she had fallen asleep with her head on his rucksack.

Another familiar voice whispered in his ear. “Most interesting, sensei.”

Fly turned and thought he saw a mischievous glint in the barely visible purple eyes.

“Oh, shut it.” Fly put one large hand on Akimaru’s face and shoved him away lightly. “I didn’t ask for this. Besides, I guess it isn’t exactly taboo. Draconus have mated with Humans before, even married them. But don’t get me wrong,” he gave Akimaru a stern look. “This in no way means I’ve gotten soft. And nobody at home is to know about this, ah, incident. Understood?”

“Perfectly, sensei,” Akimaru said.

The two Ninjas walked around the camp a few times, keeping a slow pace, hands clasped behind their backs. Finally, Akimaru broke the silence. “Sensei, what is your take on Markus Trent’s departure from us?”

“I think he’s a coward and a traitor, Akimaru,” Fly looked off into the marshy woods, spying a single raven seated on a bent, crooked tree. The bird didn’t seem natural to him, out of place in the marsh. “What about you?”

“I am not entirely certain, sensei. I do not trust him, but I do not think he will betray us regarding the Glove of Shadows. He contacted a tracking agent prior to our departure from Desanadron. Perhaps he has personal business he employed her for in Ja-Wen?”

Fly noted with interest the way Akimaru walked in the marsh with him. The mysterious Ninja’s feet never once sunk into the mud or muck.

On the few occasions Akimaru stepped in front of Fly, the ground radiated with a deep chill where the white clad Ninja trod.

“Akimaru,” Fly said, halting in his tracks.

“Yes, sensei?”

“I need to ask you to do something I’ve never asked of you.” Fly’s face took a stone cast.

Akimaru turned, letting his arms hang loosely at his side.

“Akimaru, would you remove your mask?”

The white clad Ninja reached up, and pulled his mask off.

Thaddeus Fly couldn’t even find the breath to gasp.

* * * *

At dawn, Anna Deus and the Hoods she had brought with her to Ja-Wen departed from the city’s northern gates, trudging through the snowy fields and frosted grasslands with as much haste as they could muster.

Stockholm and Flint marched at the front of the pack, clearing the way with their larger lycanthrope bodies.

Directly behind them came Anna and Styge, with Lee Toren and Norman Adwar trailing by a few yards, their hoods tied close about their heads.

Anna kept the forged training papers tucked in her wool overcoat, each paper folded and set into a protective plastic folder. The members of the company slogged on in silence for the entire first day of travel. Miserable, damp and cold, they bedded down the first night in an open field, their treated tents keeping out most of the cold and chill. Lee and Norm shared a tent, as did Flint and Styge.

Anna and Stockholm alone had tents to themselves, and as Anna bedded down for the night, she was again reminded how much she missed her husband. She wondered how Harold was getting on without her. She’d been gone almost two weeks now, and she sincerely hoped that despite the mess the Guild seemed to be in, he was being taken care of.

Morning brought a bright, warm sun that melted off a good deal of the snowfall from the previous day, making travel easier on the hills and plains. However, it made the way messy and difficult when they descended the slopes of the valley that led them past a village between Ja-Wen and Fort Stone.

Anna kept checking over her shoulder to make certain they hadn’t lost Lee and Norm, and early in the afternoon, they had to double back and help Norm out of a deep sinkhole of snowy mud.

Flint reached down and grabbed the small Engineer by the back of his belt, his arm buried in the murk to his elbow. The Wererat Prime hauled, and with a loud sucking noise, Norman came free.

Covered in mud and shivering with the cold, Norm caused them a slight delay as they struck up a fire for an afternoon meal, and to heat him up. They ate their meal, each Hood pensive as they neared their final destination.

Nobody wanted to admit it, but they were risking arrest, despite the level of skill Anna applied to forging her documents.

The long hours of the day were further lengthened by a fresh downpour of snow.

“Gods I hate the winter,” Flint complained as he and Stockholm once again took a lead on the rest of the company, slogging through the fresh drifts of white powder. “And you’re starting to smell like wet dog, my friend.”

“Better than drowned rat, Flint,” Stockholm quipped in response.

Flint smiled despite his frozen feet. It was good to see that the red warrior still had a sense of humor in the face of such terrible traveling conditions. After sunset, they continued for a few hours in the darkness, until the lights inside of Fort Stone shone in the distance.

“All right everyone, listen up.” Anna gathered the company into a huddle. “We’re going to wait until first light tomorrow, and then we approach. Styge, Norm, Lee, you’ll stay here in the tents. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious, and keep things secured here. Stockholm, Flint and I will approach without all of our belongings, so you’ll have to make sure they’re secured. Got it?”

“Oi, that we do Will.” Lee spoke for the trio being left behind. “Say, am I still being paid fer this?”

“Of course you are.” Anna rolled her eyes and setting up her tent. “All right everybody, tuck in for the night. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

The Hoods arranged their tents and everybody got as comfortable as they could for the evening.

Perhaps five hours away, slightly south and west of them, Thaddeus Fly was waking Rage to take the watch for the rest of the night.

* * * *

Morning came, and Anna, Flint and Stockholm prepared themselves, leaving behind many of their belongings for the others to care for.

The three head members of the Hoods’ thieves Guild approached the fort amidst the morning glare of sunlight off of the snow blanketing the lands.

“You’re certain these scrolls are going to get us in,” Flint asked for perhaps the fifth time since the trio had woken up.

“Positive,” Anna replied. She looked up at Stockholm, who hadn’t questioned her in the slightest.

He did seem preoccupied, however, and wouldn’t speak, she thought, unless he had something important to report.

When they closed to within about one hundred yards, the lumbering Red Tribe Werewolf halted in his tracks. “Something wrong?”

“We’ve got to get in there now, if we’re going to at all,” Stockholm said under his breath. “I can smell Fly, Lain and Rage.”

Anna whipped her head around, her eyes following the direction of Stocky’s snout.

She could see nothing for a while, until finally, her eyes fell upon the fringe of a marshland, perhaps two hours away. She could just barely make out movement, and knew instinctively that the motion was that of the Midnight Suns.

“Let’s move you two. Got your papers?”

Both Wererat and Werewolf held their forged documents aloft.

“Excellent. Remember, we’re here for training, and in Stocky’s case, it’s just a formality. I used parts of your old police service records to pad your file, big guy,” she said.

The trio steeled their nerves against the coming risk, and within minutes, stood before the huge, wrought iron gates of Fort Stone.

Four guards, Humans all, milled about anxiously, until one of the taller, more muscular guards stepped forward.

“Hail and well met, travelers.” His voice carried well over the ten yards still between his men and the trio from Desanadron. “Call hail to us, and tell us of your business here.”

“Hail and well met, good sirs of the Order of Oun,” Anna called back. “We come bearing scripts of transference, that we may receive training and induction into your ranks.” She pulled her phony papers out of her jacket and stepping easily up to the lead guard.

He perused the papers for a few minutes, closed the folder, smiled, and nodded, handing them back.

“Everything seems to be in order with you, son,” the guard said. “Head over there next to the gate, and wait for me to give your companions the okay.”

She smiled warmly at him, tucked the papers away, and shuffled quickly over between two of the other three guards. One had gone inside the Fort, she assumed, to inform the first training master he could find that fresh meat had arrived.

Flint went next, his papers examined with a degree more suspicion than Anna's.

She shook her head, saddened by the clear racism on display by these followers of Oun as it had been by the preacher in Ja-Wen. Still, Flint was let through, and he joined Anna. Stockholm cleared without so much as a hitch, and the gates started pulling into the walls of the keep on either side of them on large winches.

The mechanisms provided a solid defense for the keep, because even a battering ram would be without effect, since they opened and closed by sliding side to side, instead of in and out on hinges.

They passed through the gates into an open air courtyard, where a gruff Half-Elven Knight with four blue stripes on the cloth sleeve of his uniform started in on them right away, screaming at them to drop their belongings and weapons and form a single file line facing left.

They did as they were told without hesitation, playing the part of dutiful little trainees.

Flint glanced sideways at the sergeant, which was apparently a huge mistake. The Half-Elf stamped right up next to him, his nose brushing Flint’s shoulder.

“Are you eye fuckin’ me, boy?”

Flint was honestly nonplussed, and started to stammer for a reply.

“I said are you eye fuckin’ me?”

“Ah, no, uh, sir,” Flint said before the sergeant got going again.

“Good! Because let me tell you something, maggot! I don’t enjoy being eye fucked by anybody who isn’t of the female persuasion. Now march!”

He screamed at them up and down as they followed his marching directions around the courtyard, spit spraying everywhere as he bellowed.

“Very good, very good ladies,” he shouted, causing Anna a moment’s panic. Military, she thought, remember, he’s military. That’s a standard thing to call a trainee.

“Now, follow me you three, double time it!” The sergeant jogged ahead of them. With Stockholm in the lead, they followed him into the Fort proper.

He led them into the main entry chamber of the keep of the Fort itself, which stood in the dead center of the overall Fort, surrounded by the training fields and barracks of the trainees. The sergeant took them down several hallways, around a lofty library, and finally, down several flights of stairs to a basement of sorts before bringing them to a halt.

Anna twitched. There were no other trainees down here in the basement.

“Present, arms!”

Dozens of Elven, Human and Jaft guards sprang from hidden sentry posts throughout the basement, spears, long swords and axes at the ready.

The sergeant smiled wickedly at the three Hoods. “You sure do make a good trainee, Mr. William Deus.”

That hadn’t been the name she placed on her folder.

“Terrible shame,” he continued, “we have to arrest you and toss you down in the dungeons. Officer in the room!”

Around the three Hoods, the guards saluted.

Stockholm, Flint and Anna all turned, and saw a tall, regal Elven Paladin, dressed in royal purple tunics and silver half plate armor.

Stockholm flinched away from the Elf, the presence of so much pure silver igniting his lycanthrope senses.

“Bravo, William Deus, bravo,” the Elf said.

“Archibald Reynaldi, I presume.” Anna’s voice went low, full of subtle threats. Duped, she cried in her mind, seen through. “To what do we owe the esteemed honor of meeting you in person?”

Reynaldi snapped his fingers, and four more guards descended the steps. Two held Norman between them, the other two, Styge.

Lee, she was glad to see, was nowhere in sight.

“In the flesh, heathen Rogue,” the Elven Paladin sneered. The tunics underneath his armor showed where the armor didn’t link, while his great cloak, the same purple as the tunics, remained neatly tucked behind him. Jasmine cologne wafted from the Paladin’s body.

Anna nearly gagged on the scent, as it reminded her of the racist preacher in Ja-Wen and his self-righteousness. Reynaldi even had the same smug smile of piety plastered to his lips.

“You know,” the Paladin sneered, “for all of the great tales told about you, you’re pretty naive. What made you think you could just barge in here under false pretenses?”

“I was operating on the general principle that all Paladins are self-toffing baboons, more interested in reading dusty old Bibles than paying attention to the world around them.” Anna mirrored Reynaldi’s smile.

The Elf eased forward, fairly floating up to Anna, and slapped her hard on the left cheek.

Fire sprang through the nerves in her face, forking up to her temples. For such a slight man, she thought, her vision blurring with unbidden tears, he’s damned strong. She spat on his breastplate, and nearly did a double take at the sight of blood. He’d split her lower lip.

     “How very gentlemanly of you.” Reynaldi moved over to stand in front of Flint.

“Flint Ananham.” Reynaldi used the Wererat’s full name. The Elven Paladin snapped his fingers, and the two extra prisoners were shuffled next to Stockholm. A guard who had been in hiding came forward at the same time, handing Reynaldi a thick folder, which he opened and thumbed through for a moment.

“This is quite an extensive criminal record, Mr. Ananham,” he said, looking up with his eyes alone at the Wererat. “What have we here? Extortion, armed robbery, highwayman activity, burglary, arson, general theft, priceless theft, and a few dozen counts of assault. Quite the career crook, aren’t we?” He flapped the closed folder on the Wererat’s head.

Though he fumed inside, the Wererat could do nothing to stop him.

“I don’t think he likes that much,” Styge muttered, holding his aching back. “And you need to have a word with your soldiers here, youngster,” he said, louder, to Reynaldi. “They’ve no idea how to rightly treat an old man.”

 Reynaldi, wide-eyed and flushed with sudden anger, stamped over in front of the elderly Illusionist.

“What god do you worship, old Human?” the Paladin asked.

Styge cocked his head to the side in a mockery of Reynaldi’s fashion, and scratched his gray-silver Mohawk. He smiled brightly at the Paladin, revealing rows of wrinkles and creases in his face, as well as a mostly empty mouth.

“Certainly not one that trucks with treating helpless old men like dung.”

Reynaldi, already stretched to the edge of his patience with these brigands, drew his hand back to slap the old man a good one. Before he could move forward, a blur of crimson hair and muscle had him up in the air by his throat and wrist.

 Ignatious Stockholm growled a fierce, primal roar into the Paladin’s face, waves of sonic force blasting the Elf’s ears, huge ivory fangs mere inches from his proud, equine nose.

“You shall lay no hand on one so frail and helpless.” His muscles rippling under his chain shirt, his breath came in ragged gasps, and his body seeming to expand.

Anna, Flint, and Norman all recognized the symptoms—lycanthrope rage. Stockholm was on the verge of becoming a rampaging beast, incapable of mercy or slowing down in his bloodshed.

With a deep shudder, Stockholm reeled himself in, setting Reynaldi down.

The Elf stared in sheet-white terror at the Red Tribesman, rubbing his throat and wrist.

“I meant you no harm, Archibald Reynaldi,” he said, his voice low and even now. He closed his eyes, and breathed deeply for a moment. “We are indeed now your prisoners, it would seem. You have us at a distinct disadvantage. However,” he said, opening his eyes and staring into Reynaldi’s blank face. “I hereby invoke the holy book of Oun’s teachings, in particular, chapter seven, verse eight. ‘So noble and merciful is our god, that we his children shall be so as well. In times of war, when enemies are taken alive into our midst, we shall grant them imprisonment without torture, for to do otherwise would be to prove ourselves less than beasts’. End quote.”

Impressive, Anna thought. I wonder if he’s ever served in the Order?

Reynaldi shook off his temporary shock, and brushed himself off vaguely. “Yes, well, mister, um…” he looked at his subordinates. “Does anyone here have his file?”

“Um, milord,” one of the Jaft guards, a captain in rank, said awkwardly. “I don’t think we have one on the big guy.”

Reynaldi stared at the Jaft as he would a stupid dog.

“I’m serious, sir. When you gave us his description, we couldn’t find anything, and we’ve got files on every major criminal in all of the cities across the continent.”

Reynaldi took a tentative step toward the Red Tribe Werewolf, looking up into his now passive features.

“Your name,” he said.

“What about it,” Stockholm replied.

“Give us your name, Red Tribe. You know, the one your mother and father gave you at birth?” Arrogance had returned to the Paladin’s tone.

Watch yourself, Anna thought. You’ll find that huge hand back around your throat.

“The name my parents gave me is not easily pronounced by those of the humanoid species, Lord Reynaldi,” Stockholm said. “My given name is Ignatious Stockholm, if it pleases you.” He gave the Paladin a deferential bow, tucking one hand into his stomach.

Reynaldi beamed at the show of respect he was being given by a man who clearly could kill him without a second thought.

“You are well read and versed, as well as mannered, Ignatious Stockholm. It is a shame we must throw you in the prison below us. You would have made a fine Knight in our ranks,” Reynaldi said.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Reynaldi, but I have already long since mastered the arts of a Knight,” Stockholm said. “I have also mastered the paths of the Soldier, the Boxer, some of the arts of the Monk, and the Wrestler.” Several of the surrounding guards to backed y away, weapons and strength of numbers forgotten in the face of such credentials. “But have no fear. I seem to have burned my arm a tad when I grabbed you.” He showed the Elf where he had brushed against the silver armor, and burned his palm in so doing.

Reynaldi nodded, seemingly satisfied with Stockholm’s assurances.

“Very well. Now, you shall all be taken to cells below. Captain,” Reynaldi addressed the Jaft officer. “See to it that they are all separated. They’ll share cells with our other arriving guests. Though I suppose you can throw the stragglers in a cell together.” He turned his back on the company from Desanadron. “A Gnome and an old man shouldn’t pose much of a threat. Away with them.”

As the Hoods were marched along, down a wide set of concrete steps and into the prison beneath the Fort, Flint couldn’t abstain from being a wise ass.

“You know, Stocky, if you’re so well spoken, how come you didn’t talk us out of this mess?”

As he shouted, one of the guards on his left side clouted him behind the ear with a leather sap, and he lurched forward, his head throbbing.

“Because he couldn’t, Flint.” Styge was now being handled much more kindly than before.

“Reynaldi needed only get our big friend in a grapple, and none of the rest of us could have survived an onslaught very long. Let’s just relax and take in the sights.” He gave Flint a meaningful wink.

Ah, right, the Wererat thought. They don’t know he’s an Illusionist.

The cells, when they finally came to them, were solid concrete rooms carved into the foundation of the Fort. All had solid redwood doors, sealing all noise that might come from within, or without.

As the first door was opened, Anna and the company got a good look at their future lodgings. The inside of the cell was clinically barren, except for a pair of hardwood beds set against opposite walls. The rooms themselves were large enough to house up to six or seven healthy-sized Jafts if need be, and would be more than suitable for two men apiece. Well, one man and one woman, Anna thought. Cobwebs clung to the upper corners of the cell, thick and mesmerizing in the detail put into the designs.

Some very imaginative spiders must live here, Anna thought.

Stockholm was thrust inside the first cell, and the guards shut the solid door as soon as his back cleared the doorway.

Anna heard no click, saw no keyhole on the door. She didn’t see any form of security device on the door.

Flint leaned in as close as his guards would let him, and whispered in her ear, “Magic seal, boss.”

She nodded, thankful that Flint’s keen senses picked up on the method of incarceration.

The Wererat was deposited a little way down the hall in his own cell, but not without a struggle. When his guards shoved him in, he wheeled on them, claws flying. He managed to gouge the one Human’s face, three long, wide slashes spraying blood everywhere, before the Jaft assigned to him struck him hard in the throat with a stiff-fingered jab.

Gasping and sputtering for air, the Wererat flailed back into his cell, landing hard on the floor. Before the Jaft closed the door, he wailed on Flint’s legs for a solid minute as the Hoods’ Prime writhed in pain. The Human used a spell to heal his wounds, but his face was now flushed with anger.

Styge and Norman Adwar were walked into their shared cell, leaving Anna with both her guards and Flint’s.

The Human whose face had been slashed clubbed her in the legs with a sap, and she tumbled to the concrete floor, her forehead crashing against the gray surface.

She nearly blacked out before they dragged her into her cell, shutting the door hard as they exited.

She lay in a heap in the middle of the floor, on the verge of tears, when the door opened and another limp form was thrown on top of her. She tossed the body off of her with some considerable effort, and nearly screamed when she saw the unconscious form of Thaddeus Fly, sans weaponry.

They had all been captured.

* * * *

Two hours earlier, Thaddeus Fly had watched with contempt as Deus, Stockholm and Flint were ushered inside of Fort Stone without so much as a struggle. He lowered himself against the side of the hill leading away from the outpost, cursing under his breath.

“A problem, sensei?” Akimaru asked.

Fly rubbed his temples, attempting to ease the throb of frustration.

“I’ll say there’s a fucking problem,” he growled. “The problem is Deus and his tricks. He and two of his best men just sauntered into that Fort just now, and here we are, twiddling our fingers trying to figure out how to get in. It’s very frustrating,” he grumbled.

“I could try the trick we used at Fort Flag again, sir,” Rage offered.

Such a trusting simpleton, the Black Draconus thought.

“No, Rage, that’s not going to work. And quite frankly, I’m running a little thin on the imagination front.” Fly strained for an idea, when he realized that he could feel movement in the ground.

Someone was approaching, at speed, and en masse.

“Everybody, get ready! We’ve got company!”

Before he could so much as draw a weapon, a thin wooden arrow pierced his left leg, just above the kneecap.

He howled in pain, and went down clutching the wound.

Rage spun, and found himself staring at the points of seven spears. Berserker or no, brainless as an Orc was liable to get, he had a little thing referred to as common sense. He threw his hands up into the air and grinned at the Knights and Soldiers as nicely as he could.

Lain McNealy got halfway through a summoning spell before a rounded mace found its way into her stomach, doubling her over. She wretched, vomiting explosively on the snow-strewn hill, and passed out in her own waste.

Fly looked over at Akimaru, watching as the white clad Ninja struggled against several armed followers of Oun. His daggers danced and flashed about, until he fished out his sickle and chain, lashing out at his attackers lethally.

However, it seemed that even a creature such as Akimaru could be bested. One of the Jafts, a Soldier, let the sickle bite deep into his breastplate and the meat of his chest, pressing his damaged armor in around the chain attached to the weapon.

As Akimaru tried to pull his weapon back, the Jaft grabbed the chain and gave it a quick, hard pull.

Akimaru flew through the air, and as he closed the gap, the Jaft put out his burly left arm and delivered an earth-shattering clothesline to the white clad Ninja.

Akimaru spun through the air, end over end, and landed atop the snow in a crumpled heap. They were utterly defeated, Fly knew, and about to be imprisoned.

The Midnight Suns were placed on litters and carried to Fort Stone, where they were lashed to their boards and carried into the main keep. Down several flights of stairs they were escorted, Fly receiving healing from a Cleric after the arrow was removed from his leg. Rage, not having been injured, plodded along in a semi-stupor, his eyes locked on Lain.

She didn’t appear well, and despite the Cleric’s healing, she groaned and moaned as she lay prostrate on the stretcher.

They were carried down into a large, square chamber. Several dozen more guards stood at the ready, and the lashings were removed.

Fly and Akimaru stood, rubbing their respective sores, and Lain was awakened by a stiff slap to the face delivered by an elegantly dressed Elven Paladin.

Reynaldi, Fly thought.

“Greetings, Midnight Suns,” the Elven Paladin said, smug and almighty once more. He didn’t detect the same sort of threat present in this group as he had with Ignatious Stockholm, but the white clad Ninja disturbed him. The presence of magic screamed at him, from both the Necromancer woman, and Akimaru. “I shall only give you the briefest of welcomes, as I have pressing business to attend to elsewhere. You are going to be imprisoned here, in Fort Stone, for the full duration of your criminal sentences, as recorded by the Desanadron police department. Your records are long and, truthfully, rather impressive. As for the Necromancer, Ms. McNealy…” Reynaldi lifted her chin with two long, thin fingers. “She shall be executed in two days’ time.”

“For what?” Fly screamed.

Rage stepped next to the Human Necromancer, putting a huge green arm around her shoulders and pulling her tight against his side.

“For the undead raising of the Cleric, Anthony Repuldi, in Ja-Wen.” Reynaldi opened a thick folder handed to him by a Jaft captain. “In accordance with the laws of our Order, any Necromancer known to raise a deceased Cleric of the Order is to be sentenced to death.”

“And she was supposed to know who she was raising?” Fly took a step forward.

Two Minotaur officers caught his arms from behind and held him fast.

Lain, now fully conscious, held up a hand to stay the Headmaster.

“Actually, Thaddeus, I did know,” she said, leaving Fly with no solid argument. “I did it in order to complete my training. It is customary for Necromancers to raise the body of a holy man when they feel ready, as they are the most difficult kind of corpse to reanimate. I not only raised him,” she said proudly, puffing out her chest. “I raised him as a High Zombie.”

Fly was impressed. It took a highly skilled Necromancer to raise any High Zombie, but the corpse of a holy man? That seemed to define her skills right there. However, if they only had two days to escape, they would have to work quickly to do so, or Lain wouldn’t be leaving with them.

Suddenly, his imagination started working again. “Archibald Reynaldi, you will not execute her—not in two days.” The lie took form in his mind. Only Ninjas could lie to Knights and get away with it, and it was a talent he kept regularly maintained. “She is with child.”

Only Rage, among the Midnight Suns, even flinched. “Yer gonna be a mommy,” he whispered to Lain with a wide smile.

She nodded mutely, playing along.

“Hmmm,” Reynaldi mused, rubbing his chin. “That presents a problem. The child is without blame, and must be allowed the opportunity to live. It is only right, in accordance to our Order,” he said. “Tell me, Thaddeus Fly, do you know who the father is?”

Fly smiled meaningfully, and a shiver raced down Reynaldi’s body.

“Right, never mind that. Lain McNealy,” Reynaldi addressed the Necromancer and the room in general. “As you are with child, you shall not be executed until the infant is born. You shall be allowed to name it, and spend one day with it. Then, you shall be put to death, and the child shall be raised properly by a member of the Order. Or at least until its father,” he glared at Fly. “Comes to claim it. All present, hear well! Though a prisoner, Lain McNealy is not to be put to hardship! We shall not be blamed for the death of an unborn child.” He turned and walked away.

“Very noble of you, Reynaldi. I’ll remember that when I escape and come to slit your throat,” Fly shouted at the retreating Paladin.

Reynaldi stopped, and snapped his fingers. The lights went out for a while for Thaddeus Fly, and the Midnight Suns were deposited in their cells.

They each found that they were rooming with some interesting acquaintances.

* * * *

When the lights came back on for the Black Draconus, he was looking up into the face of someone he’d been waging silent war with for years now.

“William Deus,” he rasped. “Fancy meeting you here.” He sat up, or at least attempted to, until Deus finally helped him into a seated position. He instinctively reached for a knife when she put her hands on him, but found nothing but empty belt.

“I’m not exactly thrilled with the present situation either, Fly, but we’re probably going to have to work together to get out of it. Now, tell me how it happened.”

 Fly related the events of the ambush, and when she inquired, told her who else had been captured with him.

“What about Trent? Isn’t he your right hand man?”

“I have the distinct feeling, Rogue, that he is the very reason you and I are here.” Fly sulked for a minute, looking around the barren chamber for something to work with. He got groggily to his feet, and stumbled over to one of the walls.

He pressed a scaled hand to the sheer surface, probing for flaws. As expected, he found none initially. Perhaps when I can think more clearly, he mused.

“I don’t think that’s the answer,” Anna said.

Fly glared at her, his eyes filled with a dim hatred.

“Look, we can stare daggers at each other until the end of time, Fly, but we need to really sit down and think this one through. Together, much as I loathe that idea.”

Fly sat himself on one of the hardwood beds, his body trying to persuade him to lay back and take a nap. His mind, however, convinced the body, despite protestations, to stay awake and alert. If the door opened for even an instant, he vowed inwardly, he’d be on the guard and then out of this blasted keep.

“Well, since we’re likely going to be here for a while,” he said, his thoughts turning in a different direction for the moment. “Let’s get something out of the way. Why are you after the Glove of Shadows?”

Anna thought on his question a while, opting to say nothing until she had formulated a satisfactory answer. In the end, however, it boiled down to only one reason.

“Honestly?”

“We may as well try to be, for the time being,” Fly said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Well, mostly, it’s so you don’t get a hold of it,” she confessed. She wondered, with a start, how much confessing she’d have to do while imprisoned. The cell only had one toilet, and it wasn’t walled off. She was starting to think her little secret was going to become one of the worst kept ones in history. “How about you?”

“Well, I should think that’s obvious. To keep you from getting it.”

They stared at each other in tense silence, until finally, Anna started giggling at the silliness of it all.

Fly joined in a minute later, laughing heartily. He hung his head a moment, and gave her an odd look. “Look, William, we’ve been at odds for a long time now.”

“Six years.”

“Yes, six years.” He looked up at the ceiling, high over his head. A small slot in the wall where it joined the ceiling allowed light to filter into the cell. He wondered how dark the prison would get at night. “Six years of little jabs at one another. Six years of occasional skirmishes between our men.”

“And women,” Anna added. She’d have to let Fly in on her secret, but she wanted to figure out how to him keep mum about it.

“Yes, and women. Speaking of, we don’t have too terribly long to enjoy each other’s company. Reynaldi will eventually figure out that Lain isn’t pregnant, and then they’ll fry her good.” He stretched his limbs. He had full cognitive faculty again, and gave the conversation only half of his attention now. The other half of his thoughts were occupied fully with figuring out a plan of escape.

“She creeps me out, you know,” Anna said.

“Me too. She came on to me the other night,” he said casually, snickering at the grimace Anna made. “She’s meant for bigger, better things.”

Listening to him talk, Anna realized that Thaddeus Fly wasn’t really the big bastard she’d always thought him to be. Remy had had a long-standing feud with the Black Draconus, one that he had passed on to Anna when he had died. Perhaps, she thought, there was no need for the battle.

“Fly, listen,” she said slowly. “Do you have any, you know, secrets? About yourself, I mean?”

Fly gave her a quizzical look, like a pet might its owner when being called for the first time. “Anything you want to get off your chest? I’ll tell you one of mine in turn,” she added.

Fly lay down on the hardwood bed, and thought back. He remembered for a while, and decided that yes, he may as well tell Deus. What were the chances, he reasoned, that he’d let anybody know? Nobody would believe him anyway!

“Sure, I’ve got a secret.” He sat up. “It goes something like this. I was once possessed by a demon. This particular demon was called pride, and when it took me over, it did one bang-up job of it. Made me kill my sensei, which got me expunged from the records of the Obura Ninja Clan. When I was let go, I realized the mistake I’d made, and I’ve lived with it ever since.

“You see, I assumed that if I killed a sensei, an elder at that, they would make me a member of the council in his place. Of course, I was mistaken, as I have often been. They didn’t reward me. They erased me from their records entirely, along with Trent and Akimaru. When I left the clan, I couldn’t feel anything for a long time. I couldn’t even get angry—not at them, not at myself, not at anything. I sort of operated on instinct for a while, until I got the idea of forming my own clan, my own pack. I came to Desanadron with Trent and Akimaru, and we started gathering agents.”

“That was how long ago? Remy told me you guys didn’t come around until about twelve years ago.”

Fly nodded, confirming the old Hoods’ Headmaster’s statement.

“Well, is that it?” she asked, a little disappointed.

“That’s about the half and whole of it.” Fly lay back. “The real secret, though? My people are usually very isolationist, William. We don’t play well with others. We don’t have a family structure to speak of. And that’s my secret, you see—I want a family structure in my life, and that’s just taboo for my species.”

Okay, Anna thought, that’s a little better.

“What about you?” he asked.

Anna cleared her throat, and steeled her nerves for this part.

“Will you excuse me a minute, I have to use the toilet,” she said.

“I won’t look, if it makes you uncomfortable. Some guys are like that,” Fly said.

“Oh no, go ahead and look.” Anna dropped her pants. “That’s sort of the whole point.”

Fly sat up, and his eyes shot wide open.

Anna used the toilet, and stood up, pulling up her trousers. “You see? That’s my secret, Fly, and you’ll do well to keep it to yourself.”

Fly simply stared mutely at her, and then howled with laughter. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh my god,” Fly said between bouts of laughter. “You mean to tell me that the mighty, brilliant leader of the Hoods, is a woman? I’m sorry, but that’s just rich!” He guffawed harshly. “I’ve never heard of a Guild with a woman in charge.”

“And that’s precisely why I need to remain William Deus in public, and around my men,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Flint and Stockholm know, but that’s it. Oh, and now you.”

Fly didn’t respond. He’d stopped laughing, and fallen asleep on his bed.

Anna decided to follow suit, and quickly fell asleep. For once, she trusted a Midnight Sun enough to let her guard down. Strange, she thought, drifting toward slumber, that it would be their leader.

* * * *

Stockholm considered himself a Werewolf of average size, though he was, in fact, slightly bigger than most. So when the door of his cell opened and Rage was pushed inside with him, he realized how much space the two of them took up.

“Um, hi.” Rage tried to shuffle to one of the beds.

My, what stimulating conversation this is going to be, Stockholm thought.

“Um, sorry about, you know, before,” the Berserker said, rubbing the back of his buzz cut awkwardly.

“Don’t worry about it.” Stockholm peered around the room with its dismal lighting, letting his nose do the observing after the initial impression his eyes gave him. He inhaled deep and hard, soaking up every trace scent available. Sweat, most of it fresh and coming off of Rage in waves, took up most of the initial nasal sweep. Underneath the sweat was the heavy odor of old blood, coppery and thick in the air.

Stockholm stepped next to the bed not occupied by the Orc, and lifted the mattress on its side. “Caked on,” he whispered to himself.

A single razor blade rested on the underside of the mattress, glued to the bed by the blood it sat in. Someone hadn’t apparently wanted to sit around and rot forever.

“You don’t have suicidal tendencies, do you?” he asked the Orc, prying the razor off with his claws. He held it sideways, letting the little bit of light coming into the room glint off of it. He smiled wickedly at the Orc, who simply shrugged his shoulders, palms held up slightly.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what dose words mean, so I ain’t sure hows ta answer dat.”

Stockholm gnashed his teeth slowly, uncertain how long he’d be able to abstain from correcting the Orc Berserker’s atrocious grammar.

“Very well, we’ll let the matter drop for now.” Stockholm once again probed the room with his nasal senses.

Nothing could entirely cut through the smell of the concrete and the blood, or the sweat, but he could faintly detect soil, perhaps ten feet behind the wall opposite the magically sealed door of the cell. “Rage, just how strong are you?”

“I dunno, pretty strong. I can break walls, and some suits of armor. It’s sort of my um, you know, thing you do really good.”

“Specialty.”

A slow, dumb smile spread across Rage’s face. “Dat’s it! It’s my specialty! So, you got a plan ta get out? I’ll do what I can, though, Ms. McNealy usually helps me with these things. You know, the speaking and whatnot. She gives me little lessons, and gives me little gifts, for doing good, you know?”

Stockholm let his temper slip away into the void. Here was a hulking green beast of a man, capable of a great deal of damage, with the mind of an eager child.

“And she gives you orders?” Stockholm looked at the back wall.

Rage agreed with a nod, and Stockholm rubbed his long chin.

“Rage, I want you to stand up, and go over to that wall. Pull your right hand back, like you’re going to punch the wall.”

The Orc obeyed the Red Tribe Werewolf’s directives without question.

Stockholm took one of the sheets from his bed and tied it around Rage’s fist. The sheet looked like a death shroud and smelled of decay.

Once he had the sheet bound around enough to prevent lacerations to the Orc’s knuckles, he said in a very low, commanding tone, “Now start punching that wall, and don’t stop until I tell you to.”

The rumbling began, and Stockholm smiled ear to ear.

* * * *

Flint’s head throbbed, sending shock waves through the world around him. Everything quavered and quaked, and he smelled something like sulfur. A low humming noise filled the cell, a catchy little ditty he almost recognized. When he sat up, he found himself on a hard, ancient bed.

Seated opposite the Wererat, with his legs swinging over the side of his own cot, was the white clad Ninja, Akimaru.

Flint shivered with preternatural cold, unsure of how the temperature outside of the keep could creep all the way down here. When he looked up and saw the slot in the wall near the ceiling, he knew that the light filtering into the chamber wasn’t from outside. Rather, he felt certain that each prison cell was somehow connected to a works chamber above them that would provide light, heating, and probably their food. None of the guards would be foolish enough, he knew, to actually open the door to the cell once its inhabitants had been secured within.

“Hey there, Akimaru,” Flint said conversationally. He tried to get up, but found that his legs still weren’t cooperating. He’d only felt the first few blows to his lower extremities before he passed out from a combination of pain and lack of oxygen. He didn’t know how long he’d been laid out, but he knew suddenly that Akimaru had moved him from the floor to the bed.

“Um, just one quick question, Aki. You could have broken my neck when you got shoved in here.”

“No, I couldn’t have,” the white clad Ninja quickly replied. “I’m not the type. I have not been ordered to kill you, or to harm you in any other way. Since our present set of circumstances seems dismal, we shall have to work together. Mr. Flint.”

Flint marveled. In the nearly one dozen encounters he’d had with Akimaru, the white-clad Ninja hadn’t used a quarter of the words he just had.

“Now, do you possess any hidden talents or powers I should know of, Mr. Flint?”

The Wererat shook his head, trying to moisten his lips.

Akimaru walked over to the solitary sink fixture next to the toilet, and turned the faucet on. He cupped his gloved hands and caught the water, bringing it to Flint’s cracked lips.

“Thank you, Akimaru,” Flint wheezed as he gulped at the water.

Before he could get a good second pull on it, Akimaru pulled his hands away, keeping them cupped.

“What gives?”

“Not too fast.” The white clad Ninja brought the water back. “You will throw it back up.”

Flint took a few more small sips, spaced out half a minute each. As he drained the last of the liquid, he felt his throat almost freeze over. Why was the cell so cold?

“Now, think hard, Wererat.” Akimaru’s voice was low, level, and calm, but it held a subtle suggestion of lethal, violent potential.

With every word Akimaru spoke, Flint also noticed, the prison cell seemed to get colder. “Any powers at all?” Akimaru asked.

At first, Flint could think of nothing, and he lay back on his bed to reflect on the question.

He tried to gauge the time that had passed, but as they had confiscated his timepiece, he had no idea whether they’d been locked up for minutes or hours.

Eventually, the small slot at the top of the wall, where it met the ceiling of the chamber, opened, and a medium sized tray laden with food lowered to the two agents from a thin rope.

As soon as Flint could reach up and pluck the tray down, he hauled on it, and the rope broke. Instead of letting the broken rope just drop into the cell, the remainder was pulled up the wall and back into the room beyond the grate.

Flint pocketed the small strand of rope, and started in on his share of the food.

Bits of cheese, bread, and two bowls of some sort of mountainous stew were on the tray, and as Flint devoured his stew greedily, he eyeballed the small wedges and blocks of fresh cheese. He glanced over at Akimaru, who was sitting in a meditative trance on his bed, his eyes shut, a soft, steady hum vibrating through the floor. The Ninja did not react when Flint snatched up all of the cheese, or when he gobbled half of it for himself, tucking the rest away for later consumption. Akimaru, it seemed, had voided his consciousness from the room.

Flint drifted into slumber, his body sore and in need of rest. He kept himself awake just long enough to see Akimaru open his eyes wide for a brief instant, his eyes a brilliant, arctic purple. The Wererat pulled a blanket over himself, and fell asleep. He dreamed of cheese, and the glorious hunt for it as a rodent.

When he awoke the next morning, he had a plan of escape.