Anna’s head reeled after her meeting with the three
agents who would temporarily take over leadership of the guild. Coates, the
Human Rogue, had an air about him much like her own—cunning, conniving. But
Borshev had made it clear that he would not let her down, and had even made a
few threatening comments about what would happen to anyone who tried to usurp
and abuse his temporary position. He’d been very graphic, she thought, smiling
as Coates had turned greenish in the face.
After dismissing them, she had been further
comforted by the sight of Stocky taking Coates by the shoulder and leading him
away from her office toward his own. Gods only knew what sort of violent
promises would be made there, but she knew that unlike the Minotaur, Stockholm
would keep those promises. Nobody in the Guild, or in their rivals’ Guild,
wanted to suffer such a punishment as that.
She leaned back in her chair, taking it all in. The
legendary Glove of Shadows. “I’d love to have that on my mantle,” she whispered
aloud to the four walls. Sometimes, these walls stood as her best friends. They
would stand there and listen, and wouldn’t talk back. They couldn’t judge her,
couldn’t hold anything against her. Sometimes, she felt, a wall alone could say
it was innocent. Unless it collapsed on someone, she thought with a measure of
chagrin. She’d seen it happen before; damaged buildings whose large, ominous
brick sidings had teetered and tottered just enough to fall flat on someone,
crushing them flat. There really wasn’t anything for it. Who blames a wall for
anything, except for prisoners who feel they’re too thick or sturdy?
Restless, now that nobody occupied the other chair
of her office, Anna stood and stalked around the desk. Flint should be close to
finishing his task, and soon the small chamber would be packed as Flint,
Stockholm, Styge and Norman each made their way to be briefed on the mission.
The first knock came after only two circuits around
her desk, and when Anna opened the door, she found the Wererat standing there,
smiling faintly.
“You’ve told them all,” she asked.
“Yes’m boss,” he replied, bowing his head
dramatically. “As I’m sure you may have suspected, Stocky thinks the whole
idea’s mad to the core. Says you should just leave ‘im behind. I can’t say’s I
wholly disagree with him, boss.” He closed the door behind him as he stepped
in, the claws on his feet scraping the stones of the floor harshly. “It’s a
little crazy to expect Borshev, Hollister and Coates to do the exact same job
as us.”
“They aren’t exactly amateurs, Flint,” she said in
the three men’s defense. She retook her seat behind the large desk, as another
knock sounded, much heavier and with the quality of wood hitting wood.
She motioned her hand at the door, and Flint opened
it, admitting Styge, the old Illusionist. He smiled wanly at Anna, one hand on
his back, one on his walking staff.
“Maybe not,” the Wererat said, continuing his
original argument without a word to Styge. “But they’re not exactly all-pro
either. Sort of semi-pro, really.”
“They’ll handle it,” Anna said, putting the hint of
masculinity into her voice once more. “Styge, it’s good to see you up and
well,” she said to the elderly Human Illusionist.
He graced her with a smile that sent wrinkles over
his leathery face.
“Likewise, young man,” he said.
Anna paused for a moment, wondering if perhaps,
since he was an Illusionist after all, the old man saw through her disguise.
She had to admit to herself that it wasn’t much of a disguise. No fancy makeup
or artificial parts to enhance it. If he saw through her, though, he never let
on, and she decided that that was well enough.
“You’ll have to remind our Prime here how to
properly wake up his elders,” he grumbled, looking up at the grinning Wererat.
Back leaned against the wall, Flint had once again
taken to cleaning his claws with a small dagger.
Another knock at the door, light and rapid,
announced Norman’s arrival, and before he could close the door, Stockholm
ducked down and squeezed into the chamber.
Hail, hail, the gang’s all here, Anna thought. “Close the
door would you Stocky?”
As the Red Tribe Werewolf closed the door, she faced
the four of them, now on her feet. “All right everyone, let’s get down to
business. We’ve got the evening and tomorrow morning to prepare. However, I
don’t want to set out any later than mid-afternoon on the morrow, as Fly and
his compatriots won’t wait long themselves. With any luck, we’ll get out of the
city ahead of them, take a good lead.”
“Where are we even going to go first,” asked Flint.
“Lee Toren will lead the way for the first leg of
the trip.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stood as aloof as she could.
“He’s already making preparations, so he can get a good night’s sleep tonight.
After he’s taken us to our first checkpoint, we’ll have to utilize our
information networks. This includes, of course, talking to everyone we can with
similar professions as ours.” She looked at the group to gauge their reactions.
“I understand that won’t be easy for you, Styge, or you, Stocky, but you’re
going to have to socialize. Only enough to get us moving again,” she added, and
saw Stockholm sigh heavily.
Styge didn’t seem at all affected by her plan. Old
and crotchety though he was, the Illusionist made himself available for
conversation and company easily enough. But when he came in contact with other
Illusionists, he became fiercely competitive, and refused to speak to anyone
until he proved he was the superior practitioner.
“Perhaps if Styge and Stockholm conversed with folks
more along the lines of your and my trades, Will, they’d make better progress,”
Flint suggested.
“Fine, whatever,” she rasped. “So long as everyone
tries to learn what they can. Lee said the first village we’re heading to would
be one of the stops on Reynaldi and his company’s path back home. Someone local
will likely know where to direct us after that.”
“Hmm,” Stockholm rumbled.
All eyes turned and looked at the timeless bruiser.
“You know.” He moved to a map on Anna’s left hand
wall, pointing at Desanadron. He traced his finger north, and then a little
east. “There’s lots of little villages about three days north of the city on
foot. Does Lee know exactly which one to lead us to?”
Anna nodded.
“Then so did Lee’s companion. The one who offered
the information to the Midnight Suns. We’ll have to get one hell of a big jump
on their crew if we want to get to the village and make out of there before
running into Fly and his men, sir.”
Anna looked at the map, and cursed under her breath.
Once again, Stockholm’s growling, bass voice had spoken the truth. If they
wanted to avoid a confrontation with Thaddeus Fly and whomever the Black
Draconus Ninja brought with him, they needed an alternate route to the village.
But since only Lee knew where they would head, they’d have to wait to confer
with him. The Gnome Pickpocket gathered himself for the journey even now,
elsewhere in the Hoods’ underground lair.
“What do you suggest we do about that Stocky,” she
asked. For once, he smiled genuinely at her use of his pet name.
“I suggest we stay the course,” he said, surprising
her and Flint both. They stared at him, eyes wild and incredulous.
“What,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “I haven’t
had a good fight in a while, and it would behoove us to get a fight with them
out of the way as quickly as possible. We can slow them down with injuries,
maybe make certain that they stay the hell out of our way for the rest of the
trip.” He shrugged his huge, furry shoulders. “Just, you know, tossing the idea
out there.”
“Well, I for one disagree,” piped in Norman,
adjusting his taped together glasses. “I say we just take an indirect route to
the village Lee wants us to go to.” The Gnome Engineer regurgitated the words
that had only been thoughts in Anna’s head. “I think it would be most efficient
if we avoided confrontations on the whole, particularly with such an unsavory
bunch as our rivals.” He looked around at the taller members of the group, his
eyes beseeching them to be reasonable, to listen for once to the intellectual
of the room. However, the aye’s already had the vote locked—Stockholm’s course
of action would be followed, come what may of it.
“Sorry
Norm, but you’re outnumbered on this point, four to one,” Anna said. “Very
good. Now, everyone’s to meet here at noon tomorrow, regardless of how much
prep work you have left. We’ll decide at that meeting how much longer before
departure, but trust me, I’m not going to waste time. Get some prep done this
evening, and early tomorrow morning. We should be able to leave in the middle
of the afternoon, as I said before. Everyone,” she said, standing straight
behind her desk. “You are dismissed.”
They all gave brief nods of the head before exiting
the room, one by one, leaving her alone with her friends once more, the walls.
* * * *
Lain McNealy sat in her private chambers, all six of
her black candles burning in a loose circle around her.
Her eyes closed, her hands resting limply on her
knees, the waifish Necromancer focused her inner sight on the place she
returned to when she needed to center herself.
Slowly, steadily, the image of a chamber set in a
tomb settled around her mind’s eye. Her body remained still and cold, in the
building that housed the Midnight Suns. Her spirit, however, now hovered
lightly several miles away from Desanadron, deep in the earth itself.
Surrounded by a host of bodies, each waiting for its
turn as one of her servants, Lain spotted one peculiarly garbed body, and
floated over next to it for a closer inspection. The clothes appeared rather
foreign to her, articles from an era long before any she’d been familiar with.
Strange too, she thought, were the weapons the bones held fast to and the ones
strapped to him.
Never mind that, she thought after a moment’s hesitation.
The body piqued her interest, and so she summoned the magic necessary to force
the earthen floor around the body to absorb it and its possessions whole, that
they might be transported to wherever she stood when she opted to call it forth
in her service.
When Lain opened her eyes and felt once again the
soothing warmth of the burning candles, she realized someone stood in the
doorway, waiting for her return to the here and now. When she looked, she made
out the outline of the Guild Headmaster, leaning against the doorframe.
“Headmaster Fly, do come in,” she droned, her body drained by the use of her
magic.
The Black Draconus bowed his head to honor her, and
stepped into the chamber. He didn’t bother to close the door behind him—where
Thaddeus Fly ventured, few dared to eavesdrop.
“What brings you by,” she asked.
“Listen to me, and listen well, Ms. McNealy,” he
whispered, glaring powerfully into her eyes. “I know not how long this trip of
ours is going to take, but rest assured, at some point Markus Trent shall
attempt another maneuver against me. I’m not going to ask you to take sides,
Ms. McNealy. That would be,” his eyes roved as he sought the proper term.
“Presumptuous of me.”
“How so, Headmaster,” she replied, her own voice low
now on purpose, to match his tone.
“I would be presuming that you gave a damn about
which of us came out of the conflict the victor. Your loyalties are to the
realm of the undead, Lain. Your eventual destiny does not lie here, with this
Guild. So it is folly to choose a side, you see?”
But she didn’t see, didn’t understand what exactly
Fly was driving at.
“Sir, you have me at a loss,” she admitted.
Fly leaned away, taking a seat on the dirt floor. He
stretched his arms out behind him and to either side, lounging.
“Ms.
McNealy, to make it simpler,” he said, his words light and quiet, but his eyes
full of fire, “if a struggle occurs between he and I, quietly remain at a
distance. Neither of us can then say afterwards that you had anything to gain
or lose from your choice of alliance. I’d rather not have someone with your
potential go by the wayside because of an internal power struggle in the
Guild.”
Without leaving her the opportunity to say anything
more, or ask any of the questions she had now forming in her mind, Thaddeus Fly
left her chambers.
For an hour after his departure, she wracked her
brain, trying to think of why he’d never been so candid with her before.
* * * *
The Black Draconus stalked down the west wing
hallway up on the top floor of the ten-story building, the shadows pooled
together in large sections. The word ‘murky’ came to his mind as Thaddeus Fly
moved softly, silently down the hall, making his way to the only new door in
the corridor.
Second from the end, on the right, he thought, turning now
and facing the chamber. He didn’t like what he was about to do, but he could
think of few agents in the Guild more capable of maintaining order in his
absence. Akimaru or Trent would have made ideal and sensible choices, but as
they would be accompanying him on his jaunt out of the city, only this man
would do.
Fly took a moment and breathed deeply, steeling
himself for this encounter. He raised his gloved right hand, and half a moment
before he knocked, he heard from the other side of the door a muted, gruff male
voice call out to him. “Door’s open.”
Fly sighed, and slowly opened the door, keeping back
to avoid any traps the man inside the room had set in the entryway.
“Mr. Striker,” Fly said in greeting.
Striker stood at about two inches shy of six feet,
with a wiry frame that belied his actual physical strength. The man stood
partially hunched over, a putter in his hands as he lined up a small ball with
a plastic cup across the room, near a seldom-used fireplace. His open black
vest hung loosely over a simply white tee shirt, the sleeves ripped off,
leaving tattered threads hanging off of his shoulders. A pair of blue pants,
made of a material recently created by Human tailors called ‘denim’, was
cinched around his hips with a long leather belt. His shaggy blond hair was
covered with a dark blue bandana, perpetually tied to his head. He didn’t look
away from the ball, and tapped it with the putter before he looked up at Fly.
The ball rolled easily into the cup as he leaned on
the putter with one hand, the other on his hip.
“What brings you here, Headmaster?”
Striker’s voice reminded Fly of coarse sandpaper
being rubbed against metal. The very sound of it made his legs tremble.
“Mr. Striker, you may not be aware, but I’ll be
taking several members of the Guild on a mission out of the city,” Fly began,
still remaining outside of the room.
Striker moved over to a dresser standing in the
corner, next to a simple cot, and flipped a switch.
Fly heard several clicking sounds in the doorframe.
He stepped through, unharmed. “Nobody of significant rank will be here to keep
an eye on things. I think you may be aware of what I’m going to be asking of
you.”
Striker said nothing, rubbing the short, coarse
whiskers of his cheek stubble. He smiled at Fly as he went still, revealing a
set of steel teeth.
“You need me to take the post of temporary acting
Headmaster,” Striker said. He set the putter on his cot and shrugged his shoulders
indifferently. “Sure, why not? Any idea how long you’ll be gone?”
“Not at this juncture.” Fly’s hand itched to reach
for a weapon, if not to use immediately, then just to keep between himself and
Striker. But Fly wasn’t prone to rash actions, and such a sign of discomfort
would damage his already tenuous relationship with this man. “We depart
tomorrow. Upon our leaving, you will be in charge here, and will have to
maintain operations. I know you’re up to the task, Mr. Striker.”
Striker smiled again, wider. Gleaming, dagger-like
in appearance, his teeth reflected the torchlight in his room perfectly.
“Very much so, Headmaster. Of course, I’m sure I
have no choice in the matter,” Striker took another step toward the taller,
reptilian Ninja. “I still have that debt to repay, after all.”
“I wasn’t
about to bring that up, Mr. Striker,” Fly said honestly. “However, since you
mention it, yes, you do. And it’s still a long time coming to be repaid.” He
let a hint of superiority slip into his voice. “Until it is, we own you Mr.
Striker. Don’t forget that.” He jabbed a gloved claw into Striker’s chest.
“Oh, I won’t, Headmaster,” Striker replied in a low
growl. “I won’t. Best of luck on your mission.”
The door was shut with a loud echo through the
corridor, and Thaddeus Fly once more counted himself lucky that the creature
called Striker was good to his oaths. Because if he wasn’t, Fly knew, Striker
would have left a long time ago.
And he would have left the Guild’s building a
sepulcher.
* * * *
Among other things, Ignatious Stockholm didn’t
tolerate stupidity. He had before him a young agent of the Hoods who fit the
bill of ‘stupidest of the day’ perfectly.
Since taking a seat across from the Red Tribe
Werewolf, Timothy Dent hadn’t said a word. This course of action alone kept him
from being officially labeled.
“I want you to tell me what, precisely, you thought
you were going to accomplish by this foolishness,” Stockholm rumbled patiently.
He leaned forward, his fingers knotted together with his elbows on his desk.
William Deus had advised him to get some sleep, but
the Guild Chief had too much work to clear up before they departed the next
day. He wasn’t about to leave it behind for Hollister or Coates. Neither would
be able to handle the task. “The silence is your cue to speak,” he rasped.
“Oh, um,” Dent stammered, trying to maintain his
composure. Dent was a Sidalis, or mutant, whose appearance was mostly Human,
with the exception of webbed fingers and feet that resembled flippers. His
mutant power was his ability to teleport short distances, one hundred or so
yards at a time. He’d thought about using this ability several times since
being summoned to Stockholm’s office, but knew that it would prove fruitless.
The big red menace would find and corner him eventually, and he knew Dent’s
weakness—paper. Whenever Dent came in physical contact with paper of any kind,
his powers ceased to function, and his breathing became erratic. Stockholm
would use that to his advantage if he had to give chase, and Dent didn’t want
to piss the man off, ever.
“I’m waiting,” Stockholm said, his voice low and
even.
“Well, sir, that is, um,” Dent started. “I didn’t
see any harm in it. I just thought, you know, a little extra pocket change
would be good to have around for once.” He gave his most winning smile.
Stockholm shook his head slowly, unlaced his
fingers, and reached into the top left drawer of his desk. He pulled out a
manila folder, slapping it down on the desk. He tapped it with one long,
crimson finger.
“What’s that, sir?”
“It’s your personnel file, Dent,” Stockholm said. He
opened the folder to the first of many, many pages. “Says here we recruited you
right out of Southhouse penitentiary four years ago, when you managed to escape
after discovering your Sidalis power. You were eager to join, your recruiter
noted,” Stockholm had already read through the entire file, memorizing it
before calling Dent in for this little chat. “He said you knew you could use
your abilities to do good work for us. Now,” Stockholm flipped past the
statistics sheet. Beneath the first sheet lay a stack of pink
sheets—disciplinary reports. “What we have here, is a failure to communicate.”
Stockholm grinned wickedly. “You know the rules, Dent. All proceeds procured
from any target are to be reported to the treasury and dropped off for
distribution on Fridays. Yet, here, we have nineteen incidents of failure to
report and drop off all earnings, six conflict reports, and two instances of
unsupported extortion.” Stockholm raised his voice, feeding anger into his tone
with each set of reports. “Pardon my language, agent Dent, but what the fuck is
your damage?”
“Now Mr. Stockholm, you know I didn’t start those
fights.” Dent leaned back in his chair as Stockholm edged himself over the desk
on his huge arms. “I’m not like that. I wouldn’t hurt a fly, sir.”
“Except,”
Stockholm said, thrusting the six conflict reports toward Dent, “there were at
least four witnesses in each of these incidents! You’re already skating on thin
ice here, agent Dent. And then you pull this shit again,” Stockholm spun on his
heels, taking another pink sheet off of his pin-up board. Flint had submitted
the report, so the big Red Tribe had no question of its authenticity. A thief
Flint may be, he thought, but he never lied about this sort of thing. “You
robbed the house of a police Sergeant,” Stockholm shouted, waving the report in
front of Dent.
“I didn’t know,” Dent lied, flustered and afraid.
“Bullshit! Every watchman, every constable or police
officer in the city, has a shield hung over their door! Did you forget that?”
He hadn’t, but Dent had been seriously hoping that
the robbery would be blamed on the Midnight Suns. However, he’d been seen
exiting the house by Flint himself, who had immediately gone back to the Guild
and reported his suspicions. When their contact in the tenth precinct had
reported the theft to another agent, the young woman had gone to Flint, who
confirmed the report and posted it in Stockholm’s office.
“Um, no sir,” Dent said. Best to be honest now, he
thought. “It’s just that, well, I don’t make a whole lot here, sir. I don’t
think it’s fair.”
“Nobody asked you if you thought it was fair,”
Stockholm bellowed, swooping around his big oak desk and standing only a foot
or so away from Dent, who remained glued to his seat. “You received information
regarding our payment practices before you took the oath, didn’t you? Answer
the question.”
“Yes sir!”
“And you agreed to follow the oath once you’d
recited it, right? Answer the question.”
“Yes sir!”
“Then what was this about?” Stockholm voice went
soft, his movements and words deadly slow and purposeful. He stood now behind
Dent, his enormous, clawed hands resting easily on the Sidalis’ shoulders. “Was
it the officer who pinched you in the first place, sent you to prison? Did he
somehow wrong you in some other way? We’re not big on revenge here, but we do
understand it, in a way,” Stockholm said, tightening his hands slightly.
“It was just greed on my part, sir.” Dent burst into
tears. He buried his face in his webbed hands. “I wanted some extra scratch to
buy a new crossbow, sir. Mine’s all worn and doesn’t aim right. I thought I’d
get some extra money on my own and buy a new one, sir. I’m sorry, sir!”
As Dent cried, he became aware of the air around him
buzzing with movement, and then a sense of calm. When his tears slowed, he
looked up and saw that Stockholm was seated behind his desk again, his feet up
on its surface. A small pouch rested next to his bare feet. “Sir?”
“I’m putting this in your folder,” the Red Tribe
said tiredly. “We’ll mark it down as an unauthorized operation report. But
seriously, one more big one like this,” he said, waving the folder as he put it
back in his desk. “And you’re ass is out in the street. Now, take that, and
go,” he growled.
Dent reached for the pouch, opened it, marveled at
the gold pieces inside, and sped out of the office. Despite his seething anger,
the Red Tribe Chief smiled a little before checking his timepiece. Eight
o’clock, evening. And he still had eight more meetings to go before he’d go to
bed.
“Gonna be a long night,” he said to the four walls.
* * * *
Flint roamed the eighth residential district of
Desanadron, his bare feet telling him he was near the border of the ninth
district, the soil road about to turn into cobblestone. He turned down Folly
Street in order to stay in the eighth district. When he came to the next
intersection, he’d be near his favorite dive bar, The Pint Palace.
Once upon a time, the eighth district was a place
where the city’s prominent members of government resided. However, thirty years
ago, when the city had come under attack by Richard Vandross and his minions,
the district had been left in shambles. Minimal effort was put into
reconstruction, and now the poor and shady residents of the city’s populace
made it their home.
The Pint Palace had benefited the most from the
reconstruction, because it turned out that those of low income did a lot
heavier drinking than the well-off, a fact the tavern’s owner had come to revel
in. His profits had skyrocketed in the years immediately after the attack, and
now he had a steady flow of customers. As a Dwarf, he had many years yet to
enjoy the profit.
Flint opened the saloon-style doors stepped inside,
and was immediately engulfed in pipe and cigarette smoke. His snout wrinkled,
though only a little, as he popped a smoke in his mouth and lit it with a
match. The usual crowd of ne’er do wells sat around the tavern, seated at the
bar or in small groups at the tables—all of which could use a serious washing,
Flint thought.
No other lycanthropes here, he noted from the doorway.
A moment later, he made his way up to the bar, where a rotund, cherry-cheeked
Human by the name of Rudy was tending bar.
“The usual, Rudy,” he said as he exhaled a plume of
smoke.
Flint took a seat in the only empty stool at the
bar, wedged between a Human who looked as though he’d fallen asleep with his
head on the bar on his left, and a stone-faced Lizardman on his right. Flint
subtly scanned the Lizardman, and he saw that the gray robed reptile had a
spiked mace on his left hip, and an amulet wrapped around his left wrist.
A Battle Priest, Flint thought.
Rudy set a bottle of beer down in front of him, and
Flint produced a silver coin, laying in Rudy’s palm.
“Much obliged.” The bartender moved to another
customer further down the bar.
Flint turned on his stool to look around the tavern.
Mostly Humans and Jafts, he noted, the stench of the blue skinned
humanoids masked by the heavy odors of cheap booze and smoke.
The Wererat stubbed out his smoke in an ashtray, and
quickly downed his drink. He thanked Rudy for the beer, and made his way out. No
good marks here tonight. He’d only come in to see if he could pick some
pockets. Unfortunately, he already knew all of the patrons, and knew he’d be
taking what little rent money they didn’t squander on drink.
Once outside, Flint stared up at the gibbous moon. Around
nine o’ clock, he thought.
“May as well get some shut eye,” he said to no one
in particular, moving back toward the sewer grate he routinely used for getting
in and out of the Guild. He turned the corner of Folly Street, and bumped into
someone, taking a guarded step back as he looked down to find a white clad man
standing there, unmoved by the contact. Flint knew the man he was looking at,
and wasn’t sure how exactly to react.
“Good evening, Mr. Flint.” Akimaru bowed slightly to
the Wererat.
“Uh, yeah.” He checked to make sure his money
pouches were still in place and his weapons strapped to his side. All clear,
he thought. “Good evening, Akimaru.”
Awkward silence filled the air, and Flint looked
around to make sure nobody else was on the streets. But it was late in the
evening, and most folks in the eighth district were either in bed, or out and
about in other parts of the city. “What brings you out of your cocoon?” the
Wererat asked, lighting up another cigarette.
Akimaru shrugged his shoulders vaguely. “Just
enjoying the quiet of the outdoors.” The Ninja’s soft tone betrayed nothing to
Flint’s sensitive ears. “And you?”
“Oh, me? Just getting a drink, trying to be social,”
Flint lied. Well, half-truthed, he thought with a grin. “Look, ah, sorry about,
you know, running into you.”
“Oh, no problem, Mr. Flint. My apologies to you.”
Akimaru bowed again.
Did the air just get colder out here? Flint wondered.
Without another word, the two agents parted company,
each heading back for their respective Guild. Flint had been spurred on by
Akimaru’s appearance. He would tell Anna right away, and advise her that their
group should leave at high noon the next day. If Akimaru was still around, then
so was Fly. And that meant they could get the jump on the Midnight Suns.
When Akimaru got back to his Guild, he said nothing
to anybody.
* * * *
Anna slept fitfully, her wraps making her uncomfortable,
until around three in the morning, when she locked her office door and stripped
half naked, sleeping much more soundly now that she could breath. However, some
hours later, when a knock came at her door, she immediately pulled the blanket
up over her bare upper body and called out to ask who it was.
“It’s me, Flint,” she heard the Wererat call through
the door.
“Oh, all right. Come in, but shut the door behind
you.” She looked over at her timepiece. It was only five in the morning. What
could be so important?
Flint picked the lock in record time, entered, and
locked the door behind him. He turned to Anna, who had set the blanket down and
was doing up her wraps.
“Sorry, boss lady, but I had to tell you as soon as
I thought it’d be safe to wake you up.” Flint stared at her.
“Eyes,” she said.
“What?”
“My eyes,” she said. “They’re up here.” She directed
his attention away from her still exposed upper breasts.
He laughed harshly, turning around until she gave
him the okay to turn around again. She was now fully dressed, and in William
Deus mode. “Now, what is it?”
“I ran into Akimaru last night.” He watched as the
shock registered in her face. “After I left the Pint Palace. Bumped right into
him out on the street, boss.”
“Did he attack you?” She inspected him for signs of
a struggle.
“No, Anna, he didn’t. And I didn’t attack him. It
was weird, but I didn’t sense any hostility from him.” Flint didn’t mention the
aura of deathly chill that had radiated from the white clad Ninja.
“Hmm,” she mused. “Still, that changes things. If
he’s still around, then so is Fly. We can get a good jump on them if we hurry
up and finish preparations. Get the others up.” She spun into motion. “Get
packed, and get ready. We’re going to head out a little after noon.”
No need to suggest it now, Flint thought with a
smile.
“Lee’s already awake, I’m sure. Find him, and tell
him to meet us all on the north end of the city. We’ll head for that village of
his just as soon as we meet up. Let him know he’s got to get all of his provisions
before we meet up with him. I’m not going to stand around and wait on the fat
little prick to buy food after we meet up!”
She was on fire now. Thaddeus Fly would surely bring
Akimaru along on the quest to track down and steal the Glove of Shadows. Or,
she feared, though she wouldn’t say it aloud to Flint, the Black Draconus had
already left the city, and had left the Guild in the care of the enigmatic
Akimaru. She sincerely hoped for the former rather than the latter, but she
couldn’t be certain. If Fly took Akimaru and Markus Trent, since he’d never
leave Trent behind to try to usurp his position again, then who would be left
in charge in his absence?
“Striker,” she said aloud to herself. Anna didn’t
know much about the man she only ever heard referred to as Striker or Mr.
Striker, but over the course of the last three years, it had become apparent to
her that her Chief, Stocky, knew something about the man. He had advised Anna,
or rather William Deus, as he knew her, to stay far away from the man. He told
her he’d handle the man if it ever came down to it, and she’d left it at that.
But though Striker may be deadly, what kind of leader will he be in Fly’s
absence?
She already knew, because once before, two years
ago, Fly had taken Akimaru and Trent to a mixed Ninja clan meeting in the
southeast. Striker had been left in charge, and operations had continued as
normal for the Midnight Suns. However, several agents mysteriously disappeared,
never to be seen or heard from again. She had the distinct impression that
Striker had done them in for disciplinary reasons. Fly wasn’t so harsh, and
Striker seemed the type. Would Borshev be able to handle anything Striker threw
at him? she wondered.
Anna exited her office, locking it behind her.
In the hallway outside her office, she heard several
Hoods agents engaged in early morning conversation, coffee mugs in hand as they
saluted her when she passed.
“Oi, Will,” she heard behind her.
She turned on her heel and found Lee Toren gasping
hugely in front of her. “What’s this Flint tells me about leavin’ at noon? Are
you blinkin’ mad?”
Anna shook her head and set her stance.
“No, I’m not mad, and I’m not joking. We leave at
noon, Lee. You’d best go get your provisions now.” She knew how long it took
the Gnome Pickpocket to shop for food. He was as bad with that as she was with
shopping with her husband for shoes. She never bought a lot—she just liked
making one concession to the stereotype of her gender. That, and it drove
Harold crazy.
Lee harumphed. “Foin, foin, I’ll go get me
foodstuffs then. I’ll wait at the north gates, loik you asked. But really,
wot’s the rush?”
“Just trust me on this, Lee.”
Through the chambers and halls of the underground
base she stalked, making her way for Stockholm’s quarters. She knew he wouldn’t
have gotten much sleep, and hated herself for interrupting the little rest the
big crimson Werewolf would be enjoying. But she had little choice, and wasn't
about to leave the task to anyone else. She stood in front of his chamber door for
a long moment, greeting the agents who passed by casually, finally opening the
door and slipping inside.
Stockholm lay in front of the fireplace. A huge, red
furred wolf, he was curled comfortably in front of the burning fire, his tail
twitching now and again of its own accord.
She saw huge, dark bags under his eyes, and his brow
was furrowed as if in anger or dismay. Anna started toward him, then noticed a
small, framed portrait lying on the floor in front of his snout. Creeping
forward as slowly and stealthily as she could, Anna made her way up next to the
slumbering giant, plucking the picture up off of the floor.
It was a painted portrait of a young Tanner
Werewolf, his slender arm wrapped around what appeared to be Stockholm’s waist.
Old war buddy, she wondered. Distant cousin? She
wasn’t sure, and she looked down at Stocky, making certain he hadn’t woken up
and caught her snooping. Setting the portrait back down in its original spot,
Anna made her way back over to the door, faced the Werewolf, and cleared her
throat loudly, purposefully.
His eyes fluttered open, and his long, lupine tongue
lolled out as he got up on all fours and stretched. Stockholm looked up at her,
and she watched as his body underwent the swift change from animus to bestial
state. Oddly enough, she’d never seen his humanoid form.
Perhaps he didn’t have one, she thought. Some
lycanthropes didn’t, just as some didn’t have an animus state. While rare, it
often denoted the fact that the particular lycanthrope was highly powerful in
one of his or her other states. Anna knew exactly which state Stocky was most
efficient in.
“Headmaster.” He rubbed his baggy eyes.
He looked down, snatched up the portrait, and
stuffed it in one of the pockets of the vest that had materialized on his upper
body.
Anna wondered where a lycanthrope’s belongings went
when they underwent their changes. No matter, she thought. Bigger
things to worry about.
“Stocky, I know you probably haven’t had much sleep,
but we’ve got to get ready. We’re heading out at noon.”
His eyes snapped open.
“I understand, sir. I’ll make my final preparations
right away.” Stockholm darted over to his weapons and took his chain shirt off
of its hook. “Where are we going to rendezvous?”
“The in-house tavern,” she replied. Just before she
left, she felt obligated to say something more. “By the way, Ignatious.” She
used his first name in a rare display of concern. She looked into his hardened
expression, looking for the little hint of vulnerability she usually found in
people’s eyes, the lines of their face. She caught a glimmer of it, fading fast
as he became more awake and alert.
“If there’s ever anything you need to talk to me
about, you know where to find me,” she said.
He gave her a reassuring grin, and nodded. Anna
moved out of his chamber.
When she got to the in-house tavern, she found
Norman Adwar and Styge seated at a small wooden table, steaming mugs of coffee
set before them.
Styge looks well rested at least, she thought. But Norm
looked like a total wreck, his hair disheveled, his hands still covered in
grease and soot from the previous night’s work. He had a notebook in front of
his bleary eyes, and was furiously jotting down notes and calculations.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” She took a seat between
them.
“Mmf, gn mrnerhrm,” Norm muttered, which she
mentally translated.
“Top of the day to you, sir,” Styge offered. The old
Illusionist already had his rucksack next to him, packed and ready as he blew
on his coffee and took a good swig of the brackish fluid. “All is in readiness
with me, William. I’ll be ready to go just as soon as the others are.”
“Well, it could be a few hours.” She s gestured to
another agent to bring her a cup of coffee.
It was produced in record time, everyone around her
high-strung. Apparently, there was a lot of tension amid the Hoods agents over
her departure, and the fact that their Prime and Chief would be gone as well
wasn’t sitting well with many of them.
“Um, Will,” Norm said. “Is it okay if I bring the
autocart?”
Ah, the autocart. The autocart was one of Norman’s most
successful and useful contraptions, modeled on an ancient mecha device called
an ‘automobile’. The mecha was a cart of metal mounted on a system of chains,
pulleys, and four large, rubber tires. The whole big thing moved automatically
once it was started, and it could be steered by a device mounted in front of a
small leather chair called a ‘steering wheel’. The problem was, Gnome
engineering had become notoriously unstable, with a reputation for making
things that went ‘boom’. Gnomes made things that weren’t meant to be weapons,
yet still these things often exploded. Imagine opening your Gnome crafted
refrigerator, and having the motor in the back explode out at you, a flaming
heap of metal death.
“You can bring it, but you’re responsible for
maintaining it on the road. The second it becomes a liability, we’re leaving it
behind.”
Despite her warning, the Gnome Engineer smiled
broadly from ear to ear.
“What about you old man,” she said. “Any questions?”
“Just the one obvious question, Will.” The
Illusionist kept his eyes shut for a moment. A moment later, after he turned
out a bit of flatulence, he smiled and sighed with relief. “Why’re you bringing
me along?”
“You know, Flint asked me the same thing.” She
accepted a cup of coffee from a middle-aged Half-Elf agent. “You’ve got field
experience, and you can offer us some good insight along the road. Plus, you
bring your particular talents to the table in our favor. You know the Suns are
going to be after the Glove of Shadows too.” She watched as the old man’s eyes
turned hard.
“I’m well
aware of that, young man,” Styge said. “I just wish you’d make things a little
clearer for me. Like, what’s my primary duty? Where are we going after Lee
Toren takes us to the village to the north? And what are we going to do with
the Glove once we have it, William?”
Well, she thought. At least I have an answer to
those first two questions. She hadn’t, in fact, given much thought to what she
would do with the Glove once she got it.
“Fair enough.” She squared her seat off to face
Styge. “First, your initial duty is going to be to cover our tracks after we
head out. If we try to cover them with conventional methods, Fly and his men
will find us out quick enough and give chase. As to that second question, we’ll
have to snoop around in the village for details about Reynaldi and his company
before we can make another move. And lastly, I don’t presently know what the
hell I’m going to do with the Glove once we’ve got it. If we get it,” she
amended, knowing full well that defeat was a possibility. Thaddeus Fly and his
Midnight Suns weren’t going to be her only opponents in this mission. Anna knew
full well she couldn’t saunter up to a Paladin like Reynaldi and simply ask for
the Glove. Especially since he intended to destroy the artifact.
“Well, at least we’ll keep it away from Fly, right?”
Only the left half of Norman’s face seemed to have taken the full effects of
the coffee thus far, leaving his smile slightly marred.
“True, me boy, true. But is that reason enough to
take something like that into our Guild?” Styge sipped his coffee.
Damn him, Anna thought. That’s a good point. If that
stood as the only reason for taking the Glove, then perhaps it made better
sense to let the Paladin destroy it. But the potential uses for such a
marvelous item seemed endless to Anna’s mind, the mind of a true thief. Imagine
being able to take anything you wanted, off of anybody, and they were left with
no idea they’d been mugged. Such an object couldn’t be ignored. But what
exactly would she steal, and from who? The Glove wasn’t entirely necessary for
most things she wanted. She could take them any time she wanted. So what
exactly would she use it for?
“We’ll find a good use for it another time, Styge.
The point right now is to get our hands on it first. Once we’ve brought it back
here, we’ll talk about how to use it. Until such time, let’s just get our
thinking straight. Any other devices you want to bring along Norm?”
“Just the usual stuff.” The Gnome finished his
drink. “My pistol, incendiary devices, scanning and scouting equipment.”
Anna gave a brief nod, and stood, her coffee
unfinished.
“Where you headed off to, boss?” Anna smiled down at
him, showing her teeth for a flash of a second.
“Last minute business to take care of,” she said.
“Wait here for the others. Flint should show up soon, he’ll be better for
conversation than me right now.” With that, Anna left the Guild’s private
tavern and headed for the one room she liked the least of all the public
chambers in the Guild—the records room.
* * * *
Thaddeus Fly woke up an hour or so after Anna Deus
had parted company with Styge and Norman. The first thought to shoot through
his head was finish up.
He had almost completed his own preparations for
their departure later in the evening, but had one more personal matter to
attend to. He swung his bare legs over the side of his bed, rubbing his temple
with one hand. The thick, jet-black scales on his hand felt cold to the touch,
yet he knew he had sweat up a storm in his sleep. He always did.
Standing and stretching, Fly took a good long look
at himself in his full-length mirror. He thought about the similarities between
his Race and the Race of Lizardmen. While similar, the two species were
different under close observation. For starters, Lizardmen only came in vibrant
green, yellowish green, or brownish green. Draconus, on the other hand, came in
as many varieties as there were Dragons in the sky. Secondly, Lizardmen had
tough, leathery flesh, lightly scaled all over. Draconus bodies were covered
with scales.
These, of course, stood as the most obvious
differences. Fly opened his mouth and belched a short streak of lightning from
his throat. Another key difference, especially in combat, was that Lizardmen
didn’t have breath weapons like the dragon kin. Fly seldom used his, preferring
to use the Ninja combat arts. And then, finally, there came the subtlest of all
of the differences, one that Fly reminded himself of every day.
Lizardmen lived in packs and tribes. Draconus, however,
had little or no sense of family. Once hatched from the egg, a Draconus grew to
the size of an average Human adult in a manner of weeks, feeding off of kinetic
energy around them. Once grown, the Draconus relied on conventional means of
digestion, seeking out food by either hunting or collecting. It had always been
the one thing he envied his lesser cousin Race. Despite being a Ninja, Fly
never acclimated to the being a loner.
The Midnight Suns’ Headmaster got dressed, attaching
his weapons belt and double-checking his rucksack, ensuring that he had
everything he would need once they set out later in the day. Silence hung
heavily in the air of his private chamber.
How long had it been? he thought. How long
since I really felt like a part of something? Sure, he had the Guild, but
he was the Headmaster, and was treated as such. He seldom got invited out when
he ordered a Guild-wide break. Only Akimaru ever kept him decent company.
As soon as he thought about the white clad Ninja,
there came a knock at his chamber door. “It’s open,” he called.
Instead of Akimaru standing in the hall, he found
himself looking at Markus Trent.
“Please, step inside,” he grumbled at his
second-in-command.
Trent smirked at him and took a couple of steps
inside, clearing his throat dramatically.
“Fly, I thought I might try to convince you this
morning, since you’ve had a good night’s sleep, to replace Rage and miss
McNealy with more experienced agents.” Trent’s voice held a hint of mockery.
“Two particular gents come to mind.”
Fly refused to look at Trent, much less give him the
satisfaction of asking who he had in mind.
“We will not discuss this matter, Markus.” He turned
and faced off with the Human.
Impudent, smug little prick, he thought. I know
exactly why you’ve thought of two other agents for this mission. “I have
made my decision, and I’ll not have you questioning my judgment on the topic.
Now,” he stepped toward Trent. “Do you have anything else to say?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I do.” Trent’s hands
itched to wrap themselves around the Draconus’ throat and squeeze the life out
of him. Ah, my lovelies, he mentally called to his torture tools up in
his chamber. How I long to use you against this tyrant. “If you insist
on bringing them, I humbly request you leave me behind and replace me in the
party. I’ll be able to take care of things here.”
“Absolutely not.” Fly pressed his face a mere two
inches from the shorter Human’s. “The last time I did that, you’ll recall, I
came back and found myself set upon by a number of my own agents. My men,
turned to your agenda.”
“Ah ah ah, you don’t have any proof of that.” Trent
waved his finger in the ‘no no’ gesture.
“If I did,
you’d have been disemboweled already.” Fly pressed his size advantage, getting
even closer to Trent. “But I know it was you behind their attack, you worm. I
had to slay fifteen of my own men that day, thanks to your scheming and
conniving.” He sparked a bit of lightning in his mouth as he spoke. Finally,
he thought at the flicker of fear in the smaller Ninja’s eyes. “I’ll not risk
another attempted insurrection, and I’ll not let you bring your traitors with
our company. You'll just have to try something a little more clever, Markus.”
He put one hand on the man’s chest and shoved him back out into the hallway.
“Try, try again,” he muttered as he slid his door shut.
He heard Trent’s receding footsteps, hard and full
of anger. Thwarted again, he’ll be thinking. Once again, Fly felt the
need for a family or closer friends. With Markus Trent constantly trying to
undo him, a few friends would be nice.
* * * *
Flint never thought much about food supplies.
Hunting for wild game gave him not only a thrill, it gave him something to do
on the otherwise uneventful trips he took away from Desanadron. He traveled the
unmarked Shadow Roads, the paths and routes long before established by the
longest surviving thief Guilds throughout the realm of Tamalaria. Few
adventurers took the footpaths through the hills, fields and woodlands, as they
would certainly be set upon by crafty road agents the moment they stumbled on
the paths.
However, for such an open-ended mission, he knew
Anna wouldn’t have Lee lead them down the Shadow Roads. As such, he might find
himself competing with other travelers for game, so a quick purchase of a new
quiver of bolts for his crossbow was in order. After a quick stop over at a
weapons shop, the Wererat Guild Prime sauntered over to a small diner and sat
by himself by a window.
He checked his wrist timepiece. “Nine-thirty,” he
muttered to himself. “Time for a meal and a cuppa. Miss,” he said, hailing an
Elven waitress.
Ten minutes later, his meal set in front of him
along with his fifth cup of coffee, Flint drew an old map of the continent out
of one of his pouches, laying it flat on the table.
“Wotcha’ lookin’ at friend,” someone asked at around
his chest level.
He looked over and saw Lee Toren’s smiling mug,
coffee in hand.
“Mind if I have a seat?”
The Wererat took a sip of his drink and motioned his
rodent snout at the opposite side of the booth.
Lee hopped up into the booth, and stood on the seat,
leaning over the map. “So, takin’ a quick look over the land?”
“Sort of.” Flint spoke around a mouthful of
breakfast. “I’m trying to think ahead of William, figure the route he’s going
to want to go. Where, exactly, is this village you’re taking us too?” Lee
looked at the map, and used a small pen to mark the spot.
“Village of Prek,” Lee said flatly. “You gonna eat
that toast?”
Flint handed the Gnome a slice, which he quickly
covered with jam and devoured.
“S’a small village along the Toag River. Fisherman
for the most part, but they also grow tobacco in the fields. Premium grade
smokes made there.” He pulled a cigarette from his nearly empty pack and took a
long first drag, exhaling out of the corner of his mouth and right into the
face of a passing customer. “Somefin’ on yer mind there mouse man?”
Flint ate his food slowly, ignoring Lee Toren for a
moment.
“Shows here that there’s an Order of Oun fort not
far from Prek. But this map is a little outdated,” Flint finally said.
“Reynaldi would head there to report in if it’s still in service. If it isn’t,
he may move on towards Fort Flag, more directly east of Desanadron. But either
way, we’ll have to head to Prek first to find out, won’t we?”
Lee gave him a short nod, chewing Flint’s other
piece of toast.
Flint realized he hadn’t seen the Pickpocket nick it
off of his plate. Lee really was very good at his job. “You know, you could
order your own food.”
“What, and pay for it? Thanks no, I already did my
good deed fer the day and paid full price fer me travel rations. Total rip-off
they was, too.” Lee sounded genuinely offended.
“I’ll just bet.” Flint shoveled the last bits of his
meal into his snout. “Look. Just don’t lead us into anything unhealthy for us.
You have a bad habit of drawing unwanted attention from some very powerful
people.” The Wererat pushed his empty plate away.
The waitress dropped off his bill, which he paid
with a smile on his face as he exited the diner. “Remember that time when you
went and took Councilor Chamlin’s heirloom sword? Tried dropping down a sewer
grate?”
Lee thought back on that particular job. Taking the
sword had been a ruse—the real target had been a gold inlaid bracer, an
artifact kept in the Councilor’s possession for years. Lee hadn’t discovered
its function until after he’d pawned the item.
“Yeah, I remember. Didn’t the cops wind up findin’ a
coupla’ your boys wiv it?”
“Yes, they did. And we’ve never heard back from
those two. I’ve always suspected that Chamlin had them unduly punished.” Flint
voiced his opinion on the topic for the first time. He’d never trusted a few of
the city Councilors. They were bigger thieves than anyone in the Hoods, and
they abused their positions to be so. “To a very, very small degree, I blame
you for that,” the Wererat mused aloud.
Lee blinked up at him, grateful that Flint was a
fairly forgiving person when it came to business accidents.
“Stockholm, however, holds you almost entirely
responsible.”
“No big surprise there,” Lee commented. The two
thieves walked down the road as the street market stalls started setting up for
the day’s business. “E’d blame me fer anyfin’ he could fink of. ‘Ere now, I’m
gonna head up to the north gates.” Lee checked his wrist timepiece briefly, then
said, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours, mate.”
Flint nodded, not looking down at Lee. His eyes
roved over the assembling crowds of citizens as the city truly awoke with a
surge of people going to their jobs, children heading for the school houses if they
attended, and other Hoods agents popping in and out of the crowds, earning
their keep.
Flint loved the city of Desanadron deeply, and felt
certain he was as patriotic as the next fellow. Sure, he stole for a living,
but he bore no grudge against the citizenry. In fact, he loved the smiling,
jovial inhabitants of the city-state’s main territory. Without them, he’d have
no career. Can’t pick a pocket or rob a home with no residents, now can you?
However, he was soon going to have to leave her, his fair lady, his beloved
home for so many years. And he wasn’t sure he’d make it back to her in one
piece.
Sighing deeply, Flint made for the Guild once again.
Anna wanted everybody to meet up in the drink hall, or in-house tavern as she
called it, and he didn’t want to disappoint.
