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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flint stopped in his tracks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stockholm nodded.

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

Flint smiled wickedly as he stood up from his seat.

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

With a sudden jerk, Flint shook the cot hard.

Styge woke up screaming, clutching his chest tightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Norman saluted and hustled away to his bench.

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

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

“There, message sent,” Norm said.

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Akimaru nodded, saying nothing.

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Miss McNealy,” he said quietly, politely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dat’s great! Anybody else comin’?”

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

"The Glove of Shadows" Chapter Three- The Other Side of the Fence

Crash! Another tetsujin, or metal training dummy, crashed to the concrete floor of the basement in pieces. A large group of the lifeless puppets stood scattered around the dusty, cavernous chamber, a single Black Draconus in the middle of their faceless numbers.

Without flinching at the impacts, the dragon-kin kicked and wheeled at the dummies, lashing out with ferocious blows from his hands and feet. A single drop of sweat ran down his scale-covered forehead as he came to a halt, the remainder of the tetsujin destroyed.

Thaddeus Fly barely discerned the sound of another Ninja’s footfalls, an agent he knew well. His second in command, a gray-clad Human sans mask, stood in the wide stairwell opening, sneering mockingly at his Headmaster. The Human tossed him a towel, which he caught with ease.

“Thank you, Markus.” Fly wiped his brow. “What have you to report, Mr. Trent?”

The Ninja, Markus Trent, gave a brief bow before stepping onto the basement floor proper.

“An informant bears news for you, Headmaster Fly.” A sly smile played over Trent’s lips, revealing teeth yellowed by coffee and cheap cigarettes.

Fly flinched inwardly at the sight of Trent’s teeth. A true Ninja should take better care of himself, the Draconus thought.

“He won’t reveal his information to anyone but you, he says. I tried to tell him that as your first officer he could relate the facts to me, but he refuses to yield.” Trent’s lips turned downward with the last few words.

Fly had a good idea what that meant—it meant that Trent had grilled the man as hard as he could without using force.

Markus Trent held the position of first officer in the Midnight Suns, an unofficial title, as most in the Guild were. Only Thaddeus Fly held claim of an official position in the Midnight Suns, as its founder and leader. But Fly relied on Trent to act as his second in command, retaining their respective ranks from their days together with the Obura Ninja clan. Fly reasoned with people, and slowly added members to their little band of thieves in the beginning, while Trent used other, less subtle methods. While the Headmaster of the Midnight Suns did not precisely care for the disturbed Human’s methods, he turned a blind eye to them as often as possible.

“I assume you tried to, ah, persuade him he could talk to you.” Fly smiled wickedly back at Trent. True, he turned a blind eye to the man’s compulsions, but not to the scheming, plotting look the man always had in his eyes. Markus Trent had a Vision, Fly knew, and the Draconus played only a minor part in that Vision. He was cast as the first of many victims.

“I simply explained my position to him.” Trent lied poorly. He thought about Fly’s policy against outright torture of a civilian, and his stomach churned. Five minutes in my chambers, with my darlings, he thought vehemently. Just five minutes, and the Gnome would beg to give the information to him. But no. So long as Fly stood in the way, his darlings would have to content themselves to the few meager offerings Trent brought them.

He would bring Fly to them one day, he thought viciously. A handful of plans had been foiled over the years, leaving some of Trent’s loyal subjects dead and buried. But he would find an opportunity eventually, and he would lay Fly low. He had to, in exchange for what had been done to him because of the Black Draconus’s actions long ago.

“I’m sure you did.” Fly noncommittally removed his gloves. Hard, scaled hands fumed, clouds of heat coming from them in tufts. “Have Akimaru send him to my quarters when I’m ready, Trent.”

Markus Trent bowed once more before departing from the basement dojo, stalking up the stairs toward his room.

Trent mentally fumed, despising the way Fly treated him like a lapdog. “Who’s he, anyway,” he growled at one point during his walk down the corridors of the multi-storied building that housed the Midnight Suns.

A few agents turned their heads to watch his lithe form slip from hallway to hallway, chamber to chamber, not so much as giving them a second’s thought.

Finally, ascending to the second floor, Trent slowed his pace. He stood in a narrow hallway, the wallpaper dank and musty, forgotten in the midst of so many agents busy with more important matters. Trent moved almost woodenly to the third doorway on the left side of the hall, stepping into an open alcove where only one agent sat.

The agent wore a simple, body-covering Ninja uniform, all white from the face-concealing mask, to the short tabi boots covering the smallish feet.

“Akimaru,” Trent said, and the Ninja looked up from his book, his vibrant, purple eyes meeting Trent’s own.

Markus experienced much the same feeling at that moment that everyone got around the quiet, white-clad Ninja—it felt as though he was looking through you, not at you, and his eyes changed color often, between purple and gray.

“Yes, master Trent.” Akimaru’s quiet, whisper-like voice directed itself straight into Trent’s head.

Another queer observation most agents made about Akimaru, Trent noted. The man’s voice sounded like an echo in the listener’s ears, as though the words appeared in the mind without passing through the open air.

Akimaru sometimes put off even a sadist like Trent, but this feeling always passed. Akimaru was always, if nothing else, helpful and obedient.

“There is a Gnome informant here to speak with the Headmaster,” Trent reported flatly. “See to it that he goes to his personal chambers when the Headmaster is ready for him.”

Akimaru stood and bowed respectfully, and Trent exited the reading room, heading for his own personal quarters.

Up two more flights of stairs he ascended, his thoughts turning to his waiting darlings. The gray Ninja turned the knob to his room and entered in a rush, immediately closing the door behind him. He turned with a reverential expression plastered to his face to the wall directly opposite the door.

Flames of passion burned deep in the pit of Markus Trent’s soul, passion no amount of water or dirt could extinguish. He took slow, measured steps towards the set of tools hanging on the wall, his hands tingling as he removed his gray cloth gloves. He took one of the devices down off of the wall, and hit a button, activating a twisting, serrated knife blade. The baleful smile returned to his lips. “Don’t worry, baby,” he said to the device. “You and I, we’ll get to play with ol’ scaleface soon. You, and me, and all of our friends.” He spread his arms to take in the entire wall of torture devices. “Oh, we’ll have a grand old time!”

* * * *

Three floors below the warped conversation in Markus Trent’s chambers, Thaddeus Fly sat with his legs folded, wearing his official traveling and combat gear. His own chambers had been torn apart and remade from scratch, modeled after the Obura clan’s dojo. Simple, freshly scrubbed wooden floors shimmered with a recent coating of wood polish. He sat on one side of a knee-height table, laden with teacups, saucers, and a teapot with a floral design on one side, and a twisting dragon on the other.

A slat-style door stood opposite him, open to admit entrance to anyone the doorman saw fit to allow in. The doorman, at that time, was Akimaru.

Fly sipped his tea, and gave the white-clad Ninja a small hand gesture.

Akimaru bowed swiftly, and waved his own hand at a person standing on the other side of the paper wall of Fly’s room.

A small Gnome, decked in forest travel gear, puttered forward and into the chamber, smiling nervously at Thaddeus Fly. He remained just inside the doorway, until Fly gestured him forward.

The Gnome, his naturally yellowish skin made more so by the candles used to light the room, laughed a little as he shuffled slowly up to the table. “Um, where’s the chairs?”

 Fly smiled gently at him and shook his head.

“We don’t use them in my quarters.” Fly poured the Gnome a cup of tea. “Please, be seated or kneel.”

The Gnome informant knelt, taking the offered cup in his hands. He blew on the hot drink, and took a short sip.

“Hm. That’s quite nice.” The Gnome squinted his eyes at the liquid. “What is it?”

“It’s called ginseng, Mister...” Fly let the space hang for a moment.

The Gnome blinked his eyes rapidly, and then realized he was being asked his name.

“Oh, Brandon, sir. It’s Brandon,” the informant lied.

“It’s a traditional tea for Obura clan Ninjas, Brandon,” Fly said with that fake, gentle smile once again. “Myself and about one quarter of my men are Obura clan Ninjas. Most people think of us as thieves.” He took another sip of his tea, measuring the confused look Brandon wore.

“Um, I thought you were thieves, myself. No offense meant, sir.”

“Oh, none taken Mr. Brandon, I assure you.” Fly waved the statement off with a lazy hand. “It’s a common misunderstanding. Obura Ninjas are more focused on combat—ranged and melee—than stealth. A few of our number get good at the stealth, but we aren’t your typical Ninjas. We don’t traipse around in the shadows, taking money and lives whenever the urge hits us. We’re more disciplined than that.” Fly noticed the way the Gnome’s eyes kept darting from his face back down to his teacup. Nervous, he thought. And it’s not just Akimaru or me he’s nervous about. He’s got something big to tell me, and he’s afraid he’s made a mistake in bringing it to me.

“So, how do you’s make money, then? I mean, this is a guild, roit?” Brandon took the last of his tea into his mouth.

Without thinking, Fly responded almost immediately. If he had hesitated a moment, or if the Gnome had swallowed faster, nothing bad would have happened. But Fly responded punctually.

“Mostly through assassination contracts,” he said

Brandon choked, spewing tea all over the table, himself, and Fly’s face.

The Gnome thought for sure he was a dead man, but he watched Fly calmly wipe his face with a napkin, not even showing a brief sign of irritation. Unfortunately for the Gnome, he was no mind reader. Had he been, he might have bolted at that moment on the off chance he’d get past the white-clad doorman and out of the building.

Disgusting, low-class, foul little buffoon, Fly’s inner voice howled through the landscape of his mind. A vision of his claws tearing through the Gnome’s throat played in his mind’s eye. But he stayed his hands, and checked his temper with an effort. “Ask me no questions, Mr. Brandon, and I shall tell you no lies. Now,” he said, wiping the last of the spewed tea off of his dragon-like face. “You have some information for me, I believe?”

“Oh, roit, roit,” Brandon blurted, remembering himself. “Well, it’s big news, see? You ‘eard of the Glove of Shadows?”

Fly nodded, pouring Brandon tea in a fresh teacup.

The Gnome gladly accepted it, draining most of the warm contents right away. “S’real good stuff, chief. Anyways, this Elven Paladin, real holier-than-thou sort, he found it in an old ruins a couple of days ago. He’s going to lock it up and try to sort out how to destroy it once and for all, Oh, that would truly and surely be a dark day for all thieves, mister Fly.” He set down the cup and wiped his sweating hands on his wool pants.

“How reliable is your information, Brandon? How can I be certain of the Glove’s existence, and its discovery?” Fly raised one thick, hairless eyebrow. The Glove of Shadows, he thought. A marvelous artifact. If it truly had fallen into the hands of a Paladin, however, it wouldn’t be put to proper use, what a pity. But if he could confirm that it actually existed, and had been taken away from its prior location, he would immediately formulate a plan to take it for his own.

     “That’s the great part, gov,” Brandon said excitedly. “This Paladin, Rey-something-or-other, it’s ‘is job to go ‘round and seal away dark artifacts and ghosts and such for the Order of Oun. An’ one of his chaps, a member of his crew, told me about it. He’d been there for the discovery.”

Fly leaned back a little, mulling. He hadn’t detected deceit in the informant’s voice, but he sensed that something was being withheld, some crucial fact.

“A couple of days ago,” Brandon continued, “he popped in on me and one of my other occasional co-workers at a tavern in Vershak, to the south. Told us all about it!”

Fly’s cup had been halfway to his lips, and he set it carefully, slowly, back to the table.

“Your, ‘other’, co-worker? Where, pray tell, is he?” Fly’s smile was gone, his tone businesslike.

     “Oh, he says he don’t work wif you blokes, onna count of ‘im one time robbing this place blind.”

Fly silently fumed. Only one thief had ever managed to break into the Suns base of operations and get away wholly undetected until the next day, when the guild’s vault had been discovered—empty. Lee Toren. Of course, he would run right to William Deus and his blasted Hoods. Toren took to that weird little ragamuffin outfit and their charming con-man leader.  No matter, he thought. I’ll burn that bridge once I’ve crossed it.

“Very well. We thank you for your valuable service, Mister Brandon. Your payment…” Fly indicated Akimaru, whom Brandon hadn’t heard or seen leave, or come back with the small trunk in his hands.

The white-clad Ninja came into the room proper, and set the trunk down next to Brandon, stepping back and bowing deeply to Fly.

“Wow! You’re too kind.” The Gnome opened the trunk, and removed several sparkling jewels from the container. His eyes glossed with the drunken rapture that a barfly has when he managed to land a date for the night. “I’ll be sure to do business with you again!” The Gnome stood, performed a horrible parody of the Obura bow, and stuffed the jewels in his pockets as he darted out of the room, away from Thaddeus Fly and the silent Akimaru.

Fly finished his tea and wiped his lips daintily. He clapped his hands once, and Akimaru immediately set to clearing the small table as Fly stood up. “A nice touch with the teacup, sensei,” Akimaru said.

Unlike Trent and the majority of the agents in the Midnight Suns, Akimaru’s strange method of speech didn’t jar Fly in the least. Nor did his piercing gaze. Fly smiled smugly and looked at Akimaru, standing at the small washing sink, cleaning the dishes meticulously. Fly waited for him to dry the teacup that Brandon had used, and Akimaru dutifully held it out for him to take.

“Shall I see to the return of the jewels?”

“Please do, Akimaru.” Fly opened an overhead cupboard and pulling out a small glass jar. He set the jar on the counter, and opened the top gently, revealing a thin, white paste inside. The Black Draconus opened a drawer, withdrew a small brush, and carefully started applying a coat of the paste to the inside of the cup.

Within seconds of the brush’s passing, the paste dried over, and looked to be a part of the cup itself. “Remember though, my pupil, that this stuff takes an hour or so to run its course, so there’s no rush. Wait for the time, and then get the jewels.” Fly closed the jar of poisonous paste, and set it back in the cupboard. When he turned to dismiss Akimaru, he found the white-clad Ninja missing, the dishes already done and sitting in a rack.

'The Glove of Shadows' Chapter Two- Guild Business

Annabelle Deus, in her role as William Deus, renowned Rogue, stepped through the open doorway and into the meeting hall of the Hoods.

Her and Flint’s arrival started a volley of hails and cheers. Several men, and a couple of female agents, shouted above the din, “Oy, William!”

She met and greeted many of them on her way up to the elevated platform at the opposite end of the hall, where she always gave her speeches and handed out members’ assignments.

Stockholm stood ready at his post on the platform as Anna and Flint tried to part the sea of members and agents.

“Clear the way!” Stockholm’s booming command silenced almost the entire crowd, and Pickpockets, Rogues and Strong Arm Thugs made way for their leader and her second, the Guild Prime.

Anna hopped easily up onto the stage.

Flint took one large step up, and the three stood for a moment of silence before the Guild. On Anna’s right, Flint held the post of Prime. On her left, Ignatious Stockholm held the post of Chief. Together, they led and governed this crowd of thieves from day to day, making certain that some semblance of order held.

Anna smiled broadly at nearly two hundred men and women, holding her hands up for their total attention. Their side conversations slowed, and ultimately stopped as she felt a swelling of pride in her bosom. True, theirs may not be a noble profession, but at least the Hoods retained a code of honorable conduct. Nobody got hurt, they didn’t shake down merchants for ‘protection’ money, and they didn’t take from those who had nothing. On rare occasions, these rules were broken, usually by new members of the Guild. That led to disciplinary action, and the Guild Chief’s primary function was to enforce the Hoods’ code of conduct. Stockholm believed in harsh, firm punishment, so most members kept their noses clean.

“All right, ladies and gents, let’s do this quick and get to business,” she began, speaking loudly and directing her voice at the back of the room, where her voice would echo back and around to everyone present. “I’ve got a lot of tasks to assign, paperwork to go through, and oral reports to listen to tonight. First order, of course, is the recitation of the Code of the Hoods. Mr. Stockholm! If you would please do the honors?”

The massive Red Tribe Werewolf took the center stage, clearing his throat audibly. As he opened his mouth to speak, somebody in the audience whispered to his neighbor, and both chuckled just loudly enough to be heard. Stockholm closed his mouth and glared meaningfully in the jokers’ direction. A moment of tension passed as he pulled his lips back just a small bit.

The front row of agents tried to push back away from the stage at that snarl, and Anna thought on the nickname many of them used behind Stockholm’s back: ‘The Red Menace’. She supposed more members feared him than respected him, but Ignatious Stockholm gave good reasons to be afraid of him. She also knew of his kinder nature, the true persona he hid beneath his gruff, battle-worn and tested exterior. She believed she knew a great deal more about him than even he knew, and she intended to keep it that way.

Once more he cleared his throat, and brought his left hand to his forehead in a salute. Every agent in the hall, Flint and Anna included, followed suit.

“These rules I shall vow ne’er to breach,” he began, “as a member of the Hoods! Firstly, I shall never take that which is necessary for survival from those who do not deserve theft! Secondly, I shall never steal from a Hoods brother or sister, for reasons other than jest or official Guild tests of advancement! Thirdly, I shall never cause harm when it can be avoided.”

He continued reciting the rules of the Guild alone. This, Anna had discovered, proved much more efficient than trying to have two hundred men and women repeat every word.

“Fourth, I shall never follow orders blindly. I shall question judgments handed forth that do not seem sound. Fifth, I shall honor and obey the Guild Headmaster,” he said.

Anna nodded, raising her salute hand skyward for a moment.

“The Guild Prime,” Stockholm said, and Flint raised his hand.

“And the Guild Chief,” he said, raising his own hand. “Lastly, I shall do nothing to bring shame, or the authorities down on the Guild!”

The assembled Guild members brought their hands down and stomped their right feet once.

Stockholm stepped back, and took his position on Anna’s left hand side.

Before Flint stepped forward, the Red Tribe had one final statement to make. “Ignatious Stockholm, Guild Chief!”

Flint remained planted to his spot, but raised his head a couple of inches. “Flint Ananham, Guild Prime!” Anna then stepped forward into the center of the stage.

“William Deus, Guild Headmaster to the Hoods!”

Cheers rose up from the crowd, the agents taking heart in once again seeing their leader after a month-long absence. She had popped in from time to time over the weeks, but only infrequently, to take reports from her Prime and Chief. She hadn’t addressed the entire Guild for too long, and they had become dispirited by William Deus’s long absence. Now, the agents all exhibited a sense of energy.

She stepped back and faced her two best men. “Gentlemen, I’ll be in my office. Flint, I’ll see you first for your reports, then you Stocky."

The Red Tribe rolled his eyes and murmured something under his breath.

Anna spun on her heel and stalked off through a second smaller, wooden door to the right of the stage.

“Cheer up, mate,” Flint clapped Stockholm lightly on the back. “He gets to all of us. It’s what makes him great.”

“You know I don’t like that nickname.” He narrowed his eyes as he once again spotted the two agents who fancied themselves comedians. They had spoken out of turn. He would have none of that. “Go on, Flint. I’ve got a couple of smart-asses to flay.”

* * * *

Annabelle Deus made her solitary walk to her office with a certain bounce in her step, one she hadn’t possessed for nearly a month. She opened the door to her office, which appeared to be an ungodly mess.  In truth, however, it remained just as she had left it. What appeared to others as wholly and completely destroyed made total sense to her. She walked easily around the desk to a small wardrobe in the back left corner, and started to take off her tunic top. Before she had it half off, a knock sounded at the door. She hastily pulled the shirt down and called out, “Enter!”

The tip of a brown snout poked through the door, a toothy smile plastered to the owner’s face. Flint slipped into her office and locked the door behind him, doing the chain latch as well. He sauntered up to the chair across from Anna, who took off her tunic shirt and rummaged through her wardrobe for her shears.

“So, tell me about the last few days. Only the big stuff.” She took hold of the shears and cut the straps of her bra.

“Your husband was accosted by a couple of goons at the close of business. I suppose he already told you about that.”

He nearly guffawed with laughter when he saw the trouble Anna was having trying to reach behind her and cut the straps in the back. He got up from the guest seat and came around the desk, taking the shears from her and cutting away the straps just above the tape wraps that held down her breasts. “He came to no harm, and he lost no profits,” he said, returning to his seat and pulling out one of his daggers, cleaning under his nails again. “As for the harm, well, let’s just say one of the fools stuck around and got quite a bit from ol’ Stocky.”

“Yes.” Anna pulled on her shirt once more. “I imagine he taught the goon quite a lesson.” She drew a leather vest from the wardrobe, one she commissioned from a local Alchemist, Jonah Staples.

The young Alchemist constructed the vest with the use of a Focus Site, enhancing its durability through his powers of science.

She did up the zipper, and smiled with satisfaction. It creaked and bent like real leather, but she knew from experimentation that the vest protected her better than iron plate armor. "Stocky mentioned that Lee is here?”

“Yeah, he is ol’ boss.” Flint did not look up from his distraction. “I doubt it’s anything too important, regardless of how he chooses to state the situation. It never is. Although—” he grinned. “—he did get us that job a few months back in the Manor District. That paid off well.”

“Ha ha! Yes it did.” Ann finally took a seat and put her feet up on her desk. “Isn’t that one of Lord Falco’s rings, in fact?” She pointed to Flint’s right hand.

He looked at the solid gold ring and chuckled.

“In any event, he can wait until I get the rest of your and Stocky’s reports. So, what else do you have for me?”

Flint rattled off a few menial reports, promising Anna that he’d have the treasury report ready and on her desk in a couple of days.

She thanked him for the information and discretion, and instructed the friendly Wererat to send in Stockholm on his way out.

Flint opened the door after undoing the locks, and, as expected, found the hulking Red Tribe leaning against the wall outside of her office.

“He’ll see you now, Chief,” he said.

Stockholm glared at him, a hint of pent-up aggression in his fiery, crimson eyes.

Flint hoofed it away from the Red Tribe Werewolf as quickly as his legs could carry him, and Ignatious Stockholm ducked through the doorway and into William Deus’s office.

As soon as Anna saw his lumbering form squeeze through the door, she brought her feet down off of her desk. She didn’t have to—after all, she was the Headmaster of the Hoods, not he. But Stockholm conveyed a heavy aura of power and authority, and always had. As far back as Anna could recall, he always filled the position of Chief. Perhaps, she thought, part of her reaction was still instilled by his once being her superior.

Stockholm stood a couple of feet behind the guest seat and saluted smartly. “Sir, Guild Chief Ignatious Stockholm present,” he announced, taking a deep sniff of the air.

She laughed to herself and relaxed, remembering their positions.

“Sit down, Stocky. And don’t worry, I had Norman construct that chair with you in mind.”

Norman Adwar, one of many Gnomes in the Hoods’ ranks, held the honor of being the Guild’s only scientist, a Tinker without equal in the city.

Stockholm eyeballed the chair with heavy suspicion. The last chair collapsed under his great weight, and he didn’t trust Norman’s engineering in the slightest. He’d seen better in his long years. Still, he shrugged his shoulders and sat easily in the chair.

It held, much to his surprise. He took another sniff of the air.

“Sir, I know I’ve hammered this in as hard as I can, but I still think someone makes your cologne with traces of silver in it,” he said, wrinkling his snout.

“We’ve had this discussion many times, Stocky. I like this scent,” she said, lying through her teeth. When applying the musk cologne, her eyes always watered, and always would.

“One more thing before we get started, sir,” Stockholm shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Could you please refrain from calling me that?” His voice was like an overcast sky. “It’s humiliating.”

“It’s endearing, mister Stockholm.” She leaned forward and planted her elbows on the piles of paperwork that comprised her desktop. “At least, it’s always been meant to be. Now, on to business, Stocky.” She twisted the nickname like a knife in a wound.

Stockholm growled and made a fist, but he dutifully rattled off a slew of oral reports and statistics, handing her matching documentation all the while. When he handed her the last piece of paper, she spun in her chair and opened the top drawer of a filing cabinet clearly marked ‘Stockholm’s reports’. The top drawer she normally kept nearly empty, as it was reserved for those reports she hadn’t read yet. Now, however, she had nearly and inch and a half of papers to stuff in there. She sighed wearily—Stockholm made a great Chief, but sometimes, he was all too thorough. If he ever left the Hoods, he’d make some police captain very happy.

“That’s everything, sir,” he rumbled, getting up to leave.

Before he got to the door, Anna remembered a standard question.

“Wait, Stocky. Any disciplinary problems?”

The Red Tribe turned around and gave her one of his trademark grins, the kind that turned lesser men’s intestines to gelatin.

“Three of them, sir. The Saurenson boys tried to break into Styge’s room without permission. When we found them, they were about four clicks south of the city. They thought they were being chased by a pack of Dreadnaughts, sir.”

Ah, Styge, Anna thought.

“The Saurensons. They’re the triplets that joined near the end of last month, aren’t they?”

Stockholm nodded, mercifully dropping his smile.

“So they don’t know the old man’s an Illusionist?”

“No sir. They’re near the end of their time in punishment, so I’ll send Styge to inform them. A little scare should do them some good. Especially from, as they call him, an ‘evil miser of a Necromancer’, sir.”

Anna smiled despite herself.

“See to it, Chief,” she said. “When you find him, by the way, send in Lee Toren. I’ll read your reports while I’m waiting for him, so take your time. And Stockholm?”

Once again, the Red Tribe turned to face his Headmaster.

“Get some rest. I can see the bags under your eyes.” Even canines get bags, she thought, and his fairly drooped. However, he never slept much, so the shapes under his eyes could just be permanent markings now. I’d rather err on the side of caution, she thought.

He nodded his acquiescence, even though she knew that was a load.

“I’ll go and fetch the little pest first, sir,” Stockholm called over his shoulder as he squeezed out of the doorway. He closed the door softly behind him, and once again, Annabelle Deus was left alone in her office.

“Business as usual,” she muttered to herself, taking out one of the Chief’s reports.

* * * *

Flint leaned easily against the wall of the Guild’s taproom, a small, private lounge that the Guild had for its drinking agents. Not all of the Guild’s members drank, but most did, and heavily when they saw an opportunity. The Wererat was no exception. He seldom actually sat down, keeping his drink on a nearby table, a hand-rolled cigarette in his hand, smoke pluming up out of his snout. A single smoke ring hovered up past his face and he looked down into the face of Lee Toren.

Lee stood nearly four feet in height, large for a member of his Race. But he also maintained a decent girth, much more appropriate for the men of his peoples. He blew another ring after taking a drag of his own cigarette, and smiled widely up at Flint.

“Hey there, little man,” Flint said. “Long time, no see,” he said.

“Oi, ‘ow’s it goin’ me mousy lad?” Lee took a sip of his drink, and set the mug down next to Flint’s.

Before the Wererat could clout him one, the Gnome Pickpocket waved his hands defensively. Flint hated being called a mouse. “Sorry, sorry, I know I shouldn’t ‘ave said it. Just couldn’t resist, ya know? Anyhow, when’s Will gonna see me?”

“Oh, I imagine he’ll send Stocky after you shortly.” Flint took another pull of his drink. “How’s things been for you? Seen or heard from Amon lately?”

“No.” Lee held a drag of his smoke for a long moment, then puffed out four little rings, each smaller than the last. “Ran into his nephew not long back, though. Gave him a little help as was needed at the toim.”

Tiberious Amon, Flint thought. Thirty or so years had gone by since Flint and Lee had helped the crippled Khan get to a safe location in the southern lands. “Why you ask?”

“Oh, just making conversation. Figured I may as well, seeing as you’re about to be hauled out of here.” Flint caught Stockholm’s scent from down the hall. The taproom had no door to maintain an environment of privacy, because nobody thought it necessary to lock up a taproom in a hidden sewer-based compound. People tended to get loud when they drank anyway, and every drunkard likes to have an audience, Anna reasoned. However, she also had plans to install a vault door and implement the taproom as a last resort refuge.

“Hauled out? By whom, exactly?” Lee grinned smugly. His harsh laughter echoed through the room until he saw a streak of crimson fur approaching down the hallway, towards the taproom.

“Oh Gods,” he whispered, almost to himself. Stockholm had never much cared for Lee, and the Gnome Pickpocket knew it. Everybody knew it, because Stockholm never held back his opinions of people. Lee had essentially been branded ever since he’d barged into the Chief’s private chambers one evening. Without knocking, Lee amended mentally, because that had been the biggest problem. That alone had created a chasm of a rift between he and the Red Tribe, a rift nobody liked to talk about.

Stockholm fairly exploded into the room, but Lee got lucky for a moment. Stockholm’s attention turned immediately to one of the female agents at the bar, and instead of laying right in to the Gnome, he stalked up to the woman.

The taproom fell deathly quiet, like a funeral parlor.

Stockholm barged up to the bar, and snatched the girl’s hand up in his own huge paw. “What the hells do you think you’re doing,” he growled at the stunned young Human woman.

“I was just having a glass of wine,” she blurted, tears welling behind her eyes.

For the first time, Lee noticed a slight bulge in the front of the woman’s shirt. “It’s nothing,” she almost whispered.

“It’s not nothing, Sara,” Stockholm growled, pulling her off of her stool as gently as he could without losing his grip on her wrist. “You are not allowed drink, remember? Get to the infirmary right now, young lady. We’ll discuss appropriate punishment later!”

He growled menacingly, turning to face the current server. “As for you…”

The Wererat tending the taproom bar shrank back as far as he could against the racks of booze.

“You and I shall have a little man-to-man in a few minutes. I have something else to tend to first.” He left the Wererat to sweat and seriously consider his immediate future.

Lee thought with a grimace, he doesn’t have one!

Stockholm approached him slowly, easily. He tried to keep his temper in check, because for once, Lee wasn’t the one doing something stupid, or unwelcome.

“Lee Toren,” Stockholm rumbled, towering over the Gnome at an impressive seven and a half feet in height. “William wishes to see you. Now,” he said, letting the word hang there for a moment, daring the Pickpocket to make any kind of wisecrack.

Discretion, Lee recalled someone saying, is the better part of valor. “Yes, of course.” He put his smoke out in the available ashtray near his drink. “I’ll just pop on over there. Good seeing you, Flint,” he said, heading for the hallway.

Flint watched him go for a minute before he turned back to the Chief. “You know, you terrify him.”

“Comes with the job.” Stockholm snatched the cigarette out of Flint’s mouth and stubbing it hastily in the ashtray.

Flint raised an eyebrow at his red-furred cohort.

“It’s a disgusting habit,” Stockholm said without looking at Flint. “Now, sir, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bit of discipline to administer. If you don’t mind?”

Flint shook his head slightly, and Stockholm threw him a salute. “Prime,” he said.

Flint returned the salute half-heartedly. Best to humor the woof-dog, he thought.

“Chief,” he said, and watched as Stockholm leaped over the bar from a running start, landing heavily on the Wererat barkeep.

* * * *

Away from Stockholm, Lee’s attention turned to the news he had for William Deus. Excited, he burst into his office without knocking, flying into the seat across from the Hoods’ Headmaster, watching the thief’s eyes widen with surprise as Lee landed in the chair.

“Oi, Will! How’s things?”

Anna looked at the Gnome, noticing the vague signs of age that had marked his bushy beard since last she’d seen him.

A Gnome’s beard grows naturally white, and only darkens when they get to their upper years. Spots of brown and black peppered Lee’s scraggly facial hair now, present when they had not been a few years before. Smile lines formed on his once flush face, the yellowish hue of his skin slightly lighter along the lines.

“Just fine, Lee, just fine.” She set aside the report she had been working over from Stockholm, surprised to find that he had started making charts of the pregnant female agents, connecting them to the prospective fathers where and when he could. No Guild rules restricted such relationships, and it appeared, from the nature of the reports, that the Chief was trying to make certain none of the fathers tried to shirk their responsibilities. When a father was confirmed, Stockholm filed the necessary forms and made requests for her to approve of a transfer of Guild wages. Fathers had a portion of their monthly cut taken out and given to the expecting mothers. She’d already signed off on twelve of these forms.

“Will, have I got big news fer you.” Lee broke Anna’s drifting train of thought. “You’re never gonna’ believe this!”

“You’re right,” she said bluntly. “I probably won’t.” She knew Lee had a penchant for exaggeration.

     “I’ve got this informant, roit? Human fellah, name of Townshend,” Lee began.

Anna found herself paying attention immediately. Lee may not be very honest, but his informants always got paid well for their services, and never withheld anything from the Gnome Pickpocket. Not when the pay was as good as it was.

Lee continued by telling Anna, or rather William as he thought her to be, about Townshend’s allegiance to a Paladin by the name of Reynaldi. Townshend had related the events of the Paladin’s escapade into the ruins of a guild outpost of some sort, and his discovery of the fabled Glove of Shadows.

This discovery sent Anna reeling. The Glove of Shadows. The mere name blazed a familiar tingle in her thieving fingertips. Oh, what an artifact! The Glove allowed anybody to take whatever they wanted, and somehow nobody knew anything had happened when the Glove was used. The Glove stood as all thieves’ Holy Grail, an object so profoundly useful, in the right hands, that whoever might have it could honestly proclaim themselves the best thief in all the lands. With it, she would be the undisputed king of thieves. And it now sat in the hands of a Paladin.

“He told me that Reynaldi intends to find a way to destroy it, Will! We can’t let that happen!”

“No—no we can’t.” Anna’s mind raced to formulate a plan. With the glove in their hands, the petty wars between guilds could be ended. “Lee, did anybody else hear this informant of yours?”

“Well, yeah.” Lee looked away from Anna, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I was in a tavern in Vershak, south of ‘ere, when he rushed in to tell me. One of me mates was sharin’ a friendly drink wif me, and he’s sort of in our field of expertise, Will. ‘E took the information, er, elsewhere in the city.”

A twinge of fear streaked up Anna’s spine.

“Oh no.” She sighed deeply. “He didn’t, did he? Please tell me he didn’t.”

“He did, Will. He’s gonna sell off the info to the Midnight Suns.”

Anna ground her teeth and sat back in her chair, mulling over anew her hastily formed plans. The Midnight Suns, she thought. Those bastards’ll take his information and kill him. The Midnight Suns resided chiefly in Desanadron—the Hoods’ rival thieves guild. Their organization consisted mostly of Ninjas, Strong Arm Thugs and mercenaries of several other Classes. They employed the most brutal tactics of theft, resorting to armed mugging and outright murder to attain coinage for the Sons. Their Headmaster, a Black Draconus by the name of Thaddeus Fly, came directly from the Obura Clan of Ninjas in the southeast of Tamalaria. Anna had had a few scraps with the dangerous martial artist, coming away with many more wounds than she ever inflicted.

The Midnight Suns also resorted to a time-honored Ninja tradition for the bulk of their business—assassination. They killed the target without fail, sure, but they often left everyone else in the immediate vicinity a corpse as well. Anna despised their methods and their ways, but she knew they were capable and highly skilled at what they did.

“So, they’re going to know about the Glove, too. Well…” she put her chin on her palm. “That’s just great. Fly will no doubt get ready to set out after our good Mr. Reynaldi as soon as he finds out. Thank you, Lee. Send Flint in when you find him, but don’t be taking off.” Pulling open one of the lower drawers of her desk, she heavily thumped down four small sacks on her desk, and looked from the sacks to Lee.

The Gnome’s eyes had glossed over with greed.

“Advance payment for your help, my friend. You’ll be coming along with us.”