David Dalglish - Cloak and Spider

“Not a sound,” Thren whispered. “When I remove my hand, you will tell me your name.”

“Calan,” was his response when his mouth was uncovered.

“Are you a priest?” Thren asked.

Calan nodded. He seemed a harmless man, with a round nose and face, his ears big and his eyes green.

“What is it you need, son?” Calan asked, and Thren was happy the man had the intelligence to whisper his question.

“What I need,” said Thren, grabbing him by the arm, “is for you to come with me.”

* * *

He’d hoped making his way back would be easier, but the mercenaries were showing no sign of letting up. They’d spread farther out since failing to locate him earlier, but that just meant every direction he faced led him toward some patrol or other. At least the priest made no overt attempts to escape, instead following along like a properly trained dog. Street by street Thren worked his way toward the safe house, the whole while wishing they could take to the rooftops instead.

“Hurry,” he said, catching sight of torches coming just around the bend. As they cut into an alley, he swore, seeing torchlight up ahead as well. Spinning about, he realized he was caught between two groups.

“Damn it, Maynard, this isn’t funny,” he said, trying to decide what to do.

“Friend,” said Calan as light from the torches shone their way, and they heard cries demanding they halt. “The reason you take me, is it to help someone, or hurt them?”

Thren swallowed down a heavy lump in his throat.

“Help,” he said.

“Then remove your cloak, and follow.”

Calan approached the mercenaries, walking with his hands out at his sides. After a moment’s hesitation Thren smoothly removed the clasp about his neck and let his cloak fall to the dirt of the alley.

“Identify yourselves,” said one of the men in the small squad of four. He held his torch closer, and his eyes widened as the light reflected off Thren’s swords.

“My name is Calan, priest of Ashhur,” said Calan. “With me is a friend who has come to me in this dark hour with great need.”

The torch moved closer to Thren, until he felt the heat of it on his face.

“What’s your name?” the man asked Thren.

“His name is none of your concern,” Calan said before Thren could lie. “As is his business. Matters of faith and healing are matters no sellsword should interfere with. Now put down your swords, let us pass, and spend the rest of this night in peace.”

Thren thought there wasn’t a chance the four would do as asked, but there was a strange forcefulness to the priest’s voice, a sudden firmness that seemed to contradict the smooth, harmless look of the man. And then the torch pulled away, and the squad saluted.

“Not safe out tonight,” one told them as they marched away. “I’d suggest going home.”

“I am,” Thren said, and he looked to Calan. The priest gestured farther down the alley, to where it joined with another road.

“Lead on,” he said. “I am no fool, and can sense your despair. Someone is in danger, now lead, and do not bother with hiding the way. No one will bother us further.”

Thren opened his mouth, closed it, and then ran along.

They reached the safe house not long after. Thren opened the door and gestured for Calan to enter. Looking around one last time to ensure no one spotted them, Thren stepped in.

Immediately he heard the screaming, and it was a knife to his heart. Calan heard it as well, and without waiting for orders he hurried through the meagerly furnished room and through the door into the bedroom, where Marion lay.

“How long has she been like this?” Calan asked as Thren followed. Grayson stood at Marion’s side, holding her hand as she cried. Marion lay on the bed, the sheets cast off to the side. At her feet was an elderly midwife, her wrinkled skin looking pale. Thren noticed she purposefully did not meet his eye when she stepped aside to make way for Calan.

“Marion’s been laboring for seven hours,” said the midwife. “But the bleeding, perhaps an hour. I can help the baby along, but I cannot stop the bleeding. Miracles are not my domain, priest.”

“Nor are they mine,” said Calan. “Only Ashhur’s.”

Thren went to Marion’s side opposite Grayson, and he kissed his wife’s cheek as she sucked in air, her screams momentarily passing as her contractions subsided.

“You’ll be fine,” he told her. “You’re strong, stronger than anyone I know.”

“Wh-” She stopped, clenched her jaw and arched her neck for a brief moment, then relaxed again. “Where’s Randith?”

“Senke’s watching over him,” he said, stroking her face. Her hair was slick with sweat, and if he’d thought the midwife was pale, Marion seemed a ghost.

“I want to see him,” she said, closing her eyes and rolling her head back. “I want to see him, please, I want to see him before…before…”

“Stop it,” Thren said, refusing to let her finish. “You will see your son again, now you keep breathing, keep fighting, you hear me?”

Thren looked up, saw Grayson looking at him. Tears were in his friend’s eyes.

“I’ll get him,” Grayson said. “If you want me to.”

Thren felt something twist in his throat, and he found talking suddenly much more difficult.

“No,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Calan had exchanged words with the midwife, then shifted so she might once more have access to the baby. When Thren had left, the baby’s progress had completely stopped prior to crowning, and despite his wife’s constant labor, it refused to move farther down. Despite his time away, the baby had remained, and he could only imagine Marion’s agony.

No, he didn’t have to imagine it. He just had to look at the fiery woman he loved more than the world itself. Had to see the way her neck was flushed red, the way blood had spilled into her eyes from vessels bursting, feel the frantic grip with which she clutched his hand.

“Childbirth is something of which I know very little,” Calan said, shifting his attention between Thren and Grayson. “But bleeding and injury, that is something else, something I’m more familiar with. Paula here will force the baby through, and then I will do what I can to keep Marion alive.”

He took in a deep breath, let it out.

“I can make no promises,” he said.

“Just do what you know to do,” Thren said. “And waste no more time. Get on with it.”

Thren had no desire to watch, his focus solely on his wife. He leaned in closer, felt the heat coming off her in waves. Gently he kissed her eyebrows, her cheek, then leaned his forehead against her as she let out a terrible scream, louder than any before. It seemed to tear out of her, going on and on.

And then it halted.

“Marion,” he whispered, feeling tears running down his face. All color was gone from her now, and her eyes rolled up into her head. Her mouth hung open, her upper body shaking as if she had been struck with a deep shiver in the middle of winter. Prayers rolled from Calan’s lips, an urgent stream with words that seemed to wash over Thren like water. It seemed everywhere on the bed he looked he saw blood.

When the baby let out a wail, it only shoved the knife in Thren’s heart all the deeper. Stepping away from his wife, Thren looked to Grayson, saw the man standing there in shock, an ebony statue shedding tears. Thren turned more, and suddenly a bundled life was in his hands, a boy, remnants of blood still on his exposed face and arms, the skin a flushed red. The baby more mewled than cried, with far less strength than the howl Randith had let out when he came into the world.

Paula the midwife stood in the corner, washing her hands with a frown on her face that told Thren everything he needed to know. Out of the room he stepped, unable to be there, unable to watch as Marion’s body grew ever stiller despite the prayers of the priest.