Cloak and Spider

Stealing Life

For once Thren wished he’d left the wealthy Maynard Gemcroft alone instead of ambushing the man’s latest shipment of minted coins from his mines in Tyneham. Thren’s task that night would have been far easier, and its reward was worth far more than any fortune.

“Coming with?” Thren asked Grayson as he strapped his swords to his side.

“I can’t leave,” Grayson said. “You know that. I have to be here, just in case.”

Thren nodded.

“I understand.”

With that he crept open the door to the meager home they hid within, ensured no soldiers lurked nearby, and then dashed out. As fast as his legs could carry him, Thren ran down the road, his gray cloak billowing behind him. He thought to take it off, decided against it. If he was without the cloak, members of other guilds might think him a potential target. With it, though…with it he was leader of the Spider Guild, and only a fool would dare draw a blade against him.

Maynard’s mercenaries, on the other hand, were quite foolish.

“Down here!” cried a small squad, rounding the corner behind him before Thren realized they were there. “On Cale, running on Cale!”

Shit, thought Thren as he dove to the side, avoiding a hastily shot arrow. Getting off Cale Road was first priority, second being to escape the enclosing net of armored men that was converging on him. Never before had any member of the wealthy Trifect mustered so many mercenaries to hunt for him. His score must have bothered Maynard more than Thren had expected. Shallow compensation.

He hooked a right at the first alley he found, but instead of running toward its end he jumped left, grabbed a windowsill on the second floor, and used it to haul himself up to the roof. There he rolled onto his back, catching his breath as the soldiers ran on without realizing where he’d gone. Sharp pieces of rock bit into the back of his head and neck, and he brushed the gravel from beneath him.

No time, thought Thren. No time for any of this, gods damn it!

Back on his feet-despite hearing soldiers nearby calling out to the other patrols-legs pumping, heart pounding in his chest. He leaped from building to building, hardly pausing to see if any below would notice. Taking as straight a line as he could, he made his way toward his destination: the temple to Ashhur. He could see it in the distance, a white marble structure lit with thick torches along the front. There was a wide expanse before the stairs, which worried Thren immensely.

That worry was confirmed when he stopped at the edge of a roof, crouching down to peer in each direction. The mercenaries, at least a hundred now by his count, were systematically spreading out in hopes of spotting him again. Along the road between him and the temple walked one group, moving far too slowly for Thren’s taste. The temple was right there, taunting him, but to cross meant being spotted.

So be it. He hung down from the rooftop, then released. When he hit the ground he rolled to absorb the blow, then came up with his weapons drawn. He’d not wait for them to pass, not given what was at stake, so instead he rushed the three head on, with but the rustle of his cloak to give them warning. They carried torches, and the light blinded them to the darkness beyond, and it was from that darkness he rushed.

One short sword took out the closest man, piercing through the gap between his helmet and shoulder pauldron. His second struck the torch out of the frontmost mercenary’s hand. The sudden shift in light was all the advantage he needed, coupled with the surprise. With unmatched ferocity he lunged at the remaining two, stabbing another through the stomach. The man started to let out a scream, but Thren sliced out his throat before he could. The third did yell for aid, but couldn’t get his voice to carry, for he was too busy falling back, flailing to put his sword among Thren’s constant barrage of thrusts.

Three times Thren swung both his blades simultaneously, smashing them into the mercenary’s defense. The fourth time he feinted, pulling his foe’s weapon out of position. Stepping closer, he kicked the man’s knee, dropping him. In went his short swords, thrusting through his neck as the mercenary let out a gargled death cry. In a crumple of armor the man fell, the sound horribly loud to Thren’s ears. He glanced up and down the street, but he saw no one, and could only hope that he might be in and out of the temple before anyone stumbled upon the bodies.

Thren knew he shouldn’t be surprised the temple door was unlocked, but he was anyway. Not because the priests who professed mercy and forgiveness were actually so trusting. More because the way his night was going, he felt as if a thousand pounds of iron chains should have prevented his entrance. Perhaps, just perhaps, things might still turn out well.

Immediately upon entrance he stepped into a long carpeted hallway leading into a room of worship. It was filled with rows of pews, hard wood with little padding. There were doors on both the left and the right of the far side, and as he ran across the carpet he wondered which way might lead to where the priests slept. Guessing left, he went to the door, checked it. Unlocked as well, and through it he went.

Beyond was a hallway lit with long candles. Unsure of what to do, he picked a door at random and checked it. Like the others, it was unlocked. Carefully he turned the knob, pushed it open, and then stepped through. Inside was a small room with a small desk and a small cot. Upon that cot slept a middle-aged man. Thren drew a sword, then knelt down and put a hand across the man’s mouth. Immediately the man’s eyes opened. To Thren’s surprise, he showed no sign of panic despite his predicament.

“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.

A boy, thought Thren, staring down at the crying child as if it were this bizarre thing. What name did we promise to use if it was a boy?

“Aaron,” he whispered, finally remembering. It was as if his mind no longer wanted to work. He kept thinking of the way Marion had convulsed in his arms, kept hearing the echo of that long, horrid shriek.

Thren stared down at Aaron. The baby’s eyes were swollen shut, his nose pressed downward. Atop his head was a shock of blond hair, so much like Thren’s own. So little of Marion, he realized. Would she be denied to him even in the life that had taken her away?

“Aaron,” Thren whispered again, trying to evoke something in himself, to make this alien thing he held suddenly have meaning. He wanted to feel protective toward it, to feel he could sacrifice the world to ensure its safety. Upon his holding Randith, not even a king’s army could have forced the baby from his arms. But what was this thing? This crying, angry thing that twitched within the blood-soaked towel?

It was a death sentence, a murderer, a thief of the life of his beloved Marion. This baby had stolen away her future, stolen away the very breath from her lungs and left her pouring out lifeblood upon a mattress. Much as Thren tried to deny it, much as he tried to remind himself that he held one of the few pieces of Marion left in the world, he felt only rage. Cold rage, something unlike what he felt when a man betrayed him, or a lord or member of the Trifect dared insult him. There was so little emotion to it, so little passion. It was angered death in him, an all-consuming thought.

“You took her from me,” Thren whispered. “Why? What cruel joke in this world decided she was to die now? She’ll never hold you, never feed you. Your older brother will grow, mature, take a wife of his own, and never again behold the face of his mother.”

He was crying again, though he’d never realized he’d started. He noticed only when the tears fell upon Aaron’s face. The baby’s crying had begun to subside, still constant but not as strong. For a brief moment Thren thought the baby might die there, rendering Marion’s sacrifice worthless…and the only thing he felt was satisfaction. Escape. Already the burden of raising Randith would be on his shoulders. Did he want this creature to be his as well?

All it’d take was a shift of the towel wrapped about him. So easy it’d be to block the air from his lungs. So easy to bury him along with his mother, to say goodbye to the future he should have had.

Thren’s fingers grabbed the top of the towel. Thren’s eyes widened, and he felt the cold rage dwindling down into emptiness, total emptiness. He no longer cared. Not about himself, not about Marion, not about Aaron. Was it shock? He didn’t know. Did it matter? Higher he pulled the towel, then shifted his fingers, pressing it against Aaron’s mouth. The baby’s crying immediately stopped. As he held on tight, Aaron’s legs kicked harder, his arms flailing out to the sides.

The door to the other room opened, and out stepped Grayson. Thren pulled back the towel, shifted his arms to hide what he’d done.

“What?” asked Thren as Aaron resumed his crying.

“Marion wants to see her baby,” Grayson said, and despite his tears, a smile spread wide across his face. “Now get your ass in here.”

It was as if the stone about his heart shattered. Thren felt he could breathe again, felt as if the room weren’t so dark. Slowly he walked inside, Aaron cradled in his arms. Marion smiled at him from the bed, still deathly pale, but she was herself again, her bloodshot eyes showing recognition for the first time in hours. Calan stood beside her, looking very much drained.

“Praise Ashhur,” he said, putting his hands on his back and stretching until it popped.

“Indeed,” said Thren, feet moving of their own accord. Once at Marion’s side he offered the baby to her, and she gently took him and placed his mouth to her breast.

“It’s a boy,” she said, her voice raspy.

“His name’s Aaron,” Thren said. “Randith should be happy. He’s always wanted a brother to play with.”

“Aaron,” Marion cooed, then laid her head back on her pillow and closed her eyes. “I’m glad we picked that name. It suits him.”

Thren didn’t quite see how it did, but he would not question her now. His hands free, he wiped the tears from his face and tried to recover his bearings. Glancing into the other room, he almost felt as if he’d stepped out of a different world, a darkness to which he wanted never to return.

Grayson once more went to his sister’s side, and with him cradling her, Calan took the time to gently pull Thren aside.

“Why did you think you must drag me here at sword’s edge?” the man asked.

Thren started to answer, stopped. It seemed almost stupid now, but it was hard to explain the panic they’d all been in as Marion’s health failed through the night.

“Because I feared you’d say no,” he said. “Given who I am. Who we are.”

Calan put a hand on his arm.

“I don’t care if you’re the king, a peasant, or Thren Felhorn. I’d have still come, and still done my best to save that woman’s life.”

Thren grinned.

“I am Thren Felhorn.”

Calan froze for a moment, then chuckled.

“Well. It’s good to know I didn’t make such a boast in vain. Both those lives, your child’s and your wife’s, are miracles. Cherish them. Protect them. I do not know what fate awaits them, but I pray the gift was given wisely.”

Thren crossed his arms and looked away. The gods weren’t for him, he knew, and he felt uncomfortable with the priest’s admonition.

“You’re free to leave,” he said.

Calan nodded, moved to the door.

“I stole a life away from the Reaper this night,” the priest said as he opened it. “Look to yourself, Thren, and then to the child. Make it mean something.”

And then he left.

Thren went back into the room, saw the midwife attending Marion to help with Aaron’s latching, and Grayson leaning against a corner of the room with his eyes closed, fast asleep. Back to the bed he walked, and he let his eyes settle on Aaron Felhorn.

Make it mean something, echoed Calan’s words in his head.

Thren didn’t know how, didn’t know what it even meant, but he knew that come his future days, he would ensure just that. Randith would be his elder son, heir to the empire of drugs, theft, and murder that Thren daily built. But Aaron? Aaron would be something more. Something special.

Someone to steal life from the Reaper.