Free Cloak and Spider: A Shadowdance Novella by David Dalglish Page A

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