Year 1200 After the Breaking

  He was close. There was an urgency in his mission. And danger. The figure in the dark cloak glided silently down narrow alleyways in the meaner streets of Mithram, padding silently on soft-soled boots, guided by the information extracted from an informant in Stonekeep. It rained hard, harder than usual for a typical Sixday. The moonlight couldn’t penetrate the rain clouds, making it very difficult to see. Even so, he was glad for the rain. It concealed his approach. Safe in their dry homes, no one would even be looking outside, so no one would raise the alarm over a suspicious character skulking about.

  Dortham was confident but careful. Those two things helped him quite a bit in his long career as a vigilante. Well, that and his chosen equipment. Under the concealing cloak, he wore a dark gambeson with blackened plates riveted to the shoulders and upper arms. He also wore a breastplate and thick vambraces over his forearms. All the plates were of his own making, and all had thick leather on the undersides and edges of the plates to deaden noise. Everything was darkened to shades of gray for concealment against a cityscape. Under the cowl of his cloak, he wore a grayed, steel helm that covered his face while displaying a menacing set of angry looking features. The helm made it easy to intimidate street thugs and it was something he used for this purpose often. The lower half of his body was unarmored for stealth. His equipment wasn’t perfect for war, but it was ideal for back-alley knife fights, something Dortham had a great deal of experience with.

  He slowed his pace and carefully peeked around what he thought should be the last corner. He grunted, mildly surprised that the person giving him this location hadn’t lied to him. Around the corner was a shop that faced the courtyard behind the building instead of the main thoroughfare in the front. That would lead many to believe that this place offered inferior wares and encourage them to pass on by, if anyone even noticed the place at all. The clientele knew better, though, and now Dortham knew better, too.

  The faded sign above the shop said it was a general store, and the closed shutters had a couple panels that were falling out. A closer look as he approached the door showed him the heavy drapes inside with just the tiniest amount of lantern light glowing at the corners of the fabric. Dortham quietly drew his blade, a trusty arming sword, then drew a dagger for his gauntleted left hand. The door has made of thick planks that looked old and weathered, but he could see the hinges were well oiled and free of rust. This was definitely the place. He rehearsed in his mind what he’d do against the single guard he was told would be in the room beyond, then drew in a deep breath to steel his resolve. In quick, efficient motions, Dortham kicked the door open and stepped inside, sword leading.

  There were a pair of scruffy looking guards sitting at a table with three chairs before the door in a room that held very few wares on the almost bare shelves. Two guards. Dortham didn’t take the time to curse, but immediately sprang forward, thrusting his arming sword through the chest of the closest guard before he could even stand up, much less draw his blade. The ruffian went down with a wounded cry as the other guard drew a knife and thrust at Dortham, who swept it aside with his dagger and took a step back. The thug spat a vile curse at Dortham and threw a mug of ale at him, trying to blind or distract him for a fatal thrust. It didn’t work. Dortham had seen that move a hundred times before, and sensing what was coming, he deftly dodged to the left. Suddenly a blade scraped against the back of his cuirass and threw him off balance.

  Dortham knew then that he made a mistake in believing even a little of what that snitch told him. He should have known the tale of a single guard was too good to be true. He pretended to stumble, which brought his sword down low, then he aimed a backhanded slash at the mug thrower in front of him, making him jump back out of reach. The swing missed him wildly, but the move was really designed to set up an attack on the backstabber behind him, who barely recognized his error before Dortham’s dagger took him in the neck. Blood sprayed and Dortham spun around in a full circle, just in time to parry the thrust from the mug thrower, who had overcommitted and stumbled forward. Dortham sidestepped, regained his footing, parried a thrust with his dagger, then delivered a powerful overhand chop directly on the mug thrower’s head. With swift movements, Dortham hurried to finish off each of them with a thrust of his sword, then put away his dagger to check them for keys. It was an old habit that served him well. The three thugs didn’t have keys, so they surely had a boss somewhere close by who did.

  Dortham closed the outer door. The element of surprise was gone, but he didn’t hear any movement from the floor above. Dortham moved through the only doorway into a room that previously served as a storage area with a little desk against one wall. There was a doorway against the opposite wall that Dortham kicked open. Inside was a corridor that immediately turned right and went down a flight of stairs that was lit by a lantern at the bottom. He didn’t hesitate and went down the stairs two at a time to try to press an advantage of speed. Maybe whoever was below could still be taken off guard.

  Twang! Tack! A crossbow bolt hit him in the chest as soon as he hit the landing. Dortham was only partially turned, so the bolt ricocheted off the steel plate and bounced harmlessly away. Looking into the basement, Dortham saw he was in a small tavern room here with a crossbow wielding barkeep ducking down behind the bar. Fortunately for Dortham, that was the only person in the room. The barkeep cursed as he worked to reload his weapon, but Dortham sprinted across the small taproom and ran the barkeeper through where he knelt. He was a hateful looking man with wispy, greasy hair, and he died with that hate bared on his face. Dortham checked him for keys and found a set on the barkeep’s belt along with a pouch of money. Ever pragmatic, Dortham sheathed his dagger, took the pouch, tucked it inside his cuirass, then grabbed the keys.

  A quick scan of the room revealed only one doorway among the three empty tables. Dortham walked over to it quietly, listening carefully for signs of an ambush, but heard nothing. He tried the handle, which was locked, and eventually found the right key. He opened the door while keeping himself to the left side, out of harm’s way if there was another guard with a crossbow. Inside the door, there was only an empty hallway with a stone floor and walls, with six sturdy doors, three on each wall, and a lantern hanging from a sconce close to the doorway. There was a heavy lock on the first door he came to, which was easily unlocked by one of the keys. Opening the door slowly, he saw it was only a small stone cell with a shabby bed on the far wall. There was a dirty little boy in a loincloth shackled by his neck by a chain anchored to the wall above the bed. He was huddled in a little ball with his skinny arms around his knees as far away from the door as the chain allowed.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” the little boy pleaded. He sniffled.

  Dortham paused for a moment to sheathe his sword. “No one’s going to hurt you, son,” he said in a gentle voice. “I’m here to set you free.”

  “Is this another trick?” the boy asked.

  “Not a trick,” Dortham said as he approached and unlocked the shackle. “Go find a watchman to take you home.”

  The little boy didn’t say anything where he huddled, clearly distrustful of an adult. He moved slowly at first, easing around Dortham towards the open door, but as soon as he saw the open doorway at the end of the hall, he made a run for it. Dortham left the cell and freed four more children, both boys and girls, before he got to the last door. With each door he got more worried. What if the snitch told him about a competitor’s place?

  “God, please let her be here,” Dortham whispered as he unlocked the last cell.

  Inside was a little girl who was curled up on the bed, hiding her face. “Lara?”

  She lifted her head, looking closely through bloodshot eyes. “Daddy?”

  “No, dear. I’m here to take you to your dad, though.”

  “That’s what the bad men said,” Lara replied. “Your face is scary,” she added, flinching away.

  “Did the bad men know your name?” Dortham asked gently. She shook her head as Dortham approached. “Your dad, Lennie, asked me to help him find you. He’s very worried.” Dortham unlocked her shackle, then stayed crouched down next to the bed with a hand outstretched.

  Little Lara came to him and threw her arms around his neck, then started to cry. Dortham held her as tenderly as he could in his armor and stroked her back gently. After a minute or two she calmed a bit and pulled away.

  “Are you ready to go see your dad?” Dortham asked.

  Lara nodded, trying to wipe her nose with her bare, shaking wrist. Dortham gently wrapped her in his cloak, then picked her up and carried her under his right arm. “Your arm is cold,” she said.

  “Sorry dear. It’s the armor. It’s only for a little while.”

  The cloak offered scant protection from the rain, so he walked through the city as quickly as he could as he carried Lara back to the inn they were all staying at. At that time of night, there were no patrons in the common room, and the innkeeper’s son had nodded off on a stool behind the desk. Dortham quietly snuck past him and went up the stairs. He knocked on a door softly. The door whipped open almost immediately to reveal the face of his friend, Lennie Glassman. His eyes immediately locked onto his daughter, and he gave out one quick sob of relief as he stretched out his arms.

  “Daddy!” Lara cried, reaching out to her father with both little arms.

  “Oh, my little Lara!” Lennie gasped out as Dortham quickly handed her over. “I’ve been so worried!” They hugged each other and cried tears of joy. Lennie was a small man, thin of build, but he didn’t have any problem holding his daughter aloft for several moments.

  Dortham turned towards his own room, feeling the need to wipe his eyes but unable to do so through the thin slits of his helm. As he did so, Lennie shifted his daughter to one arm, and took Dortham by the shoulder. He looked up to Dortham. “I can never thank you enough for this, Dortham.”

  “You just did. Isn’t this what friends ‘re for?” Dortham asked, giving him a squeeze on the shoulder.

  “Where’s mommy?” Lara asked her father.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “She’s in Stonekeep, looking after your sisters. She’ll be so happy to see you again,” Lennie said.

  “Can we go home now?”

  “We’ll take the first boat going upriver tomorrow, honey,” Lennie said, moving to close the door. He paused, though. “You became a father again tonight, Dortham.”

  Dortham was less than pleased, his face under the helm contorting into one of distress. He wasn’t there for his wife when she needed him, and he suddenly felt very guilty about it. Lennie understood what he must be feeling and spoke quickly to reassure him.

  “All’s well,” Lennie said. “I was there to get the midwife, and by the cries, as of an hour ago you’re the father of another healthy boy. Nora’s resting, but I’ll bet she already knows you’re back.”

  Dortham knew how good her hearing was, so he didn’t doubt it. He had never once been able to slip out of their house undetected at night, despite how tired she was after looking after the kids all day. “Thanks. I owe you for that.”

  “Are you kidding? After this?” Lennie pointedly glanced at his daughter. “We’ll never be even.”

  Dortham nodded, looking down. “Well, good night, you two. It’s awfully late.”

  “Good night, my friend.” Lennie shut the door softly with little Lara still clinging desperately to his neck.

  As quietly as possible, Dortham went next door, unlocked it, and slipped inside the room. It was still lit by a lantern, and Nora was sitting up in bed, holding their son in her arms, pointedly staring at Dortham with one eyebrow arched and one frowning. She stared hard, and Dortham thought she may have popped a blood vessel or something, she was so intent. He threw his cloak across a chair and took his helmet off.

  “If I didn’t hear you bringing little Lara back to her father, I’d strangle you, you big oaf!” Nora said this in a low voice, but Dortham didn’t miss the intensity.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” Dortham said. “It was important that we find her fast. You know what could’ve happened.” He silently thanked God for the rain and lack of customers.

  Nora softened up at that. “I know.” Her face softened in expression, and her eyes teared up. “I needed you today, Dortham, and you weren’t here.”

  Dortham crossed the room and knelt at the bedside, making it necessary to look up to her, and took Nora’s hand in his. “I know, honey. I’m so sorry. You know how much it means to me to be with you on a birthday.”

  Nora nodded, but with a tear rolling down her cheek, she frowned and cleared her throat. With resolve in her voice, she said, “Your own family needs you, and it’s past time you put your own family first. I mean, what would I do if you went off to right some wrong but never came back?! What would your children do? How would they fare, growing up without a father? Midwife Hilde helped me a great deal with the baby, but with how hard this pregnancy was, she said this would be our last one. Our kids could have been orphaned today!”

  He knew she was right. Childbirth was always difficult for Nora, which is why he brought her to the best midwife in the kingdom, but he should have been there. “The last one,” he thought. He had three kids at home with their grandmother right now, and they just needed him to be a father. They certainly didn’t need a dead vigilante. Dortham had a very well-developed sense of right and wrong, something that had been passed down many generations in his family, and he knew it would be hard to ignore the feeling that a wrong needed to be righted. For the sake of his family, he’d do it, though. Dortham nodded to her, and Nora relaxed. He began to smile and held out his arms for the baby.

  “Not while you’re armed,” Nora said firmly. “At least you’re not bloody this time.”

  Dortham knew this was a test of sorts. It was one small step towards living a normal life as an armorer and not the double life he’d lived for the past several years. He stripped off the armor and slid it under the bed where she wouldn’t be able to see it.

  “All better?” he asked, his arms held wide.

  Nora nodded, then handed their sleeping son over to Dortham, who slowly sank into a chair. He looked down at the latest addition to his household, and his smile said he couldn’t have been happier.

  -----

  Ismaera never did anything without careful consideration, especially with her husband missing. From her sanctum, she’d been watching the progress of all the pregnancies in Stonekeep since he’d left on his mission a few weeks before. She knew all the mothers and their circumstances, and she knew which of them had the most promising futures. Ismaera was never one to take risks, unlike her husband, and she used her advantages in sight and foresight to plan out every contingency. The best chance for her baby was with Nora and Dortham Smith. She had watched all of Dortham’s recent activities as well as how Nora took care of her children, and Ismaera knew she wouldn’t regret her decision.

  Her husband needed her, though she didn’t know exactly how, since he was someplace she couldn’t see him where he must have been rendered helpless. Their enemies were closing in on her. Their foes had gotten wise to her tricks, and soon they’d be waiting in every marketplace in Aldon. Though her sanctum was safe from their kind, she couldn’t stay in it forever, especially if she wanted her child to have a normal life. Well, normal for a High Mage. Her only hope was to rescue her husband, and she couldn’t do that while she was pregnant.

  For the High Magi, pregnancy was extremely difficult. They had to pour every bit of magic they had into their babies to give them the best chance of survival. Though their children would be born as sorcerers, they would be weak, helpless, and hunted. Their bodies wouldn’t be able to handle the strain of sorcery until they were about ten years old, so the only true safety was in secrecy. Ismaera had had children before who did not have a normal social upbringing, and they always turned out to be monsters. She couldn’t bear to witness the consequences of that again.

  Ismaera had barely any magic in her that she could use for her own needs, which meant she couldn’t defend herself if the Xerith found her before she was ready. Her millennia of experience told her that her time was at hand, though, and she needed the help of a midwife. As it happened, Nora had just given birth that night in Mithram, away from Stonekeep, so she quickly made her preparations. She had written a letter earlier and was watching Nora and Dortham when her water broke. She used a little magic to clean it up, picked up the crystal scrollcase that contained her letter, then stumbled to the sanctum to set an enchanted mace next to the throne. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary but planned for the worst. With that, she activated a portal, and stepped through it into Mithram’s rain just outside the dwelling of the same midwife Nora had needed.

  In great pain, she pounded on the door. “Hello? Hello?!”

  The midwife answered the door with a concerned expression. She could sense the pain and desperation of a pregnant woman from just her tone of voice. “Oh, my dear! Please, come in!”

  “My water’s broken,” Ismeara said, holding her belly. Even from her short time in the rain, she was drenched, and dripped water all over the polished wood floor.

  The midwife helped her inside and guided Ismaera to a chaise lounge that looked like it was designed to be used in birthing. “How long ago?” the midwife asked as she arranged Ismeara’s dress.

  “Under an hour.”

  “So, we have a few hours yet,” the midwife said confidently.

  “I don’t have that long,” Ismaera gasped out.

  She knew the Xerith were here in Mithram, and there were a lot of them. She couldn’t give birth without using magic, and the Xerith would know the second she used it. They could have already sensed the portal. Ismaera couldn’t live with herself if she led assassins to the midwife, either. She breathed deeply, gathering her strength of will, and marshalled the trickle of magic she could currently hold. She lifted her skirts and some kind of magic delivered the baby right there on the chaise.

  The midwife was astonished but did everything she could to help Ismaera. In just a few moments, it was done. She wrapped the baby and handed me to Ismaera. There was so much blood. Ismaera held me gently despite the pain and effort, then she concentrated again, and the rest of the birthing process was completed with the help of her magic.

  “What…” the midwife whispered.

  “Thank you,” Ismaera said. She was covered in sweat, and clearly in a lot of pain. She reached under her cloak and released her belt clasp, giving the now useless belt and money pouch to the midwife.

  The midwife took the pouch full of coins with a confused expression. This process usually took between six hours and a whole day, and this woman had just went through the whole thing in less than ten minutes. It shouldn’t be possible. Then, even more surprisingly, Ismeara got up, straightened her suddenly clean dress, draped her cloak around both of us, and walked out the door. The midwife was still staring out her door as Ismaera turned the corner in the rain.

  As soon as Ismaera turned the corner, she ran for her life. She could feel them closing in, inescapable, the same way tunnel vision closed in on the dying. She searched desperately through the pouring rain for the new mother her magic had revealed but despaired of finding her before her pursuers caught up with her. She was pitifully weak from the strain of childbirth, but she ran on, stumbling once on an uneven cobblestone. Her magic and intuition told her she was close, and she hurried past home after home, her pace slowing and her breathing ever more ragged. Finally, she saw the inn and nearly cried out in relief. There had to be enough time! The light in the second-floor window of the inn exuded warmth and safety, but she knew that safety wasn’t for her. Couldn’t be.

  Ismaera looked at the bundle in her arms, her newborn son’s eyes closed in magically induced slumber. It took almost all of the last tiny bit of her power, but she would spare me what was coming for her. Ismaera had imbued every bit of available power into her son to give him the best chance of survival in this world, and she would do it all again. Her only regret would be that she might not watch her son grow up. Intuition told her that her time in this world, though long, might be running out.

  She opened herself up to the Icosahedron, but only a trickle of power came to her. She was unable to draw more, and she almost gave in to despair. It would have to be enough. She teleported into the room she had seen and grabbed the edge of the bed to steady herself. Ismaera turned until she faced the exhausted woman in the bed. Nora had given birth tonight just as Ismaera had, and Dortham sat in a chair close by, gently holding their baby as his wife rested. Both husband and wife were startled at the sudden intrusion and stared with wide eyes at Ismaera where she breathed heavily, dripping rain on the floor.

  “Please help!” Ismaera begged Nora.

  “Help?”

  “They’re coming!” Ismaera said desperately. “I’ll lead them away, but there are too many!”

  “Too many?” Dortham asked. He got to his feet. “I can help even the odds.”

  “Not these odds,” Ismaera said grimly. “I’ll be back tomorrow if I can. If I’m not…”

  Nora saw the woman’s exhausted, bedraggled state and was overwhelmed with compassion for her. She wouldn’t dream of saying no to a request like this, even if it would take a lifetime to fulfill. She simply held out her arms from where she reclined on the bed. Ismaera gently gave her son to the care of this compassionate stranger that her magic had led her to, a woman who still didn’t know her but was deeply moved by Ismaera’s plight.

  “You can count on us,” Nora said.

  “His name is Jeron,” Ismaera gasped out. With shaking hands, she took a crystal scrollcase out of the inner pocket of her cloak and handed it to Nora. “If I don’t return, please give this to him when he turns ten years old.” Needing to be sure, Ismaera gripped the woman’s forearm fiercely with her left hand. “Promise me!”

  “I’ll take care of your son as if he were my own,” Nora said. “I promise!”

  They regarded each other for only a moment, but that was enough for Ismaera. She saw the truth in Nora’s eyes and knew she’d made the right decision. Ismaera suddenly disappeared with a whooshing sound, leaving the couple to stare at nothing more than a puddle of rainwater on the floorboards.

  Ismaera weakly teleported to a place it would make sense for a wounded mage to go, which was the alley behind a tavern two blocks short of Mithram’s docks. An inhuman shriek sounded in the distance, close to the inn she had just left. They had sensed her use of magic, and they would be here soon. Though in her heart Ismaera knew no captain would set sail in weather like this, fleeing the city was the only hope she had left. Hopefully they didn’t know about her son.

  Ismaera almost made it to the docks. She stopped short and turned when she heard its talons scratching on the cobblestones, rapidly coming up behind her. With the last dregs of her power, Ismaera conjured a bolt of lightning that blasted through the black core of the thing that bore down on her. It burst asunder and rolled to a stop near her feet, its misshapen remains still smoking and writhing. A flash of movement caught her eye from the right, and she tried to turn to fight with her bare hands, her only weapons left to her. Evil moved quickly in the darkness, faster than she could see.

  The things from the darkness closed in, their movements a blur.

  Her last conscious thought was of her son.