The Shadow of Bristork

by Wayne O'Brien

  "I need to stay clear headed." She forced her thoughts away from the allure of the narcotic as she looked through the clothes she had hung on the wall. Each blouse and dress held its own hidden weapon, or weapons, depending on the needs of the day. The walls were still, immobile, like they had been before she had experienced the wonderfully indescribable, euphoric open-mindedness of oprianal. Now, however, she knew what was hidden beneath the surface and would never be able to forget it.

  She left her hut and set off toward the Lotus. Her thoughts rotated around oprianal, Jaques, Adom, Turpin, Frost, then back to the narcotic. Syndael could not shake the powerful need of wanting to smoke more. Her fingertips twitched and rubbed against each other absent mindedly as she walked through the now crowded streets. Before long she was passing over the threshold of the Lotus Inn.

  "'Ello Helmeck." Syndael waved at him as she crossed the room to the fire pit to peel some of the skin off the lamb Helmeck was roasting for the evening meal.

  "Jaques wants to speak to ye," he replied as he intently studied her tired, drawn look.

  "Aye," her lilting faux accent was in place, her mind as focused as it was going to be under the yoke of the ever-present draw of oprianal. "Where is Barbarae?"

  "Go see Jaques," Helmeck insisted hollowly. Syndael felt her senses suddenly sharpen. Something was wrong this day. The air did not feel right. Warily she walked to the door leading to the backroom and knocked. Jaques’ voice snapped from the other side of the door, asking the identity of who was knocking. Syndael told him and was allowed entry.

  "Ye wan'ed to speak with me, sire," she asked. Her whole body ached dully, especially her abdomen and groin. The bitter smell of oprianal that hung in the air of the backroom was enjoyable to Syndael now, and she wished to partake.

  "There are Nameless all around me," Jaques said to himself when she closed the door behind her. He was standing in the corner, rummaging through a box on one of the shelves.

  "Jaques?" Syndael said hesitantly. He spun around quickly and, upon seeing her, charged across the room and grabbed her by the throat.

  "How dare you sneak up behind me." His eyes burned with rage, his grip tight.

  "Ye wan'ed to see me," she choked out. After a moment of reflection, he released his grip. That was when Syndael saw the feet.

  The heels of the dirty moccasins rested on the floor. The soles, still and lifeless, angled away. The muscles that held the form of the shoes were limp.

  "Mockingbird shaz'tet," Jaques said waving a hand at the corpse that lay behind the table. There was blood splatter on his dingy yellow shirt, and Syndael could see traces of smeared blood on his hands and face. "Move her."

  Syndael knew this was where she could get more oprianal and considered bartering with him. Jaques turned back to the shelves then, after seeing she had not moved, moved swiftly back. She opened her mouth to speak but his hard, bony fist hit her in the stomach before she could say anything. She doubled over, coughing hard.

  "Move her or join her, burnt shaz'tet!"

  Syndael stood up and walked unsteadily around the narcotic-crazed skeleton. "May I have some more O?" She risked asking as she passed. Her steps faltered and stopped when the body of Barbarae came into full view.

  Her dress had been torn open. Her body was bare and twisted awkwardly. The dead woman’s legs were scarred by claw-like marks, knees had been forced open. Her breasts gleamed red with blood, whole chunks of flesh had been torn from them and scattered on the floor. Blue and yellow bruises discolored her throat, and blood had pooled around her body. With all that, it was her swollen face that Syndael found the most frightening. The mouth gaping and the eyes, black like onyx without the shine, wide in a dark terror. Her head was tilted toward her lifeless right shoulder, while her chin, obviously dislocated, rested on her left shoulder.

  Jaques laughed evilly. "You want my product?"

  Syndael did not respond, she stood silently in utter shock. "He thought she was Nameless." Her thoughts raced. "That was supposed to be me. She's been close to him, and has red hair. Adom must have affected him more than I thought. If he suspects another Nameless how would he know?" Her thought process was interrupted when Jaques forced her to kneel, in the sticky, cloying puddle of Barbarae's blood. He held a knife to her throat.

  "And how would you pay for it baby-pusher?" He taunted.

  Syndael thought quickly, not immediately knowing how to best respond. Then the perfect, although utterly repulsive, solution entered her mind. She slowly turned around, looking, as flirtatiously as she could, into his eyes. She reached up and began to untie Jaques' pants. He smiled in agreement, laying the knife down on the table. Nausea welled up in her stomach, and shame made her eyes sting with tears as she began to pleasure him.

  By the time she stepped back through the door to the cooking area, the usual crowd had formed. She felt as if her feet were not even touching the floor. The body had been disposed of and she had cleaned up as best she could. She had made herself vomit up the vileness Jaques had forced her to swallow and the puke that had splattered the front of her gown had dried and was barely noticeable.

  She floated through the usual crowd, smiling at those who made crude comments, which most did. The regular buyers of Jaques' merchandise were beginning to become comfortable with her delivering their purchases, especially now she craved the euphoric embrace of Mister Oprianal more and more. She did not care about the dealings of those who bought the flower, her mandate was to end the trade entirely. To do that she needed Jaques, the ledger, proof of possession, and, of course, a witness to be safe.

  "What trail did Adom leave, and the thief … what was his name?" She struggled to think through the self-inflicted daze. "Turpin!" She remembered. "Perhaps he had made contact with him before." She could not even bring herself to think about the faceless body of Adom in the backyard, where she had vomited and buried both Adom and, now, Barbarae.

  The thought was sobering and made her want, even more, to erase the pain. She did not want to deal with the memory of her dead love. She thought of the short pipe and small bag Jaques had given her. There was still unburnt oprianal firmly tucked in place, ready to be smoked. As soon as there came a moment when she could disappear into the back room to smoke some more, she took it.

  The first time she did, however, Jaques looked at her angrily from behind the table. His anger seemed to ease when he saw her take the pipe and bag from the pocket in her dress. He smiled evilly as she filled her lungs with smoke, once, and then again. Still, she hazily realized, he had that constant, questioning look about him as he stared. Could he finally be starting to trust her? Perhaps so, now that a Daughter of Agste had been horribly killed.

  The evening continued as usual but, watchful as she could be in the grip of the narcotic, she saw no sign of the young thief, Turpin. "Hopefully he has been captured by Treg," she thought. As the night deepened and closing time grew ever closer, the door opened wide, allowing cooling mountain air into the stifling tavern. A hooded figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by torchlight. The figure paused a moment and then limped to a dark corner. Syndael threaded her way through the dancing multi-colored lightbugs only she could see, and approached the new comer.

  "Anyth'ng I could get ye?" she asked through the accent. The cloaked man looked up. His hood was small but still efficient enough to shadow his face.

  "An ale," he answered in a hoarse whisper. He tossed a coin to her and she turned to head back to the casks. "And a plate of food," he called, his voice louder, yet still, somehow, whispering.

  She quickly got his order and returned to him with a mug of ale in one hand and a plate of food in the other. Syndael forced a smile, bowed quickly, then turned to resume her duties. There was, however, something familiar about the young man in the boy's cloak. She glanced back at the stranger. He had already started eating as he studied the staircase leading to the rooms above. The hand rail was still broken half-way up from a fight that had taken place long before Synd
ael had finished her assignment in Tamerra. She pondered the nature of his injuries and the way the figure sat as she refilled his mug. Finally, after the fourth mug of ale, the young man grabbed her arm as she moved to remove his empty plate.

  "I need to send a message," he said in the same hoarse whisper. "I need to inform the Shadow Claw that Turpin has survived." She looked at him, glad her mark was still available. But the feeling quickly passed when the realization what the man had said, and the implications, took hold.

  "Can you do that for me," he asked as he slid a coin between her breasts.

  "Aye." Her face was heated. "An' who shall I say has sent 'he message?"

  "Someone …" He paused "Who has seen many things." He looked at his empty mug. "Someone with a fearful thirst. I shall wait here for a response." He released her wrist and let her gather his plate and mug.

  Syndael turned the corner and knocked on the door that opened to Jaques' office. A sharp, angry voice called questioningly from the other side.

  "Tis Syndael," she said. "A stranger gave me a message for the Shadow Claw."

  There was a moment of silence, then the door flew open and Jaques, in a dreamlike rage, grabbed her by the throat. "What is this message," he growled.

  "Turpin," she choked.

  "What about the dead shaz'tet?"

  "The stranger said he is alive."

  Jaques' rage grew, his grip tighter, effectively preventing air from reaching Syndael's lungs. Panic again flooded her mind, and she clenched her fists, ready to expose her role to save her own life. Before Syndael had a chance to break the grip, however, it was released and Jaques was briskly walking towards the table the ranger sat at.

  "Burn!" Jaques yelled as he turned the corner. Syndael turned to look as a bony hand crashed against her face. "Where did he go?"

  "I … I don't know," she forced out. "He said he would wait." Jacques used the heel of his hand to strike her this time, sending her crashing down to the floor of the slowly emptying tavern. Helmeck rushed over to help her up as Jaques stalked angrily into the cellar.

  "Ye a'right?" he asked.

  "Aye," Syndael replied. Her mind racing but unable to focus. Her quivering fingers drummed on the small pipe in her pocket as she surveyed the nigh empty room, for the hour was late. "I need to go," she whispered to Helmeck in her natural voice.

  He glanced round at their immediate surroundings, searching for anyone who might have heard Syndael, yet it seemed, no one had. "Where?"

  Syndael turned her gaze to the door under the stairs that led to the second floor. "It's time."

  Helmeck looked her over, uneasy now at the haste she said was necessary. Finally, he nodded his acceptance. He knew he couldn’t stop a Nameless, even if he wanted to. Interfering with one of their investigations was risking a forced disappearance.

  Syndael jogged to the door and peered through it. The stairs and ramp were old and worn smooth, and the rank smell of mold and musk floated up towards the open door. At the base of the staircase was the cellar, void of life, save hers.

  A faint echo that resembled a scream emanated from behind one of the walls. She put her ear to the wall and listened carefully. She could just make out the telltale sound of someone in pain.

  By this time the euphoria she had gained from the oprianal was almost completely gone, and her mind kept reverting to the narcotic. Her fingers trembled and her heart palpated heavily. She felt clammy all over in the cool cellar air. Syndael's focus had before been impaired, and now it was, she found it difficult to spy the hidden release lever to open the hidden door. Eventually she found it and went to push the lever. She hesitated when she saw the twitching of her own fingers.

  "I need to focus," Syndael thought. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, taking in huge gulps of air and forcing her mind to focus on the center of her body, just below the naval. She drew energy in through the center of her being and let it flow, unimpeded, through her circulatory system. Her hands steadied, and she opened the hidden door.

  The tunnel was black as pitch, broken occasionally by mounted torches flickering in the darkness. She could see a figure limping into one of the intersecting corridors of the sewers. A body lay midway down the tunnel. Syndael, quickly and quietly, moved to the nigh lifeless body. Although the face was covered in blood and there was but a bloody socket where there had once been an eye, she still recognized the owner of the body as Jaques.

  "Good job, Turpin," she thought. A shadow crossed the intersection heading in the direction Turpin took. "Filth," she said to herself as, again, her thoughts were interrupted with the unwanted memory of the pipe in her dress pocket.

  "I need to focus," she told herself under her breath. "Just a little!" Her mind finished the sentence, attempting to convince her it was a necessity for her safety now. Hesitantly, yet quickly, she removed the pipe and the small Dwarven box from her pocket. She closed her eyes tightly, to protect her dark vision, opened the lid of the box and sent a bright spark onto the oil soaked cotton. She sucked the flame into the bowl of the pipe, lighting the drug for her to inhale.

  She breathed in the smoke luxuriously, completely filling her lungs with the last of the oprianal that was in the pipe. She held it in her lungs while she emptied the ash onto the gravel tunnel. Her head spun and her vision was suddenly edged, and danced with, black before she released the smoke. Unfortunately, the emptiness that now lay deep within her core was not yet satisfied.

  The rainbow starbursts danced around her and through her again. She went on through the tunnel and into the sewers. Her mind was working fast now, with a paranoia that made her skills sharper. The shadows thrown by the torches danced and played tricks on her opened senses. The path was easy to find, as she shadowed the thief and claw to the center of the city.

  Applause echoed from deep in the sewers ahead. Syndael slowed her pace and stopped at the edge of shadow where it became light. Unseen, she watched the acceptance of the young thief into the Shadow Claw.

  She carefully leaned forward to survey the scene before her. A tall, pale man sat on a throne amid the sewage beneath the streets of Bristork. Along the walls she could see the entirety of the Shadow Claw. They were all clapping for the thief.

  "Congratulations," the pale man said, his hood drawn back. He was very old, years beyond counting. His skin was a bone white color; if, she thought, that really was skin she saw stretched over his skull. There was, it seemed to her through Mister Oprianal's eyes, a metamorphosis about this man. Under his skin she thought she could almost make out an ever-changing pattern of bone, muscles, tendons and ligaments.

  "You set me up!" Turpin declared.

  "Yes, I did," the clear skinned man said. "And you escaped the castle. If you had not been able to do that, then you would have had no place among us."

  Syndael watched intently, studying the scene. "Had Treg never found him? How? Why not? He is an expert tracker," she thought.

  "I hear you dirtied your hands escaping as well."

  "I killed three people," Turpin replied.

  "You attacked three people, yet only one died," the leader said as he sat back down on his throne.

  "The one guard might have lived, but I put a sword through the throat of the other, and I split open some cleric's head."

  "Indeed," Frost said cryptically. "However, we have other problems that must be remedied. You lost the Seeing Stone."

  "From the Grand Wizard?" She thought.

  "Yes, it fell into the drain."

  "We shall find it then. How far could a stone float in shite? You are now a member of the Shadow Claw and we now permit you the first of many weapons you will master." The pale one motioned to another man who approached Turpin.

  He held a leather sling with two straps. On it hung a bent sheath with the hilt of a knife protruding from it. The thief took the sling from the older man. The man began to remove Turpin's cloak.

  "You will be trained in the many uses of the karambit, but first you must retrieve an item
, tonight." Frost’s voice was somber, distant.

  "I need rest!" Turpin protested.

  "No time. Your little escapade has caused a bit of a panic in the keep, and the target will soon be out of our reach. The client will not be pleased. You must retrieve the Dragon Shard from the Keeper."

  "The Keeper?" Turpin asked.

  "Yes, the shard should be with him. In his study."

  "Where is that?"

  "Outside the castle walls, you will be pleased to know. Agste and Castle Road, north of the wall."

  "Once I have it?"

  "Bring it back here. No tricks, no traps, and no one following you. Then your training will begin."

  "Follow the thief, my love." Syndael thought of the letter. Warily, Turpin agreed to do as Frost directed and moved to leave the chamber.

  "One more thing," the Claw leader yelled after the boy. "Jaques is going to be burning when he awakes. It shall be entertaining to see what he will do." He let out a dark, loud laugh.

  The army of thieves, assassins, and the occasional brute, began chanting, "Claw! Claw! Claw!" as Turpin walked through the crowd and the sewers until he was out of hearing. The chant echoed in Syndael's mind, adding to the narcotic induced excitement she had felt watching the ritual with a newly-cleansed perception. She retraced her steps to the intersection and waited for Turpin to emerge. Sure enough he did. She shadowed him to an old board that acted like a bridge across pools of sewage. The cloaked thief knelt by a door leading up onto Castle Road. After years of honing her skills, Syndael could sense the sun was almost ready to pour its rays onto the land, stretching its fiery strength after the night's rest.