The Shadow of Bristork

by Wayne O'Brien

  Syndael charged at him, a rookie mistake. Jaques kicked from his prone position. His foot struck the side of her knee as she ran through the doorway. Her knee bent awkwardly from the force and she collapsed. Another boot struck her in the chest, a third in her stomach. She blocked the fourth kick by crossing her arms in front of her body, continuing the fluid move to catch his shin with a scissor-like motion. Her knee throbbed, as she blocked strike after strike with her scissored arms.

  Then she was on her feet again. She stopped a punch from Jaques by striking his fist, a kick by kicking his ankle, and followed up with a kick to his stomach. Without putting her foot down, Syndael kicked the side of his face with the outside of her foot, then flipped it over and hit him again with the top of her right foot. She firmly planted the foot she had just kicked with, spun and thrust her left heel into his chest as hard as she could. Jaques flew back hard against the wall atop the stairs. Syndael quickly followed, jumping towards the bleeding skeleton now sitting in the corner.

  Using gravity to add power, the daughter of Agste hurled her heel at Jaques' throat. Jaques, though, wasn’t yet beaten. Somehow, he caught her in mid leap, grasping her leg and hip. Using the momentum of her leap, he twisted and threw Syndael. She cannoned into the broken railing of the stairs, spinning and twisting in mid-air before landing on a table where guests were dining. The table broke, along with mugs and plates, and a dinner knife stabbed into her side. With no hesitation, she pulled the knife out of her flesh and threw it at Jaques, seeing it plunge into his hand.

  The drug-crazed man leapt through the broken railing, pulling the blade from his injured hand as he did. Now with the blade held in his other hand he lunged wildly at her, but she was too quick for him. She reached up and with the web of her thumb took firm hold of his wrist, she twisted his arm violently and he released his hold on the knife. She forced her knee into his bandaged ribs before he broke free from her grip. Jaques grabbed a sword from a guest just as Syndael allowed her jōhyō to fall free from her sleeve. The patrons crowding the tavern looked on, frozen in awe. Unbelievably, the Daughter of Agste, a serving wench who served their meals, was locked in violent combat with Jaques.

  She was spinning her jōhyō at full speed when she realized someone was yelling for everyone to exit the building. It was Helmeck. She had no more time to think, Jaques charged headlong at her. She unleashed her knife, striking him solidly in his shoulder.

  "Come here," she screamed as she hauled on the rope, hand over hand, pulling him inexorably closer. As soon Jaques was close enough, dazed and wavering, she unleashed a series of hard strikes to his ribs, his neck, and his bloodied face. Her hands were a blur, completely overwhelming any resistance. She hit him with a final, devastating, upward strike that sent him staggering backwards.

  The dart now pulled free from his shoulder, his blood running down his torso and legs, Syndael spun the rope again and hurled the blade out again. The razor edge sliced the side of Jaques neck as he attempted to dodge it, and the point stuck, quivering, in the wall behind him. He turned slightly and hacked through the rope with the sword, then he swung at Syndael. She rolled backward, releasing the other end of the jōhyō as she did. Syndael jumped back from her crouched position, narrowly avoiding another wild swing from the sword. She quickly whipped the other dart up, spinning the rope around her left arm, but Jaques reached out and gripped it, pulling her down into his fist.

  Her shoulder popped loudly as she fell hard with a scream. She rolled quickly out of the way of the sword and climbed around him. She began to tie him up with the rope, trying to throw loops around him. Jaques reacted by throwing her over his shoulder, smashing onto another table.

  "Blood-flower filth," Jaques cursed as he began to force Syndael's own blade towards her face. She caught his hand with the web of her right hand again, and moved her head to the side.

  The blade fell free from Jaques' hands, after Syndael swung her body off the table and kicked hard at his ankles. Again, she wrapped the ropedart up and spun it around. She shot the knife at Jaques again, this time striking him low in the ribs.

  "Come here!" she yelled again, and pulled hard. Her hand gripped his throat, squeezing. She readied herself to deliver the final strike to remove his wind pipe.

  "Finish him!" Oprianal growled. His voice deeper, demanding. Her grip tightened on Jaques’ esophagus, bringing it to the verge of collapse.

  The crossbow bolt plunged into her thigh. Involuntarily her grip loosened and she was suddenly back in the moment. Jaques saw his chance and struck at her left arm hanging lifelessly at her side. She retaliated with a hammer fist to his chin and a swift kick to the back of his knees. He crashed to the floor and she followed him down, smashing blow after blow to his face, using only her right arm. Her left was useless, the shoulder looking much lower than usual

  "Kill him!" Oprianal again.

  "No, I must not," she retorted. Or was it the other voice, the bright voice, attempting to break her rage?

  "You are mine! Finish this, avenge Robert, and kill him!"

  "No," she screamed aloud. Jaques had finally broke her as tears ran down her face.

  She stopped hitting Jaques and watched him writhe on the floor. She sent the heel of her palm into his chin one last time and he lay still. Syndael sat on top of him breathing heavily, crying heavily. She had won the fight, but lost the battle. Her left shoulder hurt in a way she had never known before. Her arm hung low to the ground, unable to move, almost numb.

  "What in the burnin' abyss was that about?" Helmeck scolded her. "Everyone 'ere saw ye! When the Claw hears of t'is, 'ere 'ill be no one who can 'elp ye!"

  "He figured it out," she said. The sharp, pulsing pain in her shoulder was growing as the adrenaline subsided. The other injuries she had sustained were non-existent in comparison.

  "I need to get uncle." Helmeck moved toward the door then turned back. "Get him outta sight, and don't break anything else!"

  "I will try not to bleed on the floor," she said sassily, her hand gently gripping the bolt buried in her leg. Her left arm throbbed horribly from the dislocation as she dragged Jaques to the storeroom to restrain him. Once she had tied him to a chair as best she could, Syndael took out his pipe and smoked it to dull the pain.

  Once the drug had started to do its work and the pain in her leg and knee had eased, she poured liquor around the bolt. She knew she had to get it out. Her teeth gritted against the pain she knew was coming, she gripped the bolt and pulled it free from her flesh. Sweat poured down her face and blood pooled on the floor beneath her. She poured more of the alcohol into the wound and then set a flame to it. She rested then, gently smoking oprianal and watching the walls melt. Her mind drifted.

  "Report!" A familiar, angry voice cried from the doorway.

  "Syndael needs to die," she said, trance like. She didn’t even recognize her own voice. Naethaniel came into view and crouched before her.

  "Your arm needs to mend." She grunted in acknowledgement of his statement. "You made a serious mistake. We are nowhere near ready to move on the Czar, nor on Frost, and you have Jaques restrained."

  "It was him or me. Besides," she drew a lung full of smoke, "I told you Frost was burned."

  "And yet witnesses have seen him last eve." Confusion entered Syndael again.

  "Go to the house and have Miche fix your arm. I will contact Treg and force him to move today."

  "How am I going to die this time?"

  Naethaniel glanced at Helmeck, who was tightening the ropes around Jaques. "In the market. I will have to shoot you."

  Syndael sighed painfully and puffed on the pipe again. Mister Oprianal was not helping her dislocated shoulder. The drug was, though, painting her emotions on the walls again. Sorrow, defeat, pain, anger, they were all there. Each one had its own shape and characteristics.

  "No more oprianal." Syndael glared at him, anger flaring at the thought of her lover being taken from her. "Helmeck, go speak with Shimal and tell him you need the
blue oil for the Gendarme. Make certain it is blue not red or green."

  "Aye," Helmeck said. He quickly left the storeroom. Naethaniel picked up the spring powered crossbow Helmeck had used to shoot Syndael with. He examined it closely.

  The bow was extremely narrow for the power it was able to exert. A handle protruded from the side which, when pulled back, drew the strong iron coils back and locked them in place, ready for an explosive release by pulling the trigger. A bolt was then loaded upwards from the cartridge below, making reloading incredibly quick. He aimed the crossbow at a small sack of thyme tightly nestled between two jars on a shelf across the room. The trigger clicked and the bolt flew across the room and sank deep into the sack.

  "Accuracy is good,” he mused. “I guess I shall use this."

  Syndael watched the ever-morphing crossbow with trepidation. Her life was now in Naethaniel's hands, she knew. If he was to be off his mark by a fraction, she would be certain to die.

  The pain in her shoulder clouded her mind and prevented the drug-induced euphoria from holding her.

  "Head to the house and have your arm looked at. I shall soak these bolts in the oil and collect you in the morn."

  She got to her feet painfully and moved to leave.

  "Nameless," he called after her. "Leave the pipe." When she hesitated, he fixed her with a stern look and she handed the pipe to him.

  "You will need his ledger and chest."

  "Where are they?"

  "Upstairs, first room on the right. On the desk." She left and headed for the safehouse.

  The next morning, when Syndael awoke, she could barely move. Her knee was swollen and it hurt when she tried to put weight on it. Her side, where the knife had penetrated, was tender as well. It seemed that every single place on her body Jaques had struck pulsed with pain, more so than usual because of her nerve endings being accustomed to the numbness bestowed by the Oprianal. Her shoulder was the worst, stiff and sore, and if was not held in place properly, would slip out again, sending tendrils of pain slicing through her body and neck.

  "Treg never came back last eve," a cold voice told her. "You are very skilled, yet the oprianal affected your abilities."

  "I just want this to be over," she said. Syndael kept her eyes closed, not wanting to move, yet the ache for Oprianal was strong.

  "It will be soon."

  "What about Czar Thome," she asked.

  "He disappeared, as did Frost, and Treg. Apparently Frost is a shifter, that is why we have had as much trouble finding him as we did. It's possible he is Czar Thome and has either killed or captured Treg." Syndael was silent.

  "How many of your names have been killed?" Naethaniel continued.

  "Four. I hated it every time."

  "As have I. That is another reason why we must be careful."

  Syndael shook uncontrollably under her skin. She felt like a stranger in her own body. Everything was wrong. Her mind kept thinking about the pipe Naethaniel confiscated the previous evening.

  "Have you ever been hung?" Naethaniel asked.

  "No."

  "Be glad, that is the worst way to stage it."

  Syndael slowly sat up, the movement making her dizzy. Her left arm was bound tightly to her torso, the elbow forced gently up to keep her shoulder in place.

  "Are you ready?"

  "As ready as I will ever be."

  She stood painfully, her knee, which was also wrapped tightly, palpitated under the pressure, and her shoulder screamed at any movement she made. Even though the pain had subsided instantly when the dislocation was put back into place, the fact that her arm had hung loose for so long had only added to the destruction of her shoulder joint.

  "What happened to Jaques?" She asked.

  "We have him. We sent word through the mockingbirds that you killed him The hunt is on for you."

  "Wonderful," she replied drily, looking around for her pipe.

  "I destroyed it," Naethaniel said, guessing her intentions. "Get dressed." At that he left the room.

  She limped over to the chifforobe and randomly selected a normal dress to put over her smock. Her sight was blurry, her eyes puffy in her swollen face. The pain was worse than any other time she had survived combat, primarily due to her senses working in overdrive after being conditioned by the numbness her love induced. She grimaced as she pulled the frock in place.

  Upon leaving the room, everything seemed to have a fuzzy red tint to it. She stood before Naethaniel in the best military stance she could manage.

  "Where are Shaene and Miche?"

  "Attempting to finalize their assignments. You did not give us much time and I fear for their safety."

  She hung her head in defeat and apologized again.

  "What happened, happened. There is no need to express any emotion. Come now, I must restrain you."

  Syndael slowly walked closer to Naethaniel. He wrapped a rope around her multiple times, tying it off tightly behind her back. She grunted in pain when the rope was pulled tight.

  "At least we do not need to stage a fight," he said matter-of-factly.

  She guffawed to herself at the statement, remembering the intensity of the battle with Jaques. The movement sent rivers of pain radiating from her torso and running through her whole body.

  "We leave from the back and head west then south to the square," he told her as he picked the narrow crossbow up from the table.

  They exited the kitchen and worked their way down the alley. When they finally emerged onto the street, Naethaniel began to announce his intention of an execution.

  "I am Gendarme Naethaniel of Bristork, I have captured the assassin known as Syndael!" He proclaimed. "She is to be executed immediately in the square!"

  Her heart sank at being called an assassin. "An assassin," she thought, "would not allow themselves to be captured."

  Again, and again Naethaniel made his proclamation as if he was one of Bristork's heralds. Slowly a crowd began to form to watch the procession. There were several hooded figures hidden within the crowd watching intently. "Shadow Claw," Syndael surmised, "has come to make certain I die."

  A large crowd had now formed in the streets. Many were yelling at her, cursing her name. Some began chanting, "kill, kill, kill," The chant quickly grew until the vast majority of the crowd had joined in.

  An apple sailed out from the sea of people and struck her shoulder. Syndael screamed loudly. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the unforgiving stone street. More projectiles were thrown at her, including horse excrement.

  Naethaniel pulled the rope hard, hauling her to her feet. She screamed in pain again. They entered the square, making their unsteady way amid the busy shoppes and stalls. Naethaniel lifted his hands, waiting for the crowd to cease chanting and hurling the projectiles.

  "For crimes against the citizens of Bristork,” Naethaniel intoned. “Including torture, murder, destruction of an original establishment, and the assassination of an upstanding citizen, Jaques D'Airelle; Syndael of Tamerra, I sentence you to death." There were yells of excitement. Syndael had become the entertainment for the day, and would be cursed by the crowd for years to come.

  Naethaniel held the butt of the crossbow to his thigh so he could pull the lever back. He loaded the bolt and aimed it at her. The crowd was suddenly eerily silent as they waited for the execution, for a life to be extinguished. Syndael looked Naethaniel in the eye, her body tense, waiting the explosion of pain. As if time had slowed, she saw his finger tighten on the trigger, the white of his knuckle. The springs released their tension with great force, hurling the deadly bolt through the air.

  The force of the bolt striking into the upper right side of her chest hurled her backwards. She fell, helpless, to the stone flags. Her breath was forced out in a short grunt of pain. Her chest hurt immensely, piercing and burning. Her vision dimmed. Her head struck the stone road as she fell, and she lay there gasping for breath. From somewhere far away she heard the distant cheers of the crowd, then the darkness took
hold and she felt her body going completely, utterly limp. Syndael was no more.

  It had been three days since Naethaniel, Shaene and Miche had left Bristork when the woman finally woke. She was laying on a cart being pulled by an antlecaballus, a large beast similar to a horse yet with two horns protruding from the brow. Her wounds were cleaned and bandaged, but still extremely sore, and the trace remains of the oil within her made her weak.

  For a whole Doba, or the cycle of which the Kadelaka tree bloomed, she had lain on the cart, slowly healing. Miche looked after her while Naethaniel guarded Jaques, who was chained up in an iron cage being pulled by another antlecaballus, this one black. Once a day she smelled oprianal and wondered aloud at the source.

  "Jaques needs to continue to smoke," Miche explained. "We attempted to prevent him from smoking, but when we did he almost died. We need him alive."

  "The smell makes me want it again," she told him. Her shaking had stopped entirely, but the unscratchable itch inside her mind was still prevalent. Her thoughts kept returning to the words Oprianal had spoken, and that made her want him again.

  "Control your thoughts, we are halfway there," Naethaniel attempted to console her after she had healed enough to assist in the journey. The halfway point, in reality, was four bloomings of the Kadelaka tree, the flowers of which dictate the calendar. It was at that time they saw a large pillar of smoke rising up in the east, across the river. The smoke was like that of a great inferno which had been extinguished only a day or two before during the celebrations for Doba Agste, the Time of Agste, or the New Year.

  The air grew frigid the closer they came to the southern arctic of Aramathe. Snow had begun to accumulate under their feet, and the wind cut to the bone. They pulled the animal skins they wore tight, to ward off the cold.