The Shadow of Bristork

by Wayne O'Brien

  It was on the eighth announcment of the gold and white Kadelaka flowers blossoming, by way of deep echoing horns and signal fires, that they finally entered into the capital city of Caultonsburg. They were stopped only once, at the gate, and upon informing the guard they had no names they were not stopped again.

  The city of Caultonsburg was four times bigger than Bristork. It had high walls separating it into five districts. North Gate, West Gate, East Gate, Port, and Capital, which lay at the center of the city. There were no single level buildings, all were, at the smallest, three stories, reaching as high as ten, save for the Citadel which loomed far above them all.

  At the center of the Capital District, the oldest section of the city, the Citadel stood and shadowed the whole of Caultonsburg, acting like a gigantic sundial. The base of the enormous building was a one-hundred-foot cube topped by a tower tapering up to a point. The wizardress, Bechemal, had her private chambers at the apex of the obelisk.

  The red-haired woman knew she would be allowed to enter the inner sanctum, for this was the first time a partner of hers had died. They stopped at the gate to the courtyard where a guard stood waiting for the caravan.

  "State your name and business," the guard said in a thick drawl. He wore no sigil nor any insignia, only a thick hooded cloak over his attire. In the guard's hands was a crossbow, similar in design to the one that had “killed” Syndael.

  "We have no names, returning from Bristork," Naethaniel said.

  "Enter and be welcomed." The iron bars of the gate squealed open to allow the small caravan to pass. The walls were patrolled by archers, and many others, unseen, hid on the roof of the gigantic structure.

  They passed through the gate into a well-kept garden, and down the clean stone road to the roundabout. There they dismounted and Naethaniel approached the large brown doors. He knocked three times. A moment later the door opened and Naethaniel addressed the guard behind it. The woman who had “died” could not hear the exchange, only the trembling voice of Jaques.

  "Let's make a bargain." He had been repeating the same lines throughout half the trip south, shortly after seeing the smoke of a burned village. "Save my life and I shall forgive you for trying to take it. You shall have all the Oprianal you want. Be my Narc Queen. We would be unstoppable."

  Her mind reeled more than it had the several days he had spent trying to proposition her. Each time he spoke made her yearn to experience that first sweet embrace from Oprianal again. She found the yearning so hard to overcome. She even found herself stealing some of the dose that had been regulated for Jaques. That was when it began for her all over again. Several times, she actually thought of how she could affect their escape. Yet now they were within the gate and the walls of the Citadel, she knew it would be nigh impossible.

  "Mission completee," a voice called, breaking through her wandering mind. "Step forward."

  The Daughter of Agste walked towards the door.

  "Sire," she said with a click of her heels, her right fist clasped in her left hand.

  "You and your commander may enter. We shall take care of the prisoner," the guard said then turned to Miche and Shaene. "You may take your leave for rest and relaxation." At that the two unnamed, who did not enter the citadel, left for a bath house before heading to a tavern.

  Naethaniel, and the woman who is without a name, passed over the threshold and into a large room furnished with leather chairs. Four tapestries hung on the walls, each displaying the crest of one of the four realms of Aramathe. A chandelier hung low from the high ceiling, the candle light wavering in the breeze.

  "Wait here for your time to report," the plainly clothed guard said. His face was as emotionless as stone, as cold as the southern arctic winds from which they were now shielded.

  The woman sat as the man known as Naethaniel walked through the door opposite from the one from which they had entered. A moment later, four armored guards exited from a door to the right and went to retrieve Jaques from the caged wagon. He came through the door in a fit, frantically trying to escape and yelling curses at those who held him.

  "Burning cuntling!" He cursed viciously when he saw the fire haired woman. "I will get out of here and I will burn you! You will be my oprianal pet again!"

  The door closed heavily and the clunk of a bolt locking into place echoed from the stone walls. The woman sat there, trembling in the cold and the want of oprianal, wishing she was not there waiting to tell the council of all the horrors that had befallen her. The minutes slowly turned to hours, and still she had not been called. Her palms grew sweaty and the only two thoughts that kept going through her mind were to ask for retirement, and finding more oprianal.

  Even after the long and arduous trek southward, she still yearned to be rid of the fear that had gripped her on the burning hilltop. She wanted to disappear in a way she had never done before, to become one of the many faces on the street. No background, no future, only what was before the eyes at any given moment.

  At last the door opened and the guard who had allowed them entry called for her. The green-eyed woman stood slowly, her knee and shoulder aching dully. She walked into the council chamber.

  "Report," a crackly, deep voice said in a cold tone. The woman began to tell her story, starting from when she had received the name, Syndael and entered Bristork.

  After relating her experiences, in detail, and without leaving anything out save for the letter Adom had written to her. She stood then, in silence, awaiting the response. Naethaniel stood beside her, listening intently to her story. He gave her an accepting nod. She had not done anything different from the many other times she had given her closing report.

  "You have done well," the black skinned man said. She had not seen him until he leaned in closer to the candle that sat before his place at the large table. The six other members of the Council sat on either side of the old man. "Retrieve the pouch from your commander and follow me."

  The woman took a small satchel from Naethaniel without looking at him. Inside, she knew, was a small object like a glass. She followed the elder and entered the inner sanctum.

  The walls were lit bright by torches and chandeliers. Parchments in varying stages of browning hung from the walls. In the center of the circular room stood a large cauldron, pipes leading from it up to the higher reaches of the tower. She stopped, lost in awe at the Great Hall of Whispers. Until this moment, she had not known what lay inside.

  "This is where all those who have died on a mission are honored," the white bearded man explained. "These are only those under our charge, not the entirety of Ashra."

  "The entirety of Ashra?" She asked, dumbfounded. "I thought we were just in charge of Aramathe."

  "Nay, my unnamed child. We are the Watchers."

  "Watchers?" The history she knew was being brought into question. "I thought we were protectors of the natural law."

  "We are, and we also stand by, watching for signs of the end of each era. How else do you think so few know of the dragons, beyond the Legendium, that is?"

  The buxom woman was speechless, had the awakening been her divine charge? What other secrets had been kept from her? Why was no one told of these things? Her mind seethed with questions.

  "I understand you wish retirement," the elder said. He began to ascend the iron staircase that wound up the inner tower. "What would you do if we allow your request?"

  The woman had thought about that but never going into much detail as to what she would do if freed from her life of espionage. She thought for a moment before responding, knowing her next request was rarely granted.

  "I would try to reconnect with my parents," she said blanketly.

  The elder grunted in acknowledgement, his long brown cloak catching the breeze as he climbed the staircase.

  "We would prefer you to stay on for one final assignment. If you choose to not accept this assignment then we will allow your retirement."

  "What is the assignment?"

  "First," he said as he cam
e to a stop and turned on his heels, all in one fluid motion. "We honor our fallen. You may open the satchel."

  She did and found a small sealed glass containing a golden-brown liquid. Folded neatly along with the glass was a piece of parchment. She looked at the words written on it.

  "For Adom, may his name of birth be proudly whispered on the winds of Aramathe."

  She had to fight back tears on seeing the words again. Her heart ached. The night Adom had died leapt to the forefront of her mind in vivid detail. The woman read the words quietly to herself.

  "Another unnamed to be added to the Great Hall of Whispers," the old man said, somber brown eyes looking out from under his white bushy eyebrows. He gestured to the small glass she held, then to a pipe that dropped away down to the cauldron. The woman opened the glass and poured the contents down the pipe. The council member took the parchment from her and pasted it onto an open area on the wall.

  "Each one of these," he continued, "is not just a mortal who passed on, not just a story in the great Lore of Ashra, but is a link in the chain of life. You also are part of this chain."

  He turned to her his eyes locked on hers. She sensed there was much knowledge hidden deep behind them, most of it would never pass his lips.

  "By doing my duty?" She asked, absent-mindedly rubbing her left shoulder, still achingly sore from the fight with Jaques. She was unable to lift her arm higher than shoulder height and never will be able to again.

  "More than that, you have witnessed the awakening of Zelnwa, the Black Wing, have you not?"

  "I think so. I am not sure what I saw."

  "You have seen him, and that was only possible because you and Adom were chosen to bring Jaques here. Before that, the man you call Naethaniel, was charged with locating him. Your father found the flower on his own mission."

  "My father?" She asked. She felt awestruck again as she became aware of the time-line being placed before her.

  "Yes, he too is part of this chain, as it was when I was his commander and the flower, oprianal, and its effects were first discovered." He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, triggering a memory of the eyeless lizard-man. "The story never ends, only the characters change. Will your part end here?" He gestured towards the epitaph for Adom. "Or out there? The choice is yours and yours alone. You have done many great deeds in your service with us and we shall accept your decision, whatever it may be."

  "Wait," the woman said, her mind reeling, "Are you saying you knew a dragon was there the whole time?" The black skinned man did not respond to the question.

  "Adom and you are part of the same story," he continued. "We all are. We each write our own parts and add them to the Lore."

  The Daughter of Agste looked longingly at the parchment. A tear fell from her eye, sliding its way down her cheek, washing away the wanting to disappear with Mister Oprianal. For Robert's sake, she knew she must receive a new name and carry on what he had begun.

  "His name was Robert Hoynon of Shadeville, and for him I accept."

  The hairless man looked at her questioningly, then led her back down the stairs.

  "There is much for you to learn before you go back out, Rebecca," he said leading the way down the long iron stairway. "You must meet with Bechemal."

  "The wizardress?" Rebecca asked.

  "Yes. She will teach you the full history, and open the extended library for you. However, you must tell her everything you told us." He stopped to look at her intently. "And even that which you have not told us."

  "Everything?" Rebecca asked, meeting his gaze.

  "Everything. Your whole life thus far. It is far too soon for Zelnwa to awake. Frost should not even know of his existence yet. We must discover how this happened."

  Rebecca looked at the man in shock. "Not yet?" she asked and, as before, there was no response.

  The two left the Great Hall of Whispers quietly. Before following the elder to the stairway leading to the top of the tower, Rebecca paused to look upon the glorious chamber with new eyes for one final time.

  "His name was Robert, and for him I shall accept this assignment," she thought with a newly instated force of will.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born in southwest Pennsylvania, Wayne O’Brien began writing at the early age of ten. He is fascinated with history and religion. O’Brien also has a great interest in martial arts. He has studied Karate in the past, and currently studies Wing Chun.

  O’Brien has been developing stories set in the fantastic world of Ashra since the early 2000’s. This world of his creation, Ashra, was inspired by the first short story he’d ever written and then by a dream he had nearly six years later. Along with writing stories set in his fantastic world, Wayne O’Brien has also written many other poems and songs.

  "If you change your name after a non-physical death, does that make you a different person?"

  -Wayne O'Brien