The Shadow of Bristork

by Wayne O'Brien

  She stood quiet, looking at the glass of Baidland liquor she had poured standing alone on the counter, awaiting the attention of its intended. Yet the one who the glass was intended for would never come to drink the bitter sweet liquid again. His spirit had already crossed over.

  "For Adom, may his name of birth be proudly whispered on the winds of Aramathe!" Naethaniel said as he lifted his glass to the air.

  "For Robert!" They emptied their glasses and stood silent for a short moment. Syndael could feel Naethaniel's eyes upon her when she used Adom's birth name. It made her nervous and uncomfortable.

  "Either way," Naethaniel said to clear the air, "There are new developments. Treg has come in. It seems there is something big being planned."

  "How big?" Syndael inquired.

  "It looks like Frost is preparing to make a push for power and take full control of Bristork."

  "He would need to remove Czar Thome from the castle to do that."

  "No," he said. A single word, yet that was all that was needed to send a chill down Syndael's spine. "That is the other reason we are here. I believe Frost already controls the Czar."

  "How?"

  "You do not need to know that. I shall discuss this with Master Flamdrin at midday tomorrow. If Frost is planning a takeover, we will need more men. Either way, the warden is the key to communicating with the capital and other cities." He turned and moved towards the main dining area of the house, where they had all met the day before.

  "What shall I do? Adom's letter said you have the first piece." She followed him into the dining area.

  "The parchment is on the counter, see for yourself. Until your next report," he said. It was his way of wishing her a good night. He went into one of the bedrooms connected to the dining room.

  Syndael walked back into the kitchen and saw the folded parchment on the counter next to the undrunk alcohol. She picked up the parchment and scanned its contents. It was a small list of names.

  "Turpin, Jaques, Flamdrin, Havlen, Frost." Below the names was a single, simple sentence; instructions understood by the Nameless only. "Follow the thief."

  She felt the hair on the nape of her neck stand on end as she read the names. "Why is Flamdrin on here?" she thought, "and who is Havlen?"

  She tore a strip off the note and placed it on the counter before turning the corner and placing the two notes in the fire. She watched as the parchment burned until only ash was left. She picked up the metal fire stick and stirred the ash until it was all dispersed among the flaming logs. She returned to the kitchen and, after getting the quill and ink from the table, wrote a short note and left the it under the glass, making sure a water ring formed on the paper.

  Syndael silently left the same way she had entered, being careful to make sure the modified handle latched, and locked the door. The note she had left in the kitchen, now being slowly saturated by moisture from the sweating glass, answered all questions anyone may have asked upon seeing the liquor. She simply wrote, "For Adom, may his name of birth be proudly whispered on the winds of Aramathe."

  Syndael awoke as the red sun rose in the west. She pulled an old dress over her body and stepped outside with all she would need for the day.

  "I need to be ready for anything," she thought as she walked down Pauper Street. To the south, across Pauper Street where she lived, and down Glaston Street, she spied a slender figure crawling out of a large opening that she knew led to the sewers. Syndael moved closer to get a better look at the unusual sight. As the figure stood she recognized the youthful face. It was Turpin.

  She ducked into a dark alley and peered around the corner, watching. A man, lanky of physique and dressed in black, crawled out of the drain behind Turpin. The boy entered a small hut the same size as her own. She saw the black clad man stop outside the hut Turpin had entered and study it for a moment. Syndael stepped out of the shadows and casually walked down the road, all the while watching the man without appearing to.

  The thin man, draped in a midnight colored cloak, turned and locked eyes with her. Suddenly he turned and ran down Crocien's Street which is perpendicular to Glaston. As the man disappeared from view around the corner, Syndael let the dagger hidden in her dress fall towards the ground. It was attached to a long rope sewn into her frock. She began to swing it in a circle as she picked up speed.

  The length of the rope grew as she let more and more slide from her sleeve. Ultimately the rope was too long to spin easily and she allowed it to wrap around her elbows and shoulders, keeping her momentum up. She ran across the street towards the corner where the man had turned. Without hesitating, she threw the dagger up towards the awning of the house on the corner. The sharp metal blade sank deep into the wood and she used her speed to kick off the ground and swing around the corner. From her left sleeve, she let a second dagger fall. This one, too, was connected to the rope. Still swinging through the air she threw it forcefully into the awning of another building.

  The first blade jerked free as she wound the rope on her left arm, pulling herself up higher from the street and continuing her swing. She could see the man running along the early morning streets. He looked back for a brief moment without stopping his headlong flight. When he saw her in the air, swinging from building to building over the street, he quickened his pace to a hard sprint. She continued after him, repeatedly coiling the rope attached to the last knife she had thrown as she pulled the previous blade free from its secure but temporary binding. Each time she threw one of the blades of her jōhyō, she experienced a moment of stomach-churning free-fall.

  A merchant, leaving his home, was nearly knocked down by the running man. Syndael twisted in mid-air and quickly hurled the blade from her left sleeve out at an angle, pulling hard on the rope in an attempt avoid the merchant and his burden of items for sale, but she was not fast enough. She swung to her left hard, and her feet, like a whip, hit the man on the back of his head sending him to the ground. Even as he fell, the merchant violently cursed the Shadow Claw. The people of Bristork, who coming out of their homes onto the city streets for their day's work, looked at her with awe as she closed the distance between herself and the running man.

  Syndael jerked both darts free and, with her arms out like an eagle's wings, knees pulled in close, came down hard on the black cloaked man. She rolled off him, softening her landing. The daughter of Agste retracted one side of the long rope, by spinning the other end around her elbows and shoulders again. The man looked at her for a microsecond, shock stark in his eyes, and then he leapt to his feet and dashed into an alley to his right, just as a blade left Syndael's hand and stuck, quivering, in the exact spot in the excrement-stained stone slabs of the street, where he lain a split second before.

  Continuing the chase through the streets of Bristork, Syndael broke into a sprint and followed the man into the alley. She quickly brought the momentum of her jōhyō back up to speed and hurled one of her blades out towards the member of the Shadow Claw. The blade sliced into the straining muscle of his calf. She yanked hard on the rope, sending him face first to the stone. His yelps of pain became muffled as blood splattered across the stone slab, pouring from his now battered nose.

  Syndael rushed him before he could get his footing. She wrapped the rope around his neck, crossing it over the man's back, around his waist, then back up, and again across his chest. Finally, she put the insides of her elbows under his arms, forcing them up. She held the two blades to his throat, her hands steady despite her panting from her exertions. She looked around the alley and realized people in the streets were looking curiously at her.

  "That was too public," she thought. "I need to get out of sight." She ducked behind a two-story house, dragging her captive with her. Standing on the dirt plot behind the house was a small tool shed, about the size of the huts on Pauper Street and those further north by the wall. Syndael stood sideways on to the door of the tool shed. She pushed the cloaked man aside, lifted her left leg, her knee bent to her stomach, and forcibly thrust
the heel of her foot into the door. There was a loud crack as the door broke free and she entered. The Nameless woman hauled on the ropes around the man, making him spin wildly. She drew her leg back and brought it forward hard, firmly planting her knee into his crotch. The man shrieked and collapsed to the filthy floor.

  "Why were you following him?" She asked, not hiding her natural voice. The cloaked man looked at her, blood trickling from his mouth.

  "The daughter of Agste is a Nameless shaz'tet," the man said. "Jaques will have fun with you!" He hissed the words at her, his voice dark and sinister.

  "Do you really think I will let you go?" she asked.

  "Nay, I'm a dead man, but you will not get anything from me." Stern defiance covered his weathered face.

  Syndael smiled mirthlessly and rolled her eyes. She relaxed slightly and the Shadow Claw grinned, sensing weakness. His grin disappeared as, suddenly, Syndael's hand was over the man's mouth as she rammed one of her blades deep into his upper thigh.

  "What is your interest with Turpin," she demanded, trying to keep the noise she knew the man would make, down as much as possible. The man squirmed with the huge pain radiating from his thigh, but made no indication of wanting to talk.

  Syndael held him down. She was calm. "This will only get worse," she promised him.

  "Burn ye!" He cursed, then spat in her face.

  Syndael put her hand over his mouth again, and slowly twisted the blade. The man’s muffled screams moistened her hand more than the sticky blood.

  "Tell me." She said quietly as she continued to turn the dagger in his thigh. But he remained as defiant as before.

  "Be that way," she said, and looked around the tool shed. "A fine place to question someone like you. Do you not agree?" Her voice was almost seductive and she could see the beginnings of real fear seep into the man's eyes. Syndael grabbed a long, thin nail from one of the tables and showed it to the man.

  "What should I do with this?" She smiled at her captive. Blood flowing from his damaged leg was pooling in front of her feet as she crouched over him. "Perhaps I will put it … here?"

  She held the man's hand up, pulling against him, and carefully slid the point of the rusted nail into the tip of his finger. She quickly covered his mouth to stifle his screams as she pried his fingernail away from his flesh. The man's whole arm jumped and twitched as his fingernail ripped in half and the nail came free.

  "Why where you following him?" Her voice was still calm, conversational, as she asked again. Still no response. In spite of herself, Syndael was impressed by the man's resilience, yet it was also a cause for her frustration. She could see he was getting close to talking.

  "One last chance to avoid more pain. Why were you shadowing him?" She put the nail into another finger. His screams of pain were muffled by her hand gagging him, but he still held his lips tight together as he stared into her eyes. She squinted at him and her upper lip drew back slightly as anger filled her.

  Syndael removed the blade from his thigh and sank it into the wooden floor under the man's crotch, completely severing one of his extremities there. The man's whole body writhed and convulsed, his eyes wide with pain and terror. Tears ran down his face and pooled onto Syndael's hand. Although her hand was over his mouth she still feared the owner of the shed would hear his screams. Once his screams subsided to strangled sobs, and his convulsions became mere tremors, she removed her hand.

  "Well?" she asked, and finally the man nodded, consenting to answer her questions. "Why were you following him?"

  "To make sure he doesn't talk. To see to it he is not a Nameless mockingbird shaz'tet."

  "To what end?"

  "I don't know."

  Syndael studied the man and concluded he was telling the truth. "What is Frost planning?"

  The man's eyes grew wide, a new and violent form of fear enveloping him. Syndael removed the blade from his scrotum and held the blood cover blade before his face threateningly.

  "I'm not sure," the man said looking at the blade. "Something to do with a dragon … a Master Havlen."

  The silence that fell in the room brought with it a chill that settled in the pit of Syndael's stomach. "I believe you," she said, and saw that the man was instantly and visibly relieved. She pushed the blade deep into his throat. The Shadow Claw man's eyes widened again as his air supply was cut off by the blade. When she removed the dagger, blood gushed forth like water from a spring. He tried desperately to yell but only managed a grotesque, gurgling noise as he coughed and spat up his own blood.

  Syndael wiped the blood off the blade and unwrapped the rope from the corpse of the lanky man. After re-securing the jōhyō under her blouse, she left the tool shed and headed in the opposite direction from where she had come.

  She made her way confidently through the alleys and small yards of Bristork. When she was certain no one was following her, Syndael made her way to the Nameless hideout. She knocked and a moment later the back door opened and Miche let her in.

  "Everything all right? You're not usually here so early," the attractive young man asked before he saw the blood splatter on her dress.

  "I need to change," she said walking through the kitchen. She paused briefly to glance at the glass and note from the night before. It was still on the counter with her and Naethaniel's empty glasses. There were now three more used glasses on the counter with them.

  "Did you see Adom before he...?" Miche did not finish the sentence. Not only because the rest was understood but because Syndael cut him off.

  "No," she lied. Syndael went into one of the two bedrooms off the main room and began to undress.

  "That's a shame," Miche said leaning against the wall by the door to the bedroom. "He was very cute."

  Syndael paused when she heard him and thought about the letter he had written to her. "Yes, he was. You two would have looked good together." Her words almost choked her as she thought back to the many subtle ways Adom had found to compliment her, and then she felt horrid, remembering her responses and how she mocked his laugh.

  "That would've been nice," he said. "However, he had eyes for you."

  Syndael walked out of the room and looked intently at Miche. "Really" she asked feigning surprise.

  "Yes," he turned and saw her tying her blouse closed. "You never noticed?"

  "No, I..." she walked toward the kitchen, knowing that if he saw her face he would know it was a lie. "Nothing could have happened anyway. We have no names."

  "Aye," he said. "Still, it would have been nice to know what he had down there." Miche gave his boyish smile creasing a single dimple in one cheek.

  Syndael looked at him and laughed to herself. She sighed and grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter on the wall opposite the memorial to Adom. "Where is Naethaniel? I must speak with him."

  "He left."

  "To go where?"

  Miche glanced quickly at her and she motioned to show she realized she should have known better than to ask. She bit into the apple.

  "What's going on," Miche asked as he folded his arms and leaned against the base of Adom's epitaph. "Is it about Jaques?"

  "No," Syndael replied after chewing and swallowing. "I saw a Shadow Claw watching Turpin. He mentioned Frost and a Master Havlen."

  "Could be anything," Miche said with a shrug. "It's said that Master Havlen is a warlock of some kind."

  "A warlock?" she echoed. "That does not make sense." Syndael thought for a moment as she ate her fruit. There was something off about how the lanky man had spoken of a dragon and Master Havlen. It was almost like they were two separate items. "A dragon," she said under her breath.

  "What was that?"

  "He said a dragon, Master Havlen."

  "Well, Master Havlen calls himself the Dragon Keeper." Miche looked at her questioningly. "What are you thinking?"

  "It was like two different things. And why did he say 'a' dragon instead of 'the' dragon?" They were both silent in thought for a moment before Syndael continued. "Do you re
member your studies at the citadel?"

  "Of course."

  "The tales about the dragons. How long did Warden Bechemal say they slept?"

  Miche inhaled deeply his eyes grew wide as he looked past Syndael and into his memories. "Ten thousand years I think."

  "When was the last recorded sighting?"

  Miche put his hands on the counter, knocking one of the small empty glasses over. It rolled up to Adom's glass and rested against it with a dull clink. "The last time they woke it ended the age. That was only..." He paused, calculating. "Eight and a half thousand year ago, maybe nine." He turned to stand the glass back up. "He must have meant something else."

  "Perhaps. I can always trust your memory." Syndael looked at the parchment that would one day hang in the Great Hall of Whispers, a memorial to all Nameless who died on assignment. "Well now, I bes' be off." She slipped into her lilting faux accent again, as easily as she had slipped into her dress earlier.

  "Shall I pass the information on to Naethaniel when I see him before I leave?"

  "Aye. Ye goin' to see the smith again?"

  "Yes. He knows something about the Czar."

  "Until the eve, Miche."

  "Until the eve, Synd," he said. She turned and left the house. "He was terrified." Syndael thought about her interrogation of the thin man. "What did he mean? Wish I could ask him, you stupid shaz'tet." She cursed herself for not demanding further explanation as she slowly worked her way to the Lotus Inn. It was midmorning by the time she arrived.

  Not long after Syndael entered the Lotus, Helmeck approached her. He moved quickly for his weight. Deep seated concern was painted on his face, like the beads of sweat that shone on his brow.

  "I 'ave heard 'bout a daugh'er of Agste swingin' in the streets this morn," he told her in a hushed tone. "Be that ye?"

  "Nay," she said without even a glance. "'Ow would I 'ave swinged through the streets?"

  Helmeck leaned in closer. "Nameless," he whispered.

  Syndael looked at him, then scanned the near empty room. "Who," she asked, feigning concern.