The Shadow of Bristork

by Wayne O'Brien

  "Shite," Naethaniel said when her eyes began to roll back and the tremors had become more pronounced. "Get her on the floor!"

  Treg took her legs while Naethaniel lifted her by the shoulders.

  "Syndael!" Treg cried repeatedly attempting to extract a response from the thrashing body that now lay on the floor.

  "Make her throw up," Naethaniel ordered. Treg looked around the room quickly for something long and thin to force down her throat. He saw nothing he could use so he thrust his middle finger as far as he could into her mouth. The convulsions that threatened to consume her intensified, and Syndael's jaws locked around his knuckles. Treg grimaced and yelled in pain as his finger was bitten off.

  Her chest heaved and the contents of her stomach began spattering over her face. Suddenly, with her chest still heaving, violently attempting to excavate her stomach, she stopped breathing. Treg’s severed finger had lodged in her throat. Her body tensed and contorted. Blood, seeping from the finger, bubbled out between her contorted lips as her face turned deathly pale.

  Naethaniel rolled her onto her side and hit her on her back with the heel of his hand. He did it again, then again and again until the blockage was burst free. Syndael coughed violently and the finger flew out of her mouth and onto the floor. The alcohol she had just drunk, blood, and everything else that had been in her stomach, splattered across the floor. She gasped, gulping in air. After a spell of coughing and gasping, her breathing slowly returned to normal, the tremors subsided, and she lay on the floor unconscious for a moment before blinking.

  "What happened?" She asked. Her head was pounding hard, her sight still blurred. The coppery taste of blood in her mouth, mixed with vomit, made her stomach turn. She had no energy left to even lift a finger.

  "You collapsed and almost died," Treg said as he held his bloody hand. "What is that?"

  "A pipe and pouch," Naethaniel said. "It fell out of your dress, Syndael." He then picked the pipe and bag up off the floor. She forced herself to look toward him and saw him sniff the contents of the short pipe. "How much have you had this eve past?"

  Syndael closed her eyes in shame. She sighed. "Three."

  Naethaniel looked over to Treg, who was bandaging his hand. Treg returned his gaze with a thoughtful shake of his head, lips pinched tight in pain.

  "Three," Naethaniel said in his cold even tone. "You know what this does?"

  Syndael slowly hauled herself up into a sitting position. The effort made her dizzy again. She nodded.

  "He is going to destroy me," Oprianal told her softly. "You cannot let that happen."

  "Are you a narc?"

  "No, it is my cover. I need that to continue."

  "You need?" Naethaniel asked pointedly.

  "Yes."

  "You probably should not have said that," Oprianal whispered.

  Naethaniel sat at the table studying her. She was still shaking, but not from the overpowering drugs that had caused the convulsions. A tear slowly formed in her left eye.

  "You cannot have this back," Naethaniel said sternly. She heard a loud, echoing, negative scream in her mind as Oprianal sensed his demise was imminent. Syndael's mind raced, attempting to think of a reasonable excuse as to why the pipe and bag should be returned to her. Naethaniel walked towards the fire place as she got unsteadily to her feet.

  "He expects me to have that," Syndael finally blurted out. "If he asks where it is what would I tell him? I lost it? If so where?" The words flowed from her like another being was using her body to express its twisted logic.

  Naethaniel paused and thought about her claim. The excuse seemed sound to Syndael, and soon Naethaniel agreed. However, before he returned the pipe he removed the majority of the drug from it and threw the whole bag, narcotic and all, into the flames.

  "No more," he ordered. "It is effecting your judgment." He paused to wait for her reply. Disappointment and anxiety flooded through her as she waited for her new friend to be released from his prison. "I believe a terrible fire occurred, you smell of smoke and ash. However, dragons have not been seen for eight and a half thousand years, and are not expected to return for another fifteen hundred. Furthermore, this lizard-man could not possibly have looked as you described. I know not of any such stories in the history texts, and once someone dies, they are dead. There is no coming back. All that must have been a hallucination from the narcotic."

  Syndael wanted to scream, "His name is Oprianal," but resisted. Instead her intoxicated mind analyzed what it had been told and, indeed, it made sense. All except the dragon fire. The heat of which, she knew, had been too intense to have come from any other source. However, the time line was true, there was still one thousand five hundred years left. What actually had happened on the hilltop? Could the lizard-man be the rumored warlock, and it had been a spell? If so why had he been unable to control it? The more Syndael thought about it all, the more confused she became. And with confusion came despair. What was real and what was not?

  "I can see your mind still works at least. That is a good sign," Naethaniel said, interrupting her thoughts. He handed the pipe back to her. She quickly took the nigh empty pipe from his hands, although she did her best to feign reluctance as she did so. "Rest here until time to return to The Lotus.” Naethaniel went on. “Do your best to restrain yourself, and trust your spirit if you cannot trust your mind."

  Naethaniel turned to examine Treg's hand and assisted in bandaging it as Syndael entered the guest bedroom. She sat on the bed, her mind reeling from the events of the day thus far, and, she realized, the day had only just begun. Soon exhaustion overcame her and she laid on the bed. Sleep claimed her quickly.

  When Syndael awoke it was mid-afternoon. Her whole body ached and trembled. She felt like a rotten, hollow tree in need of repair. Without thinking she removed the pipe and firebox from her dress pocket and prepared to ignite it.

  "Stop!" The voice in her mind was pure. It was accompanied by a new light. "I need to resist and control." She realized she was thinking with her own logical mind; the voice was now her own. The transition from the new voice, the bright voice, to her own was so smooth, so abrupt, that she questioned if this new one was really her own. Convinced her training was kicking in, she reluctantly replaced the pipe in her pocket.

  "We are becoming one," Oprianal whispered in his dark tone. "We can help each other."

  "What do you want?" she thought.

  "To love you."

  She was lost for a moment. Everything that had happened in the past few days flooded back haphazardly, in a non-sequential manner, finally ending with the letter Adom, Robert, had written to her. Another question came, unbidden, to her mind.

  "What is love?"

  "Love is when two people want to help each other," Oprianal explained. "They grow with each other. Please, help me help you. See how much stronger you are becoming."

  "And what of this morning? Where did you go? What did I actually see, and what did you show me? I know not the difference."

  "Jaques knows." Oprianal smiled evilly.

  "Jaques ..." Syndael began to say out loud, but stopped when she realized Naethaniel was standing in the doorway.

  "How are you feeling?" He asked.

  "Weak," she told him honestly. She was unable to control the trembling. It felt like she was the epicenter of a quake.

  "It will take some time. Until then -"

  "What would you have me do," she snapped, unintentionally.

  He took a moment of pause before continuing. "Focus. Concentrate only on your task and then be rid of your demon."

  She thought for a moment, as an anger at Naethaniel grew in her for destroying most of what she had left. However, deep down, she knew he was right. Remorse muddled the anger, muting it. She realized she had not felt as free as she did at that moment, since childhood. Syndael had been trained to use her emotions, yet what she had taken away from the riddle of that lesson was to suppress them, not use them.

  "It is time you go so as to not d
raw suspicion," Naethaniel concluded.

  Syndael got to her feet as Naethaniel closed the door. A new dress hung on a rack behind the door. She took it down and began to change. She could feel the usual kit sewn into the fabric. Lock picks, spiked gloves for climbing, some throwing discs, and the dual rope blades. Once dressed in the new gown, she put the pipe and the Dwarven firebox in a pocket.

  She left the room to what appeared to be an empty house. She stepped out into the alley by the kitchen door. She went to where the alley abutted the street and paused. Who knew the truth? She did not know. Syndael took a step back to conceal herself in the gray shadows of the buildings. She pulled her pipe and firebox out, lit it, and inhaled the smoke. A small wave of enlightenment washed over her, yet not as strong as before. She stepped out into the street and set off toward the Lotus.

  The evening was much the same as the others had been; guests entered and ordered food and ale. Some were allowed into the backroom, accompanied by Helmeck, for their weekly purchase of Mister Oprianal. The talk of the night was of the giant winged snake many of the patrons had seen that morn, and of a fire outside the city.

  There was no sign of Jaques that eve, and Syndael's supply was almost gone. She knew Helmeck had noticed her yearning for Oprianal. She became irritable and continually messed up the orders. At long last the night ended and, while putting the storeroom back into order, she searched frantically for Jaques' box of the flower, but she found nothing.

  Ruefully, she completed her duties and left the Lotus for her hut. As soon as she arrived, Syndael searched her belongings for any trace of Oprianal she might have hidden, or that might be lying loose in any pockets. There was none to be found, and barely any left in the pipe. She smoked the last of what she had, and lay down for the night. Anger flowed hotly through her veins as she lay there, trying to consol herself that her duties are priority yet Oprianal denied it stating he was there to assist, to fill the open position as her partner and should be first. Sleep was a long time coming.

  Syndael woke with a start. Cold sweat glistened on her skin. She was shaking badly and found she could not focus her mind. Almost violently she retrieved the pipe and the firebox. She lit the ash and inhaled. The taste was horrendous, just soot and wood. Worse still, there was no effect. Mister Oprianal was not at home that morning, and could not help her.

  The vivid dream she had had was seared into her memory. Jaques and her, fighting to the death. The lizard-man riding a great dragon, and the destruction of Ashra. The main theme of the dream was of a dreadful fire, incinerating her old and decrepit body.

  Syndael felt like death had denied her entry this morn and her now pale skin matched the feeling. But she got dressed and made her way to the Lotus anyway. Her cover had to be maintained, no matter how sick she was.

  "Hopefully Jaques will be here today," she thought as she angrily stepped across the threshold to the tavern. "Breathe!" The voice was pure light again. Syndael inhaled, deep and slow, through her nostrils, taking the air deep into her abdomen, and exhaled slowly pushing the energy throughout herself. She felt uplifted, amazingly awake, and she knew she had all the support she would need for whatever might happen.

  "Syndael," Helmeck asked, "are ye a'right? Ye look like a burnin' corpse."

  She guffawed to herself. "Rough night," she said.

  Helmeck grabbed her arm as she passed. "Be careful. Ye slipped on ye'r accent." Sure enough she had, but had not realized.

  "Thank ye," she said, quickly adopting her faux lilt.

  "Oprianal gettin' to ye?"

  "I'm fine," she snapped and Helmeck backed off. "I saw some bad things the other eve. I'm not sure what was Oprianal and what was not."

  "Dangerous," he said in a ponderous growl.

  "Aye."

  "I know one man who might help answer ye'r questions, but he's not in a good mood t'day."

  "Jaques?"

  "Aye."

  She thought of the implications and the risk of speaking to Jaques, and also that she could get more Oprianal from him. The thought plagued her that eve, causing her to be rude and snappy with the guests. As the evening picked up, the ale flowed freely. Song requests were hurled at the bard, and he played what he knew, which was most. Especially after he had been to the backroom with Helmeck for his supply.

  None of the commotion affected Syndael. She was, that eve, a soulless host, just going through the motions. Until she heard the bard repeat a request.

  "The Ballad of Ykdarr," he confirmed as the crowd erupted into an Oprianal and alcohol induced cheer. A song dedicated to the god of destruction! The bard began strumming in a three quick chords pattern. The A string, unlike the others, was played in A flat minor position.

  "We all are mortal men, we fight to take control," The bard sang. "Pray to the gods, as all our heads a-roll! Above the hills a ball of fire, burning up the streets. We see the dancing marionettes, singing the ballatessee, singing the ballatessee, of Ykdarr."

  The words and melody sent a dark chill into the core of Syndael's being. The images the song conjures were ominous. She saw them in a new light, a residual effect from the guidance of Oprianal. The dancing marionettes she saw, and the lizard-man. The dragon loomed in the forefront of her mind, as well as in her dream.

  She saw Jaques, his face heavily bandaged, going from the cellar up the stairs to the second floor. Syndael put the plates down on the table she had been standing by for a while, and left. Never once heeding the calls of other patrons, Syndael moved in the direction Jaques had gone.

  "Oye!" Helmeck called. "Where ye goin'?"

  "I need to speak with Jaques," she responded, and continued up the stairs. Before the merriment engulfed Helmeck's words, she just made out he was telling her there were more customers entering, needing to be served.

  She reached the top of the stairs and stopped at the door to Jaques' room. Syndael knocked gently.

  "What in the burning abyss do you want?" Jaques yelled angrily.

  "Tis Syndael, I need more O," she hastily stammered.

  There was a second's hesitation, then the door swung open revealing a shirtless skeleton with a bandage around his mid section. An evil, dark yellow, jagged smile was plastered on Jaques’ face. "You will need to pay extra this time." The door opened wider to allow her in.

  The emptiness she felt inside jumped for joy when she was allowed entry to the bitter sweet scent of bliss. She quickly crossed to his desk with pipe in hand, but was stopped by Jaques' vice like grip. Only one eye was visible from beneath the bandages, but it burned with a raging intensity she had never seen before. There was also a kind of distance within the eye that made her feel like she was looking at a corpse.

  "Pay me!" The corpse demanded.

  "I will," she said, "but I need him, he helped - I saw..."

  "Saw what?"

  "Please," she begged, ashamed of herself for giving in, but Syndael could not stop the word once she had started to speak. Tears formed in her eyes.

  He growled and released his grip, tacitly giving her permission to her fill her pipe. She quickly lit the pipe with her firebox and inhaled deeply. It was too much for her at first and she coughed. She held as much as she could as she spluttered. Her nerves eased and her vision grew hazy.

  "What did you see?" Jaques asked coldly. The fire in his one good eye was burning stronger. Clearly he had been smoking the narcotic heavily to ease the pain Turpin’s attack had caused.

  "I'm not certain." She felt better, but still needed more. This time she found herself gently making love to Oprianal. "Fire, marionettes dancin'."

  Jaques smiled devilishly at that last statement. He appeared ready to pounce for any reason at any moment. She drew another lung full of smoke as the stars appeared again.

  "I thought I saw someone come back to life, but that couldn't've been real." She chose her words as carefully as Oprianal would let her. "Then a tunnel that led to the black rock shore of the abyss."

  "You filthy cuntling Nameless
shaz'tet!" Jaques swore uncontrollably as he lunged for her, fists white and boney.

  The hard bone that struck the left side of her face snapped her out of her trance and made her realize her mistake. Another fist landed squarely on her nose. She stumbled backwards over Jaques' chair and fell to the floor. The enraged addict was soon looming over her, raining blows down on her face.

  Syndael looked past the tight skinned fists battering at her and saw a dark, twisted, version of Jaques, teeth and lips melding into one, the visible eye, black like midnight, was soulless. Then, just as fast as it had materialized above her, his face changed into the empty, facelessness of Adom. She would not let herself die the same way.

  "He killed Robert and you must make him pay," Oprianal hissed in her mind. "And we can do it together."

  Syndael lashed out with both arms, one to block the incoming assault, the other, the right hand, striking like a cobra, at Jaques throat. Two rigid fingers and her thumb grabbed firmly onto his esophagus.

  Jaques grabbed at her wrist, but before he could land another blow, Syndael kicked his hip back and over the chair. Her grip on his throat slipped as Jaques landed hard on his back. She got her footing and stood, ready for him this time.

  Jaques quickly approached and threw a right jab followed by an uppercut. Syndael moved her arms around his, like water, and struck at his solar plexus, sending him back a step. Jaques, recoiling from the attack, threw a hard fist at her. Again, she engulfed the attack, this time unleashing a flurry of blows to his face and neck, her hands almost too quick to follow in the smoky air of the room. Jaques pushed through the assault, grabbed hold of her and threw her across the room.

  Syndael's body crashed into the chifforobe in Jaques' room. She ducked out of the way of another punch, which tore a hole in the wardrobe, and twisted her body while thrusting her right shin under his ribs. He yelled in pain but did not slow his attack. Again, Syndael was like water, flowing around the incoming rage, striking at his blood-soaked bandages. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding his head between her arms, forcing it into her upward moving knee. She spun quickly and planted her heel into Jaques chest, following through with all her weight, sending him crashing into the door, knocking it free from its hinges.