Savior of Istara

By J. Jeremy Hicks

Copyright © 2014 J. Jeremy
Hicks

Published by Pro Se Press at
Smashwords

No one should have to bury
their best friend. Much less twice in one lifetime. But this is
that kind of story. The story of the true savior of Istara. Not me,
Tameri, daughter of Breuxias, but my friend, my savior, Serra
Viligotti. This is her story as much as it is my own. I only hope I
can do her memory better justice than I did her tortured body…and
soul.

If I could start at the
beginning, I would, but it’s still too fresh, too painful. Better
to start as close to the root of the matter, the kernel of truth I
hope to reveal, as possible. Then tell it straight on to the bitter
end before I am forced, by my own sentimentality, my own guilt, to
stop my melancholy tale.

Should some of my readers
feel cheated out of a proper beginning, the origin of all this mess
I’m about to confess, I urge said readers to pay a visit to their
local stationer or colporteur today. We can always use the
business.

If unable to afford a proper
folio on the Siege of Istara or simply too cheap to procure your
own copy, please check with your local library. I caution you
though, read its contents as you would any history, with a grain,
nay, a shaker of salt.

As for this tale, it will be
the truth, as best I can relate it. That is my sole motivation for
telling it. Too long have I enjoyed a certain celebrity brought
about by expediting the war’s end—when my role involved
manipulating not only the truth, but the very forces of the
universe to save my home, to save my people. Would I do it again?
You’re godsdamn right I would. For Istara. And for each and every
one of its residents.

Make no mistake. This is not
an apology. It is simply the whole truth and nothing but. Judge me
if you must. But know that I do not care. My place in the Nine
Hells was assured long ago, the night I slept with Serra deep in
the hollows of the city cemetery, my first time sleeping with a
dead girl but certainly not my last in those bitter days after
Istara’s fall.

The initial campaign to take
Istara stalled in the face of stiff resistance but lingered on for
almost a cycle, like a festering wound that would not heal. For the
brave citizens of Istara, the issue could be resolved in only one
of two ways. We decided to hold out until the enemy retreated or
die in the streets fighting for our homes. And fought them we
did.

Denied the city itself, the
forces of nearby Golthus camped on our rocky shores, its vast army
stretching as far as the eye could see in both directions. Escape
was not an option, if any of us had seriously considered it. The
unforgiving deserts of Panglov lay at our backs, and the roaming
bands of raiders lurking deep within that vast expanse offered no
better chances for survival than facing down the spears of the men
of Golthus.

But the desire to fight and
the willingness to endure are two very different things as we found
out in Istara. After lunare after lunare of siege, with no help
coming from the loose band of nomadic tribes governing Panglov or
from any of the city-states dotting the islands of the Pelican
Gulf, we faced the horrible reality that we were on our
own.

Apparently, the people of
Istara neither merited nor warranted saving; for even the monks,
priests, and knights within the Temple of Shamash——or Damarra as
She is known in the North——turned a blind eye to the invading army
at its very doorstep. Typically, the clergy of Mother Sun endorsed
ruling parties; but they did not routinely interfere in contests of
power, unless one of those parties violated any of the sacred
tenets of the Holy Trinitas. And the rulers of Golthus knew better
than to pick a fight with the most affluent church in the
region.

In the end, you will find
that I was not so wise. But you will discover that I proved
cleverer than the generals of Golthus and the priests of Shamash.
In my defense, they made it easy for me, dismissing my stature, my
age, and my gender for weakness. In their arrogance, they did not
see a single teenage girl, the willowy daughter of a bookseller, as
a threat.

Only after the smoke cleared
and I stood victorious on a mound of corpses, including those of my
oppressors, did they realize that they’d been beaten by a
sixteen-year-old girl, a true patriot of Istara. Despite the
carnage around me, I smiled wider, brighter than ever
before.

The men of Golthus had been
beaten, and the priests of Shamash had been tricked into beating
them. But neither party figured out how I’d managed to orchestrate
the entire affair.

And I haven’t told anyone,
no living soul anyway.

Until now.

After the public’s will
eroded, gnawed at daily by their growing hunger and mounting fear,
Istara conquered itself. Despite our presses running night and day
to bolster support for sovereignty, public opinion toward continued
resistance waned. But despite our best propaganda, the masses came
to accept the idea of a peace bought with their own liberty, a
lingering life of enslavement rather than a swift death on the tip
of a spear.

So when peace came for the
placating masses, persecution came for those who resisted the idea
of military occupation by the foul men of Golthus. And like cowards
are wont to do, they came for us in the night, in those dark days
following the negotiated peace, a surrender of treasonous
implications if you ask any real patriot of Istara.

On that night, I slept
deeply, dreaming vividly of the distant past. But they were not
happy dreams. Instead, they were dreams of loss, of death.
Particularly, I dreamt of the funeral of my best friend, Serra,
reaped long before her time. I remembered being sad but also angry
that she’d left me alone, much like my father when he chose a
nomadic life of glory and adventure rather than one of hard work
and familial duty.

I awoke to the clash of
steel and cries of battle. In those days, we kept half a dozen
armed men guarding the presses, and they paid for those gnomish
wonders with their lives. By the time I made it to the top of the
staircase, bodies foreign and domestic littered the tile floor
below.

Regulars of Golthus stood
alongside traitorous neighbors, loyal to the new order, over the
bodies of family and friends. My head swam with the implications.
Were we to be considered criminals in our own city, terrorists and
troublemakers rather than freedom fighters and
partisans?

As the forward invader
reached the bottom of the stairs, my first arrow flew straight and
true. Another and another followed, peppering those foolish enough
not to take cover, turning them into human pincushions. Tears
blurred my vision, but righteous anger guided my hand with
murderous efficiency.

“
Fire again, and I’ll burn
your whore mother alive like the witch she is,” a familiar voice
called over the chaos below.

And Uffu the Invoker—or Uffu
the Irritable as the locals whispered behind his back—had the means
to back up his threat. In addition to being a manipulator of the
Aethyr, our nefarious neighbor dabbled in local politics, his
allegiances shifting and reshaping themselves like dunes in a
sandstorm.

Back then Uffu stood as a
magistrate, so his presence served to add some sort of legitimacy
to this blatant attack on my home, my business, and all those I
held so near and dear. Surely, he felt as righteous in his
hypocrisy and treason as I did in my stand against him and his
posse of murderous thugs.

Peeking over the stair
railing, I spotted a curvaceous form in a simple white shirt held
in the grasp of one of the armed men. The sliver of steel clutched
in one meaty paw glistened in the moonlight shining down from the
windows on the top floor.

Calling upon ascetic
techniques instilled in me from childhood, I stilled my panic,
pushed my fear down deep, and tried to think calmly, rationally. My
ability to remain cool under fire ended up saving my life more
times during that cursed war than an army of partisans at my back.
I had learned this technique from my late uncle Hakul, my mother’s
eunuch brother, another unfortunate casualty of the Siege of the
Istara.

The grim nature of the
situation limited my options. I could fight, flee, or surrender. Of
those, my circumstances in this situation dictated flight. But
could I leave my mother to be arrested, tortured, and then killed
to save myself?

Not a chance in the Nine
Hells.

As a matter of fact, was
that even Mother down there? After all, Father always said it
seldom paid to trust a wizard.

Mother could’ve been killed
during the fighting, hidden herself away, or fled in a panic into
the dead of night. No, she wouldn’t have left without me; always
the lioness, my mother would have fought to protect her family and
her property. Much as I did that night. And did every night until
Istara was free.

Rising from a crouch, I
stared down the intruders in my home. But I paid special attention
to the woman being held at knifepoint. If it was my mother, she’d
understand. Having risen from the ranks of slavery to the merchant
class, she understood suffering and sacrifice better than most. And
as a good daughter, I knew that my mother would rather face death
than rape and imprisonment.

I raised my recurved bow
slowly, deliberately. Not knowing my intended target, the enemy
scattered, all but the wizard, his henchmen, and my struggling
mother. Fear danced in their eyes as surely as the firelight of the
house lanterns.

Taking aim at the woman in
the burly man’s arms, I expected to see something other than terror
in her wide eyes. Where was the love I had come to know every
moment of every day as those eyes had watched me grow into the
woman standing before her?

Absent. Wholly
absent.

The arrow, sinking to the
fletching, struck her swiftly, solidly, just above the peak of her
bosom. My mother vanished instantly, replaced by a mortally wounded
man of Golthus. Uffu cursed as the arrow shattered his
illusion.

The bloodstained lips of the
soldier holding the knife informed me that my missile had
penetrated him as well as the doppelganger. Death claimed both men
before they crumpled to the floor at the feet of the infuriated
wizard.

Relief flooded me as did the
fresh tears from the corners of my tired eyes. My knees buckled
slightly, forcing me to regain my balance. Thank the gods and
goddesses above, my intuition had been right! But where was my
mother?

“
Remove the woman,” Uffu
bellowed, inadvertently answering my nagging question.

Two bearded men dragged my
mother kicking and flailing from behind a bookcase. Though bound
and gagged, she fought like the wildcat I knew and loved. But more
men waited outside in the street to spirit her away before my very
eyes.

The odious mage added with a
grin, “I’ll handle the girl.”

“
Handle this, you old
pervert,” I cried, sending a wooden shaft tipped with a steel head
in his direction.

Uffu waved a hand leisurely,
forcing my arrow off course.

The wizard smiled wickedly
and said, “Now it’s my turn, little one.”

Uffu slapped his hands
together thunderously, muttering in an arcane tongue. As his hands
parted, a spark blossomed and then caught between them. A spiraling
arc of fire jetted from his open palms, shooting upward, seeking me
out.

As I dove for the closest
doorframe, I felt the flames at my back. My loose dressing gown
caught immediately, the heat from the wizard’s weave scorching my
tender, young flesh. Modesty took a rear carriage seat to survival.
I tore at the garment, flinging it as far away from me as
possible.

With nowhere left to go but
out the window, I tossed the shutters aside and scrambled onto the
narrow stone ledge. Unembarrassed by my natural state, I fled the
rapidly spreading flames in naught but my knickers and boots,
carrying only my bow and quiver. Shimmying down the drainpipe must
have been a sight for the neighbors but I did not care. I thought
only of escape, so that I might rescue my mother. If not that
night, then soon.