Savior of Istara Read online

  SAVIOR OF ISTARA

  By J. Jeremy Hicks

  Copyright © 2014 J. Jeremy Hicks

  Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

  I.

  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.

  II.

  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 th
e 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.

  III.

  In the aftermath of the home invasion, I darted from shadow to shadow, alleyway to alleyway, evading the countless patrols hounding for my blood.

  So much effort for one troublesome girl, I thought grimly.

  A number of large fires lit the night sky, blotting out all but the brightest stars. Either the original conflagration had spread across the city in record time or betrayal had spread amongst the populace faster than any wildfire.

  Despair nearly conquered me then as it had Istara. I sunk to my lowest point that infamous Night of a Thousand Pyres, for each pillar of flame symbolized the loss of family, friends, and allies—martyrs for the cause, one and all. Too many of those I held near and dear were undoubtedly amongst them…or would likely be joining them soon. Like my mother, whisked away by the rough hands of foreign devils to whereabouts unknown.

  Something had to be done. And I’d be the one to do it.

  Clad piecemeal in garb borrowed from several neighbors’ lines, I avoided the wandering patrols until the wan light of a new day touched the predawn sky. Shelter had to be found before merciless Shamash crested the horizon, somewhere safe to lick my wounds and plan my vengeance on the foul men of Golthus as well as the traitors who’d sold us out to their new masters.

  The bastards would pay, I swore to all the gods that morn.

  But where would I go? More importantly, who could I afford to trust at this point? No place felt safe enough now that neighbor had turned against neighbor. And no living soul seemed trustworthy enough anymore.

  Shamash provided the answer soon enough. As Mother Sun rose over the high wall to the east, the Shining Lady’s rays caused the dome of Her cathedral to radiate as brightly as the Goddess Herself on this most melancholy of mornings. Though Her light illumed my way, I sought my sanctuary amongst the shadows.

  At the base of the massive Temple of Shamash, monuments of masonry and stone dotted the dusty rolling hills of the city cemetery. A series of irregular structures marked the private crypts of prominent families as well as the entrances to the main catacombs below the vast necropolis.

  From the complex maze beneath the cemetery, most of the city itself could be accessed via a labyrinthine series of sewers and tunnels. And few knew them better, for I had spent many hours studiously copying maps of them for use during the Siege of Istara. And somehow it seemed fitting to take my refuge among the only ones I could trust anymore to keep my location secret: the dead.

  Stealing forth from the recesses of an alleyway between two ancient tenements, I raced across the deserted avenue separating Istara’s living residents from its deceased.

  Propelling me deep within the expansive necropolis, my leaden legs worked through my exhaustion. And their weary muscles guided me better than any map, carrying me directly to the entryway of the all-too-familiar crypt of the Viligotti family.

  Between Serra’s fairy-tale funeral and my subsequent visitations in the years since her death, I’d been here more times than I cared to admit. But I’d never had the daring or the desire to descend into its twisting passages to visit with the mummified remains of my dearly departed childhood friend.

  Until now.

  The exterior trigger mechanism yielded to my touch, opening the heavy iron door long enough for me to slip into the building unmolested. However, once it swung shut behind me with a dull thud, I realized that I had no clue as to the location of the interior trigger, assuming the mausoleum came equipped with such a device. But another pressing problem persisted.

  Few people experienced absolute darkness in their lifetime; but here in the inky interior of the crypt, I did for the first time. Instead of panic gripping me, calmness washed over me. The darkness enveloped me, comforting me, protecting me from the prying eyes of my would-be pursuers.

  I blundered along in the lightless structure, feeling my way about the crypt-lined wall of the mausoleum. At that moment, I knew not what I touched, but my haggard mind imagined all types of unseen horrors. Thanks to a cool breeze emanating from the back of the chamber, I found the narrow stairs to the catacombs beneath the surface of the cemetery. Fortunately, I managed to locate them without plummeting to my death.

  Saf
ely navigating the staircase in the pitch black proved to be another matter entirely. My wide feet made it less than a half dozen narrow steps into the abyss before they betrayed me.

  I stumbled and then tumbled through pain into unending darkness, a palpable one that washed over me as my body landed in a heap on the cold stone at the bottom of the stairs.

  Twice in the same cycle, I slept…and dreamed of Serra.

  Her widowed father had fancied Mother, becoming a frequent caller to our humble shop shortly after my own father left us. So Serra and I had played together almost every day. And we had the grandest adventures, whether it involved enacting imaginary ones from old books or finding our own on the streets of Istara.

  Eventually, the angelic raven-haired daughter of the well-bred Clan Viligotti chose a lowborn mutt with coarse, tangled hair as her best friend. And I loved her for it. I really did.

  Through the fog of sleep, my thoughts turned to the fateful day when I’d displayed my affection for her openly, honestly. We’d shocked all the boys in my neighborhood when they’d found us kissing innocently enough in the alleyway behind Mother’s shop. Serra enjoyed my embrace and the soft feel of my lips on hers before the idiots surrounding us began to point and stare, turning a private display of affection into public humiliation.

  Embarrassed and red faced, Serra had fled from me, from our first embrace, and tragically enough, our final one. Tears irrigated her cheeks as the boys’ hoots, howls, and catcalls echoed off the buildings on either side of the alleyway.

  When she reached the street, Serra cast her eyes back at me one last time. Either her tear-blurred vision failed to see the runaway horse cart or the prospect of a social death terrified my naive companion greater than a bodily one could at that age. Had she simply not lived long enough to learn that humiliation could be painful but one rarely died of embarrassment?