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
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
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