The Siregian's Tale

I am a citizen of Siregia, and this is my story.

I was born on the sand, into a blazing, scorching world. My mother lived only a short time after my birth, finally overcome by the unforgiving desert. Father was a hard man, but he had to be. If you let down your guard in the sands for only a moment, the desert would snatch you away. Yet, Father still kept a soft spot for me and my siblings, all five of us. He trained us to be tough, to survive, to always work hard, and to follow our hearts.

As I grew, I noticed how different Father was from the other Siregian men. Almost all others I encountered were coarse, unkempt, lying, cheaters. And more often than not, they had the looks of someone who'd killed before, and wouldn't hesitate to again. I always wondered why Father was different, what in his history might have made him so, but I never found out. He was killed in a border skirmish with a country known as Illyria back when I was only nine.

Now I am twenty-one, and a member of the Siregian army. And today, I will finally avenge my Father. The great Czar has decreed that the time has come for Illyria to be annexed, its resources, lands, and peoples added to the greatness that is Siregia. My division has been assigned to capture a massive structure known as the Tower of Shields. I like to think Father would be proud of who I have become, how strong I’ve become, but some part of me wonders if saddened might be a better word. As soldier, I've done things I'm not proud of, and of some I'm ashamed. Yet it has always been in the service of Siregia and the Czar. Would father have gone to the lengths that I have, for vengeance? But I have no more time to wonder. We are almost to the Illyrian tower, this moonless night hiding our approach. All too late, the Illyrian sentries at the tower gates spot us, but it is the same moment two of my comrades loose arrows. A hiss and muted thunks is all that marks the passing of the two Illyrians. Silently we file past the bodies into the tower. Resistance is light, and as I'm not a member of the advance group, I am secretly disappointed. How can I avenge my father if I never even have the chance to wet my blade with Illyrian blood?

My silent plea is shortly answered. The advance troops encounter a buildup of Illyrians in the last room in the tower before the roof. Our entire division gathers on the stairs behind the final door as several soldiers take axes to it. The moment it splinters open we charge through. The first soldiers into the room are cut down by arrows, but it fails to deter us as we pour through the doorway across the bodies of our fallen comrades. I am filled with exhilaration; finally, a chance for vengeance!

The enclosed space within chamber is transformed into a maelstrom of whirling bodies and blades. Yet even with this commotion, I find myself amazed to note that not a single Illyrian carries a shield. How odd this seems to me, especially in a place named for such tools.

Our enemies fight fiercely, but in the end are no match for our superior skills and numbers. Myself and several others force the last of the Illyrians up onto the tower's battlements, our swords reflecting the starlight blood-red as they cleave flesh and bone. I, yet to dispatch even a single Illyrian, force one away from the main fighting towards a corner, where I think to kill him single-handed. But instead I found myself bested. My sword is knocked from hand and my shield is splintered. I fall upon my back, helmet knocked off. If my opponent stabbed down at that moment, I would be finished. Instead, upon seeing me helmetless, my foe pauses, just for a moment. I take the instant to throw my dagger. I miss his neck, the dagger lodging instead in his right shoulder. The Illyrian stumbles back, giving me the time I need to grab my sword. My enemy rips the dagger from his shoulder and brings his sword around to finish me. Alas for him it is too late. I block his swing, and stab upwards. Through his gut my blade travels, as a hot knife through butter. My grip on the sword is lost as the man stumbles backward, dropping his own sword to grip mine with both hands. I watch in strange fascination as he falls to his knees, pulling in vain at the blade embedded in his torso. Climbing to my feet, I pick up my dagger. The Illyrian gazes up at me, a silent plea in his eyes. With a single fluid motion I slit his throat. He falls forward, convulses once, and is still.

As if in a dream, I turn, gazing upon the carnage laid out upon the tower's battlements. Bodies are scattered everywhere, both Illyrian and Siregian. I see now that we have not one Illyrian prisoner. Every man stationed at this tower is dead. Still in a daze, I turn back to the man I killed. Turning him over, I see that he must have been a year or two younger than myself, barely into adulthood. I slowly slide my sword from his body, keenly aware of the wet sh-lick it makes as it exits. Holding the sword straight up, I examine the rivilets of blood sliding down the blade. At last, vengeance is mine. Yet, I feel no peace, no satisfaction. If anything, I feel... Wrong. Have I fallen too far in my quest for revenge? I gaze upon the Illyrian I killed, upon his youthful visage. I think of past deeds. And I know the answer.

Maytreca Sartra,
Youngest Daughter of Huedron Sartra