Other Roads

By Amber D. Sistla

The world is populated with the shadowy roads that lead away from life's crossroads...the decisions unchosen, the actions untaken.

Read a selection of fantasy short stories about people choosing other roads.

A man who lost his love and his magical mentor in one tragic day.
A woman who'd do anything to regain her perfect life, even if it meant stealing from herself.
A man and woman who spar in a deadly duel.
A boy who must decide what to do after the heroes die.

Table of Contents:
Unshadowed
Unchanting Time
Only the Good...
After the Heroes Die

About the Author:
Amber D. Sistla was born in Oklahoma and now lives in the Pacific Northwest. She has a degree in computer science and has six U.S. and E.U. patents. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in amazon.com, Nature, Jim Baen's Universe, Postcripts, Cosmos, Bull Spec, and Daily Science Fiction. She is an active member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America. Find out more about her at www.ambersistla.com.

Cover photo credit: Andreas Gradin (Dreamstime)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amber D. Sistla
• Release date: May 15, 2012

Amber D. Sistla

Amber D. Sistla was born in Oklahoma and now lives in the Pacific Northwest. She has a degree in computer science and has six U.S. and E.U. patents. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Nature, Jim Baen's Universe, Postcripts, Cosmos, Bull Spec, and Daily Science Fiction. She is an active member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America.

Book preview

Other Roads

A collection of fantasy short stories

by

Amber D. Sistla

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Zephyr Publishing on Smashwords

Other Roads

Copyright © 2012 by Amber D. Sistla

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this story are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Other Roads

Map

Road One: Unshadowed

Road Two: Unchanting Time

Road Three: Only the Good…

Road Four: After the Heroes Die

Unshadowed

Chimal clenched the hilts of his twin obsidian blades. It was time. Time to go before he lost so much strength that even the temple wouldn't take him. Better a clean sacrificial death at the temple than starving to death. He'd vowed early on not to beg or steal. Huatl had despised thieves and beggars.

Huatl, Huatl, Huatl, Chimal chanted. He glanced over his right shoulder, but the empty air taunted him. No bright eyes, no twitching tail. No jaguar shadowed his steps to protect him. No Huatl to advise him. His nahual was dead. He was alone. Alone. Why do I live, when she is dead? His shoulders slumped, then straighted. That problem could be fixed easily enough, he thought.

Chimal squinted at the temple, one hand shielding his eyes from midday's brightness. From his vantage point, the stairs seemed to stretch up and up--an exalted pathway to the sun for the favored. He dropped his gaze and then strode to the ground level entrance. After pushing aside a jingling curtain of beads and shells that covered the doorway, he paused at the entrance.

Chimal hadn't expected to see so many petitioners. He looked longingly behind him, and then stumbled inside. Ignoring the startled squawks, squeaks, hisses, and growls of the various nahuali entwined about their partners, he trailed his hand along the granite wall, smoothed from generations of supplicants, and shuffled to a quiet corner where he could let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the room.

A double handful of guards, wearing cloaks fringed with quetzal feathers guarded twice as many prisoners. His chest tightened when he saw their feathers signifying they were part of the emperor's Honor Guard. I once thought to be like them, fool that I was. Scrunching down, he hoped they wouldn't notice him.

Sweating profusely, the high priest lounged in a far corner on an ornate cushion. Two acolytes fanned him with broad leaves while he listened to the guard captain who gestured at the prisoners. Eventually the priest nodded and waved his underlings forward to escort the group into the bowels of the temple.

The line moved forward at a snail's pace, and Chimal studied the high priest. An opossum sat on the man's shoulder with its tail coiled around his neck. They were a matched pair--both with black hair flecked liberally with grey, protruding snouts, and prominent bellies. The opossum whispered in the priests's ear, all the time keeping a baleful glare fixed on Chimal.

Chimal longed to return the glare. The nahuali, the incorporeal guardians that were everyone's birthright, were usually only seen by the human a nahual had shadowed from birth. He knew the nahuali revealed themselves to punish him, to remind him of his loss. As if I could ever forget her, my Huatl, my lady.

As Chimal took his place in front of the line, he wondered what the opossum whispered, what they all whispered to turn their companions against him. Probably the truth; the truth was terrible enough. He dropped to his knees at the priest's feet.

The opossum stopped whispering and sneered at Chimal. They always gave him that same disgusted stare that echoed his own thoughts--unworthy wretch. Then it began grooming itself and paid no more heed to Chimal, licking its claws until the sharp points glinted in the light of the braziers.

Chimal's heart sank. Crossing his hands across his body and grasping his ears with opposing hands, he opened his mouth to recite the prayer of supplication and hopeful worthiness.

Don't pollute the air with your unworthy mutterings, said the priest.

The words of the prayer turned to sand in Chimal's mouth, clogging it with the weight of things unspoken.

The priest regarded him through half-closed eyes. Go and don't come back.

Chimal's hands itched to grasp the hilts of his obsidian-edged swords, and he clasped them together behind his back. He took a deep breath; his lungs constricted as he inhaled the hot, stale air. Please, honored--

The temple master lumbered to his feet. I said no. Get out. He gestured sharply at his acolytes who rushed toward Chimal.

Blood burning, Chimal surged to his feet. Only when the acolytes froze, did he realize he'd unsheathed his swords. He stared at the blades, their inky blackness swallowing the light in the room. Never pull your blades unless you intend to use them, an old instructor had once admonished him. Might as well use them, then. He lunged