Parabolis

by Eddie Han

  Parabolis

  Copyright © 2013 Eddie Han

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Saboteur Press.

  ISBN 978-0-9883981-0-8

  All production, artwork and design by Curt Merlo

  First Edition

  Printed in China

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.parabolis.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Overture

  No. 01

  Socks

  A Boy Counting Bubbles

  The Blacksmith

  Before the Dusk

  No. 02

  War Machines

  A New Beginning

  On the Groveland Express

  Selah

  Home

  Carnaval City

  Fixer at the Broken Cistern

  Felix

  The Ass of the Velvet Fray

  Sanctuary

  An Evening with the Red Rabbit

  The Ghost and the Darkness

  Reaping the Rogues

  No. 03

  Great Matters

  Stolen Morning

  Teardrop

  For Justice

  Midnight Macabre

  Encounter at Chesterlink Pass

  Alone with Death

  To Complete a Melody

  Not Doing Nothing

  SSC

  The Inquisition

  Charles Valkyrie

  In the Mirror Dimly

  Free

  Passing the Torch

  Blackout

  Shit Storm

  Into the Wilds

  The Kiss at the World’s End

  The Sermon in the Mud

  No. 04

  The Sad Boy and the Songstress

  A Promise Kept

  Living Forest

  The Guerrilla Resistance

  Evening Sun

  Borderland Ridge Run

  Casualties of War

  The Final Directive

  A Confession

  Shadow in the North

  Failed

  Muriah Bay

  A Measure of Peace

  FOR MONICA AND ERIC

  CH 00

  OVERTURE

  Twenty Shaldean Riders raced across the Saracen deserts of Loreland. Like a sandstorm, they sped toward the Emmainite village—a lone outpost in the vast emptiness. Keffiyehs covered their faces, scimitars were sheathed at their sides and long rifles were strapped to their backs. Behind them, a ruby sun melted into the sea of dunes.

  “Yeshalleh!” the village gatekeeper shouted. “The Shaldea return!”

  The chieftain emerged from his home. He was an old man with dark, leathery skin. His robes were made of airy white cotton, common to Emmainite tribesmen.

  When the Shaldean Riders entered the village, they were greeted with skins of water from the well. The lead rider dismounted and greeted the Emmainite chieftain with a kiss.

  “Peace be upon you,” he said. His face was sun scorched and heavily bearded.

  “And you,” the chieftain replied.

  “Where is he?”

  “In the parlor.”

  “Alone?”

  The chieftain nodded.

  “You sure it’s him?”

  “I have seen all matters of darkness in my life—none so dark as this one. I am sure he is who he says he is.”

  “How long has he been waiting?”

  “Since before the sunrise. He hasn’t spoken a word. Hasn’t eaten or slept. You have brought a great evil into my village, Shaldean.”

  “It is a risk we must take,” said the lead rider. “We cannot defeat the Republic alone. This is the only way. I do this for us, for our land.”

  “Noble words. But I see no wisdom in summoning a Greater Evil to battle a Lesser Evil that Good alone has failed to overcome.”

  “The Republic is no ‘Lesser Evil.’”

  “Do what you will. But be quick about it. The sooner he leaves, the sooner God’s grace can return to this village.”

  “God has long abandoned us.” The lead rider walked past the old Emmainite into an annex of his home that served as both a meeting room and a reception for guests.

  Inside a black-robed figure sat cross-legged in front of a glowing coal pit, the face hidden by a deep hood drawn over his head. He didn’t so much as move. The Shaldean walked over to the basin and washed his hands. After drinking a ladle of water from a bucket he settled himself across from the dark figure.

  “We are humbled by your presence,” he began. “We did not think you would come. We hoped. But we did not think…forgive us for keeping you waiting. I came as soon as I received word. My name is Yusef Naskerazim. I am Rajeth of the Shaldean Riders.”

  The shadow said nothing.

  Yusef cleared his throat. “Our people are known for their hospitality,” he added. “I hope they did not disappoint.”

  The shadow finally spoke. “Why have you invoked our name?”

  Relieved with the break in silence, Yusef was about to offer some food before he noticed an unmolested plate of cheese curds and a tea set sitting next to him.

  “Can I have the chieftain bring you anything?” he asked instead. “Perhaps a smoke?”

  “Why have you invoked our name?” the shadow repeated.

  He had an accent that sounded vaguely like that of the gypsies of the Greater North. And he spoke without looking up from below the shroud of his hood.

  Yusef took a deep breath to collect his thoughts. He stroked his thick black beard as he began.

  “Because we need your help,” he replied. “We want to see the Meredine Republic burn and we cannot stop them alone.”

  “Why do you seek its end?”

  Yusef let out a bewildered chuckle. “The crimes of the Republic are too many to recount—like the grains of sand in the desert.” He grew animated as he continued. “Everyday, we see more and more of their troops marching through our villages. Just last week, Republican Guards came through here, lined up the people like common thieves, women and children, and held them under the sword while they ransacked their homes.”

  “Looking for you,” said the shadow. “You prod the beast and hide behind your kin.”

  “And what shall we do? Sit on our hands while they humiliate us and ravage our families, our children? They occupy our land, exploit our people, and rob us of our resources with their mines. They manipulate our markets and arrange unfair trade agreements with our ruling parties. Always meddling. Always deceiving.”

  “Then your grievances are with your rulers.”

  “Yes. They are weak. But whose crimes are greater? The tempted or the tempter’s?”

  “We are not judges. Only equalizers.”

  “If equalizers, then you must see that the Republic’s reign is an affront to any notion of equality. Our just struggle, they call terrorism. Their terrorism, they call justified occupation. This is not equal, afendi. This is tyranny.”

  “And not the first of its kind. This is the nature of men. What empire has existed before the Republic that did not abuse its power? Who would not do as they please if given the chance?”

  “You do not,” said Yusef. “You exercise restraint even in the face of injustice. Even when it is in your power to intervene.”

  “You assume to know much about us.”

  “Please, afendi. We merely want to see the end of the Republic. We want justice.”

  “Justice or vengeance, Mister Naskerazim? What price are you willing to pay? Would you, yourself, die to see the destruction of your enemies?”


  Yusef recoiled. Softly he asked, “Why must the innocent die with the guilty?”

  “You are not so innocent. What you fail to understand, Mister Naskerazim, is that today’s rebels are tomorrow’s tyrants. The lust for power is great. Were your people to reign in the Republic’s place, you would be different only in nationality. And I would be sitting across from another, negotiating the terms of your end.”

  “I would not have braved this meeting if…” Yusef’s voice trailed. He knew better than to appeal for sympathy from what the village chieftain referred to as “a Greater Evil.” His gaze fell.

  There was a long pause. Then the shadow said at last, “The balance of power will be reset. The Republic will be destroyed.”

  Yusef’s eyes widened with renewed hope. “Then, you will help us?” he asked.

  “We help no one. You and your Shaldea would be wise to simply fade into obscurity. For when we undermine the Republic, we will undermine with it those who would try and profit from its end.”

  The shadow looked up for the first time. He was a young man with a pale face, marked with what appeared to be a broad smudge of dried blood around his mouth. Upon closer examination, Yusef realized that it was a dark crimson tattoo—a tattoo of a handprint covering his nose and mouth. His teeth were silver and his eyes like that of a coiled asp. “In the reckoning, we will destroy everyone.”

  Leaving the speechless Shaldean to mull over the catholic threat, the dark figure stood and left the parlor. The others waiting outside parted as he passed. Then he disappeared into the evening desert like a ghost.

  NO 01

  CH 01

  SOCKS

  Dale Sunday was clever enough; he had a quick wit. But in class he pulled middling grades. He wasn’t particularly handsome, nor was he of any great stature. He didn’t come from wealth. He was not the strongest, not the most athletic. He was not popular. Dale was fairly artistic; he could hold a tune, but he wasn’t a talent. By all standards, Dale Sunday was mediocre. Yet, he thought himself special—set apart. Because while most children his age were thinking about school and play, boys and girls, and holidays, Dale was thinking about things like mortality, the origins of man, the longing heart.

  He was different. And he knew it.

  It was this self-aggrandized sense of purpose pitted against an indifferent world that made Dale a brooding, temperamental adolescent. The world didn’t care what he thought of himself. In its busyness, in all its moving parts, Dale Sunday was just another kid—a dreamer put in his place by the overwhelming reality. At twelve years old, not many saw past his mediocrity, no one knew his musings. He was noticed instead for his socks. Long, black-and-white striped wool socks pulled up to his knees.

  The previous summer, when the heat of the Westerlies blew away the temperate effects of the bay, Dale had taken the liberty of cutting his school uniform pants into a pair of shorts. Months later, his shortsighted alterations left him with nothing but his wool socks to fend off the winter chill.

  “Don’t be a weasel,” Dale said to his friend, Arturo Lucien.

  “I’m not. We never shook on it. You have to shake on it.”

  For Dale, knowing he had beaten Arturo at arm wrestling was reward enough. The money didn’t really matter. It was the principle.

  “Says who?”

  “Everyone knows you gotta shake on it!”

  “Give me my shilling.”

  And that’s when Marcus Addy approached with three of his friends. “Would you look at these little dipshits. Give me my shilling!”

  At fourteen years old, Marcus was the only one in his class with a mustache. A head taller and a budding acne problem made it clear to all that Marcus was superior. He was also the son of Count Nigel Addy, the school’s largest donor and one of Carnaval City’s premiere aristocrats.

  “We were just talking about whether or not you have to shake on a bet for it to count,” Arturo bumbled. “I was saying—”

  “Shut up, twerp!” barked one of Marcus’ friends. “No one cares.”

  Marcus looked at Dale. Then, at his socks.

  “Does your mommy know you stole her knickers?”

  Everyone began to laugh. In his nervousness, even Arturo forced a chuckle. Dale felt the heat rise from his chest, through his throat, and to his ears. It wasn’t the first time someone had commented on his socks. Mostly, it didn’t bother him when people commented on his socks. But this was Marcus. And he made mention of a mother Dale did not have.

  “I don’t know, Marcus. Does your mommy know you stole her mustache?”

  Everyone gasped. Arturo masked a burst of laughter with a cough. And then he slowly inched away.

  Dale stood alone, his chest up, a defiant look on his face. As Marcus stepped up to him, the anger and the defiance faded, and they were quickly replaced by fear.

  He grabbed Dale by the collar and cocked his fist.

  “What’d you say?”

  “I think you heard what I said.”

  Having sealed his fate, Dale braced himself for the beating. Arturo waited wide-eyed in morbid fascination. The bell rang signaling the end of the lunch period. The teachers appeared on the schoolyard to round up the children. Marcus released Dale with a shove.

  “You’re dead.”

  Then they all slowly merged with the rest of the shuffling bodies back into the school hall.

  “Are you crazy?” asked Arturo. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “You still owe me a shilling.”

  “Here.” Arturo handed him the coin. “A lot of good it’ll do you when you’re dead.”

  CH 02

  A BOY COUNTING BUBBLES

  Like he did every day, as soon as class got out, Dale went over to the first-grade trailers to fetch his cousin, Mosaic. He was tasked with walking her to school and back from his uncle’s bakery in the Waterfront District. On this particular day, Mosaic was not outside. He stood, waiting, his eyes darting from one end of the schoolyard to the other for signs of Marcus. The urgency inside him seemed to slow time. When he could stand still no longer, Dale stepped around and peered through the small window on the door. The teacher was addressing the class. Mosaic sat attentively in the back row.

  When the class finally emptied, Dale grabbed Mosaic by the wrist.

  “Let’s go, Mo. Hurry.”

  Dale walked as quickly as he could with Mosaic in tow.

  “Dale, why are we walking so fast? My feet hurt.”

  “I know, but we have to hurry.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  As they passed the laundry service, Dale got a waft of that distinct bay smell—of fishy gull droppings and salted air. They turned into the alley that cut across the block and into the waterfront. They were almost home.

  “Hey, dipshit!”

  Dale turned, still holding Mosaic’s hand. Behind them, Marcus and his three friends approached from the end of the alley.

  “Dale, who are they?” asked Mosaic.

  Dale looked at her, then to the alley opening ahead. They were just half a block from the Waterfront District where at this time of day there were sure to be familiar faces—mostly fisherman and merchants—who knew them by name. He could’ve made a run for it, if it wasn’t for Mosaic. Dale looked down at her. He tried to smile.

  “Mo, can you get to the bakery by yourself from here? I just need to talk to these guys.”

  Mosaic looked at him dubiously. “No. I’ll wait.”

  “Just get going. Listen to me. I’ll be right there.”

  The four boys were almost upon them. Dale nudged Mosaic behind him and gave her a firm push. “Go on, Mo. I’ll be right there.”

  She took a few half-hearted steps toward the other end of the alley.

  The boys surrounded Dale.

  Marcus knocked Dale’s books out of his hand. He shoved him toward the side of the alley. “What? You got nothing clever to say now?” He punched Dale in the stomach.

  It was the first time so
meone had hit him. It startled him more than it hurt. As he doubled over, Dale noticed Marcus’ brand new, red leather shoes.

  “Who’s the jackass now?”

  One of Marcus’ friends stood him up. Before Dale could look up, he was punched in the nose.

  Through the shouts and laughter, through the salty blur, Dale turned to see where Mosaic was. He could see her standing there. Frozen. Frightened. Again, Dale tried to smile at her.

  “Look! He thinks it’s funny. Hit him again!”

  A punch landed on the side of his head. And then they were all on top of him. Dale curled up and covered his head.

  Mosaic screamed, “Stop! Stop it!”

  Dale tried to stand up, but he couldn’t. Again, he curled up. He could hear Mosaic crying. The boys were now on their feet, kicking him.

  Then it suddenly stopped.

  The kicking stopped. Mosaic was quiet. Dale opened his eyes to see Marcus sprawled out on the ground next to him, unconscious. The other boys had taken a few steps back behind Marcus, stunned, staring at the small boy who stood over their friend, who had just knocked him out with one well-placed punch. They hadn’t even realized he was there until Marcus was flat on his back.

  Dale looked up. Standing above him was his best friend, Sparrow.

  Of the proverbial four corners of the world, Sparrow was an immigrant from the shores of Azureland, or the Far East. Common to people from Azuric nations, his fair skin was tinted yellow, like the color of dried bamboo. He had a shallow brow, high cheekbones, dark almond-shaped eyes, and hair as black as a raven. Like all boys of the Far East, his head was kept closely shaved, as they were not allowed to grow their hair out until their coming of age.

  Sparrow had permanently swollen tear-troughs that made him look like he’d just woken up after crying himself to sleep. And he had a scar that ran horizontally across his cheekbone just below his left eye, from the slash of a blade. Unable to afford proper schooling, Sparrow was an apprentice to a blacksmith who ran a disciplined shop. He was trained daily not only in the art of weapons crafting, but in all matters of martial skills including weapons and hand-to-hand combat.