Parabolis

by Eddie Han

  “We don’t have time for this!” barked Valkyrie.

  “Time for what?” Dale mumbled through clenched teeth.

  “They’re gone, Dale,” Selah replied. “The resistance. They’ve scattered. They said if and when you woke up, to tell you that they were planning to rendezvous with the others along the South Pass.”

  “You smell that? That’s smoke,” said Valkyrie. “They’re setting fire to this forest as we speak. They’ll send the hounds next. We can’t afford to sit around and explain all of this. We need to move, now.”

  “He’s right,” said Alaric. “Can you walk?”

  Dale rose to his feet. He was dizzy. Although he could barely stand, he looked at Alaric and gave a nod. Valkyrie tossed him his backpack. Dale slipped it on and emerged from the tent to an empty camp. There was a smoke in the air. Ashes were already beginning to fall from the sky like early winter snow.

  “The Berserker left you this,” said Selah, handing Dale his sword. “You have him to thank for your life.”

  Taking the bloodied sword, Dale remembered that Darius was dead. He closed his eyes and let out an exhausted moan. His legs went wobbly.

  Selah reached over and grabbed his arm. She went to his side so he could lean onto her arm.

  “Dale, I’m so sorry about your brother.”

  Dale said nothing.

  “What’ll it be, kid?” Valkyrie was antsy. He knew how pressing the situation was. “You coming with us or regrouping in the South Pass?”

  “I don’t care. I’ll go with you as far as the ridge.”

  “And after that?” Selah asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Valkyrie and Alaric gathered their things and led Dale and Selah back into the Wilds. They started north, hoping to make a run for the Borderland Ridge. Within an hour, they heard dogs barking in the distance.

  “Shit.” Having to abandon the run for the ridge, Valkyrie veered out of the Wilds and started east toward the Lowers.

  “Where are we going?” asked Alaric.

  “We’re doubling back. They won’t come searching for us near the tree line.”

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense to go west? Maybe back into the Deep?”

  “The spores won’t clear for another two days. It’s the dogs I’m concerned about. We’ve got less than a mile on them.”

  Valkyrie studied the leaves around him. As he walked, he ripped some off, rubbed them between his fingers and smelled them. Then he did the same with others.

  “If I can just find the right one,” he mumbled to himself, while continuing the pattern. Suddenly he stopped. “Here!”

  He stood next to a small tree that didn’t look any different from the countless others they had passed. As he began to rip its leaves off he instructed the others to do the same.

  “Get as much as you can. Chew it up and rub it all over yourself. Like this.”

  Valkyrie demonstrated and the others followed suit. The chewing left their mouths tingling and numb. Breaking up the leaves and mixing it with saliva resulted in a bitter paste.

  “It’s the stuff metholine is made of,” Valkyrie explained. “Hopefully, it’ll throw them off our scent.”

  “If not?” asked Alaric.

  “Then our journey’s going to end real quick.”

  When they had fully lathered themselves with the paste, they continued out into the Lowers.

  Dawn was breaking.

  Where they stood, the forest was intact. Just a mile to the south of their position, the land was scorched. The fire burned out of control, blackening the sky. An entire legion of Balean soldiers was lined up along the edge of what was once a lush forest. The cavalry on horseback stood with torches in hand. Between them, the Shaldean Riders on their Saracen Gliders, led by their Rajeth, Haddu.

  “Wait, do you hear that?” asked Valkyrie.

  “Hear what?”

  “Shh. Listen.”

  Dogs.

  “Bloody hell!” cried Alaric. “The stuff didn’t work.”

  “Move!”

  They followed the ranger northbound as he weaved between the trees. The pack of dogs gave close chase, and the Shaldean Riders responded to the barking. Under Haddu’s command, all twenty-four of them kicked their horses into a full gallop. A detachment of Balean cavalry joined the chase from a distance.

  The party ran as fast as they could, but with each minute, they gave ground to the dogs, and now to the Riders. Dale tried to keep up, but he kept trailing back. Still dizzy and exhausted, he could not find the will to struggle. Selah kept looking back to see where Dale was. She slowed just enough to spur Dale on. When he saw that he was putting Selah in danger, Dale pressed harder to keep pace.

  They reached the base of the Borderland Ridge. A steep incline of solid stone that led to the top where the ground was level—a plateau at the end of which was a waterfall overlooking the Hesperian Highlands to the north. Valkyrie sprinted up the slope with the ease of a mountain goat. Dale collapsed just a few steps up. Selah and Alaric picked him up and slung his arm over their shoulders. They steadily climbed as Valkyrie watched from above, his bow drawn.

  The dogs emerged from the Lowers and raced up the ridge. As soon as they were in view, Valkyrie fired his arrows in rapid succession. It only slowed the pursuit. Just as Selah and Alaric got Dale to the plateau, the Shaldean Riders rode out of the Lowers.

  The party continued running along the ridge toward the waterfall but the Riders were already cresting the plateau. With nowhere else to go and no chance to outrun them, Alaric and Selah drew their swords. Though he could barely stand, Dale also drew his sword. Valkyrie fell to a knee, drew an arrow, and leveled it along the horizon.

  They appeared one by one in his line of sight—twenty-four Riders. Valkyrie held his breath and aimed for their Rajeth.

  “Charles! Wait,” said Alaric. “We can’t take them all.”

  The Riders came up to them and rode around them in circles, waving their scimitars in the air. Alaric stepped forward to meet them.

  “Durmaq!” Haddu finally shouted. Immediately, reins were pulled to a stop. When the dust settled, he pointed his scimitar at Alaric Linhelm. “Are you a templar or a member of the resistance?”

  “Neither,” Alaric replied.

  “You carry a templar’s sword.”

  “I am Alaric Linhelm, former Marshal of the Vail Templar, Exile of the Royal Crimson Knights.”

  “A Crimson Knight? You are Balean then?”

  “Aye.”

  “Tell me, knight. Why were you running?”

  “We were running from the fire. And then we were running from the dogs.”

  “And where, exactly, were you running to?”

  “Valorcourt.”

  “That’s quite a run. Why?”

  “To make an appeal to the duke.”

  “What kind of appeal?”

  “To end this senseless war.”

  Laughter broke out among the Riders.

  “Even if I believed you, Champion Alaric Linhlem, former Crimson Knight, your traveling companions, they raise much questions. You, there. You’re an Emmainite?”

  “By blood only,” Valkyrie replied.

  Haddu dismounted and walked up to the ranger.

  “Blood is everything, shadiq,” he said. “What are you doing with these ostra?”

  “You ride with the Balean invasion force,” Valkyrie replied. “You tell me.”

  “I bring our people justice. You?”

  “I do as I please, Shaldea.”

  Haddu scoffed. Then he looked at Selah.

  “And you, woman? What business have you traveling with Champion Alaric Linhelm?”

  “I am a cleric, nothing more.”

  “And yet, you are armed. What cleric serves the Order as if she were a templar? This war is not against the Benesanti, Sister. You would be safer in your robes within temple walls. Why risk your life out here in the wild?”

  “She is my attendant,” said Alaric. “Sh
e is here under my leave.”

  “An armed cleric working at the behest of an ex-templar, guided by an Emmainite who thinks himself a peach. A most peculiar party, indeed.”

  Then he looked at Dale, still dressed in what remained of his ghillie suit. Haddu leaned in and closely examined the twigs and foliage hanging from his outfit.

  “This looks a lot like what the Meredian dogs were wearing last night. Those natives fighting for the liberation of their land against foreign occupation. In their terms, terrorists. You wouldn’t happen to be one of them, would you? A terrorist? Tell me, peach, what’s your name?”

  Dale’s eyes were vacant, his expression weary, and his voice flat as he replied.

  “My name is Dale Sunday and I am a terrorist. I am a former lieutenant of the Republican Guard and I killed five Emmainite villagers while deployed in Loreland. Last night, I was with the resistance. We brought down the skyship.”

  There was silence. Protruding his neck, Haddu took a close look. Then he smiled.

  “Such insolent bravado. Is this courage or foolishness?” He removed his cape and handed it to one of his minions. Then he began twirling his sword in his hand. “To boast of your exploits insults me, Dale Sunday. It is only fitting that you should die by the hand of an Emmainite. Draw your sword. You’ve killed villagers. Let’s see how you fare against a proper warrior.”

  Selah, knowing Dale’s condition, tried to intervene.

  But Dale had already unsheathed his sword and turned to face the Rajeth. He stood straight up, barely holding the sword out in front of him. With a puzzled look, Haddu casually slapped Dale’s sword with his scimitar. Dale’s sword went flying out of his hand.

  “Is this a joke?” asked Haddu. “Pick up your sword.”

  Dale picked it up and again, it was quickly struck out of his hand. This time, Haddu struck it in anger.

  “What kind of a Republican Guard were you?”

  The Riders burst into laughter, jeering and taunting Dale.

  “Pick it up, Lieutenant. You terrorist. Fight!”

  Dale sighed and stood upright, his sword still at his feet.

  “You think I won’t cut down an unarmed Republican dog?” Haddu continued, “You are an ant. An insignificant mark. I will remove your head and roll it down this ridge.”

  “So stop talking and do it,” Dale said.

  “Dale!” cried Selah. “What’re you doing?”

  Haddu shook his head. And with a shrug, he swung his scimitar. It was stopped short by Selah’s saber. She followed the block with an upward thrust, driving the blade under the Rajeth’s sternum, piercing his lung.

  He collapsed and died. After a moment’s shock, the Riders burst into an uproar. They dismounted and drew their scimitars. Alaric pulled Selah back behind him. Dale and Valkyrie formed a feeble shield around them.

  “The girl will die a slow death!” the Riders began to shout. They took cautious steps forward. As they closed in, the Balean Calvary arrived.

  “What’s going on here?” asked the ranking Balean trooper.

  “A curse be upon you, ostra whore!” cried the Shaldea. “She killed the Rajeth.”

  Alaric stepped forward and shouted, “Protect your queen! Protect the queen of Bale!”

  “Quiet! All of you! Who are you, templar?” the Balean trooper then asked.

  “I am Balean born Sir Alaric Linhelm, exile of the Crimson Knights. And here stands before you Cyrene Evenford Leawen, daughter of the late King Aegis Leawen, heir to the Balean throne. For the kingdom and the crown, do not deliver her into their hands.”

  Dale turned around to look at Selah. She looked at him. She looked like a girl—a little girl, startled and scared. Dale turned back around and sat down on the ground.

  “Kill them! Kill them all!”

  “Royal troopers to arms! Verunda!” the trooper then shouted.

  With their blades drawn, the Balean cavalry rode in between the Shaldea and created a tight barrier around Alaric, Selah, Dale, and Valkyrie.

  “Stand down, Shaldea. These four are now under the custody of the crown.”

  “She killed our Rajeth!”

  “And there will be reckoning. But if you harm her, woe to Loreland and all its inhabitants, for the wrath of Groveland, both Meredine and Bale, will rain upon it. Now return to the Ancile before you make a blaze of a spark.”

  The Shaldea reluctantly mounted their Gliders and turned them around. And before they started back down the ridge, one yelled back, “The general will hear of this.”

  The trooper replied, “Indeed. Tell him then that we’ve found the princess.”

  CH 44

  CASUALTIES OF WAR

  Mosaic was lying on her cot, reading a copy of the Mystic Tome that the clerics had distributed to the refugees. It was a collection of sacred writings and stories on which the Benesanti faith had been established. Engrossed in its dense content, she was unaware of the ensuing commotion around her until her neighbor peered over the partition that separated them.

  “I think they’re calling you.”

  “What?” Mosaic asked.

  “They’re calling all men and women between the ages of eighteen and thirty.” The older lady pointed to the center aisle of the main sanctuary. A templar was gathering young women into a line. “I bet it has something to do with the Bene-seneschal’s murder.”

  “What does our age have to do with it?”

  Her neighbor shrugged. “You better get up there.”

  Mosaic set the tome down and started toward the growing line. A cleric approached and greeted her.

  “Young lady, how old are you?”

  “Nineteen,” Mosaic replied. “What’s going on?”

  “Please, wait right over there.”

  “What for?”

  “You needn’t be concerned. We’re assisting the Baleans in their effort to reunite lost sons and daughters with their families.”

  “Well, why not everyone else? Why not the little ones first?”

  “It’s all just part of the procedure,” the cleric replied. “It will only take a few minutes and you’ll remain under the protection of the Benesanti.”

  The cleric then went on to fetch others. There were whispers and rumors, but no one spoke with any level of authority. Within five minutes, Mosaic was in the vestibule where the line ended.

  “Next!” a senior templar shouted, standing out in the courtyard.

  He waved her over and directed her to one of six tents that were set up along the West Gate: three for the women, three for the men.

  When she entered the tent, another templar was standing in the back behind a panel of three unarmed Balean officers who sat at a table. The officer in the middle was a blonde woman in her late thirties with a humorless face, thin lips, and hair pressed tight against her scalp as if it had been painted on with a fine brush.

  “Sit,” she said.

  Mosaic sat in the chair provided.

  “Name, date of birth, and residence before the occupation.”

  “I’m sorry. May I ask what this is regarding?”

  “We’re conducting a search. The sooner you answer the questions, the sooner you’ll be excused.”

  “Mosaic Shawl. I was born on the Third Day of the Seventh Month. This is my nineteenth year. And my home is in Hoche, Barrington Prefecture.”

  “Hoche, Hoche, Hoche—let’s see, ah! There we are. Yes, the Shawls. You are the missing daughter of Turkish and Cora Tess, I presume?”

  Mosaic sat up alert.

  “Cora Tess, yes. Do you know where they are?”

  “They were your natural parents, then?”

  “I’m sorry. Were?” Both her hands slipped off her thighs. She gripped a leg of the chair to try to steady herself.

  “I regret to inform you that they were unintended casualties of war. They were your natural parents, yes?”

  She didn’t hear the question. “Casualties of war? What do you mean? What happened? How do you know?”

&nb
sp; The officer remained cold and spoke with matter-of-fact authority. “We do not have that information. These records were relayed from the field. They are accurate.” And then she reiterated her question. “They were your natural parents?”

  With tears beginning to stream down her face, Mosaic answered, “Yes.”

  “Miss Shawl, do you know anything regarding the Bene-seneschal’s recent demise? Any affiliates, perhaps, that expressed disappointment with the Holy Order, or someone who entered the premises without proper papers?”

  Again, Mosaic did not hear the question. At that moment, there was nothing she cared about.

  “Miss Shawl?”

  She looked up, her vision blurred.

  The female officer glanced at her comrade. He shook his head.

  “That will be all,” she said. “We ask that you remain here on the temple grounds for the time being until our investigation is complete.”

  Mosaic stood and walked out of the tent, her movements severed from her will. The line outside the tent looked to her for answers.

  “It’s about the Bene-seneschal, isn’t it?”

  “What do they want in there?”

  “Are there Baleans in there?”

  “I’m talking to no goddamn Balean if I can help it.”

  She ignored them. When she got past the gauntlet of questions, Mosaic stumbled toward a wall. She fell to her knees and wept.

  Back in her partitioned space, she lay on her cot. Time was without pity, carrying along with a mocking bounce in its steps. For days she lay there, hardly eating, hardly speaking. She fell asleep hoping to wake up in the next Realm, reunited with her mother and father. But her eyes opened to the present—a partitioned wall, alone in her own corner of a cold temple sanctuary, the ambient murmurings of fellow refugees. An unflinching reality.

  After several days, when her tears were depleted, her grief exhausted, she finally sat up. Slowly, she distributed the weight of her wilted body onto her legs, and stood. Shuffling one foot in front of the other, she managed to bathe, eat a proper meal, and dress herself. And by the time Sparrow visited her later that evening she was gone.

  “You just missed her,” her neighbor explained. “She’s been lying there in a bed of tears for days, just up until this morning.”