Evan Thomas Dixon's Blog, page 3

The Harpoonist

Here is a short story I recently wrote as a sort of exercise/stab towards getting published in a magazine. Short stories aren’t usually my forte, but I decided to give one a shot. I’m fairly happy with how this turned out - though I doubt I’ll be writing more in the future, since I’m more of a novelist - so I wanted to make it available to be read on the site.

Thanks for reading.

He strapped on his mask and stepped outside onto the balcony, felt the chilled wind whip around the chimney and buffet his tightly buttoned dragonleather jacket, looked out at the city with its street lamps flickering like the hope of its citizens. Through the magnifying eyepieces he surveyed the streets below and saw that the guard was changing. Every man clad in the typical red and blue uniform with the blazing star stitched on the left shoulder. The insignia of the Poseidon Regiment. The official army of the Paaministeri.
His heart was beating in an irregular fashion as if in protest to the task he was supposed to accomplish tonight but he ignored it as he stepped back inside. Three of his men were standing fully garbed in the library, rapt with attention. Each of them carried a sheathed short sword and a revolving pistol on their utility belts – strapped across the chest, never the waist. A stylistic decision he’d made early on for no practical reason.
“All accounted for?” he asked Tor. His gravelly voice was weighed with a quiet force that immediately indicated authority.
“Yessir.” The lieutenant nodded. “Eight Nightcloaks are positioned at the East Station. Soldiers have been disposed of. They are in position and await your command.”
“Very good. And the glove?”
“Nearing full charge, sir.”
“Very good.”
He stepped into the atrium of the house and surveyed the ornate and expensive paintings on the walls, sighed as he cast his darkened vision onto the grimy and scuffled floor. The estate was cold and devoid of activity, its owner dead for months now from the plague. He remembered when festive parties used to occur every fortnight in the mansion, with servants bustling to-and-fro while balancing silver trays of meat and fruit, with beautiful young women garbed in their most expensive attire, watching the eligible men in the room with eyes trained to detect hidden currents of wealth. All of that: gone. Carried away upon the tide of an epidemic that had swallowed Turhaven in one agonizing year, decimating the population, dwindling resources. Those who had yet to perish from the plague had either quarantined themselves in the richer districts of the city or were in the streets struggling to survive. Plundering gangs of robbers now stalked the alleys of the metropolis, searching for victims and breaking into the rows of forlorn houses.
But tonight, all of that was going to change.
“Sir?” Tor inquired. “We’re ready for departure.”
He nodded and followed the lieutenant back through the library and up the spiraling staircase to the estate’s third story. He stepped into the second room on the left. It had been emptied of all its furniture, stripped of its decorations and was now used instead as a storehouse for weapons, maps, and a single glass case that sat upon a pillar of white stone in the center. Inside the case was a black glove with an iron medallion stitched into its palm. The glove had been pulled over a slab of green stone which simultaneously emitted a faint hum and a cyanic glimmer that washed the walls in colorful waves.
Chromium, they called it. Discovered in the salting mines outside Turhaven two centuries ago. It had once been the pride and primary source of income for the city – until leading scientists discovered its fatal effect upon anyone who used it. Within months one’s blood was poisoned and recovery was impossible. It was immediately outlawed in the city and all of its territorial districts — which did nothing to prevent its continued trade for those who were mesmerized by the supernatural abilities it bestowed on its users.
He had purchased the chromium glove as a last resort — some months back, when the rebellion was first fomenting in the hearts of his followers. He knew the price to be paid. He also knew that nothing else would enable him to stop the Paaministeri. So here he was, a few weeks away from death, every night sleepless and every day mottled with throes of abdominal agony.
But he had one last mission to complete.
He sheathed his left hand in the glove as Tor handed him the loaded harpoon gun on a stand in the left corner. His weapon of choice. Every spear had been handcrafted by J. Finlay, the most renowned blacksmith of Turhaven. Forged from black steel and thrice-sharpened with crystal whetting knives, capable of piercing the thickest of armor, deadly in its accuracy and speed. He had purchased twelve from Finlay before the blacksmith had been hauled away by the Poseidon Regiment, most likely imprisoned or perhaps tortured to death. And he had used eleven of them, assassinating the leaders of the Paaministeri one-by-one.
Now all that was left was the Grand Minister.
He reached the roof with five of his men in tow. The brine of the nearby ocean mixed with the breeze that wafted around them as they proceeded across the building’s flat top toward the edge. He looked out at the endless black and blue expanse to the east, saw the amber beam of the lighthouse, the ships rising and falling upon the foaming waves. His heart burned with longing.
“Sir?”
He snapped out of his reverie. “Yes?”
“Are you ready to proceed?”
He nodded. One by one they leapt from the edge and onto the slanted roof of a nearby building, dashing across it with lightning speed. He followed behind with the harpoon gun strapped to his back. The glove aglow. His mind racing.
This is it.
They reached the pipeline that ran along the left side of the watershed factory and darted across it as it slanted upward, clambering onto the roof. The bridge that gulfed the Amersene River cast its massive shadow to their left and blocked out the moonlight. He looked below: the East Station’s lanterns were still lit. By all appearances, it was another ordinary night.
He smiled dryly behind his mask.
They clambered down from the top of the factory and descended into the shadows of the street below with uncanny silence. In the distance he could see soldiers of the Regiment patrolling the bridge but around the Station there were none. He skulked up to the door of the Station and rapped his ungloved hand upon it three times. It was opened immediately.
“Sir,” said Gwane. He stood rapt with attention just inside the station. The nearby radio was blaring a static-saturated message of endless propaganda. The sound of the Grand Minister’s voice crackling with interference as the “Ageless Laws” of the City warbled through the speakers. The broadcast  was played around the clock.
He and his men entered. Seven other Nightcloaks were in the Station, fully armed, masked and prepared. He noted with grim satisfaction that blood still dripped from some of their blades.
And then came the pang of his conscience searing the walls of his mind as the question which had plagued him for the past month returned to haunt him with its unceasing interrogation: Is this the way you must go? Is this the only way you can bring peace? Is this how you want to be remembered? Is it?
He shoved away the thought.
“Much trouble?” he asked Gwane.
The lieutenant shook his head. “Hardly. The guard is stretched thin in these parts. We took the Station in less than a score of minutes.”
“Excellent. Where are the bodies?”
“Dumped in the river. Jarvus hotwired a fishing wharf and took them beneath the bridge and dumped them there. They’ll be consumed by the fish before the sun rises.”
“Good thinking. You weren’t detected?”
Jarvus shook his head. “No sir.”
“What’s the plan of action?” Gwane asked.
“We have to cross the river, to begin with.” He began to pace the length of the Station’s main meeting room. The thirteen Nightcloaks gathered around the oak table in the center; they stood and listened attentively. “The bridge will be heavily patrolled from the ground, but if we can cross the suspension wires – or sneak across the river underneath – we should be able to avoid a direct confrontation.”
Nods of agreement.
“After that, we will need to go through the abandoned apartments in the Cylian Quarter. They will enable us to reach the Tower while undercover. If we take the streets, we’re likely to be spotted.”
“How many do you think should remain behind and establish a secure position at the apartments, sir?”
“No more than three. The rest of us will cross the security gate after a couple of you dismantle the alarm and the electro-trigger. Once we are on the grounds, we proceed into the Tower and make straight for the top. Anyone and everyone in the way is to be killed. At that point, there will be no time for stealth – or for mercy.”
Murmurs of “yes” and “indeed.”
He paused for a moment and surveyed the room. The pain was slowly swelling in his abdomen but he pretended not to notice. “Men, I cannot ask any of you to join me on this mission. You know this. In all likelihood, very few of us will live through tonight, if any at all. This must be done, but I am the one who must do it – none of you are obligated to join me.”
“Sir,” said Tor. “We know. But we have known from the beginning that things would be this way. We’ve all known. And tonight – tonight we are ready to give our beloved city back to the people. To cure this plague once and for all. To restore order!”
Scattered claps across the room.
He smiled again. “Very well. If it must be so, then —“
The door was ripped from its hinges as an explosion collided with the front of the Station. Smoke and rubble permeated the air. He choked upon the thick grey fumes and leapt backward as a slat of metal came crashing down from the collapsed roof onto the floor. He could hear the screams of his comrades as they were crushed beneath the wreckage. Through the ashen pillars of smog he saw the vague outline of a large, vehicular-shaped device, mounted on six wheels, crowned with thick black barrel.
A war machine.
He darted into the next room, clambered through the sole window above the radar console, jumped out into the street and plunged towards the river. He looked back and saw the Regiment swarming around the building. He cursed as his boots struck the dirty shallows of the river. How had they known?
He swam across the river as quickly as possible, his arms whirling at an inhuman speed. The harpoon gun still strapped to his back. He knew that crossing the bridge now would be impossible; entering the Tower would require nothing short of a miracle.
But he had no choice.
When he reached the opposite shore he hauled himself up and ran across the docks, up the stone staircase, out into the narrow dirty street populated with flickering lamps and a lazily patrolling night watch. The shouts behind him across the bridge indicated that he had been spotted. He no longer cared. Stealth would do nothing for him now.
The Regiment soldier in front of him spun around, eyes widened with terror at recognition of the mask which had been plastered on wanted posters across the entire city, hand immediately grabbling for the pistol holstered at his hip.
The Harpoonist raised his left hand and the glow of the glove increased.
A blast of green light enveloped the soldier, who opened his mouth to scream before plummeting to the cobblestones in a heap of colorless ash.
The shouts behind him increased. He reached the Cylian Quarter, demarcated with a faded wooden sign that dangled from a banister that ran between the closely crowded tenements. He turned towards the left and catapulted into the air, fell through a gaping crumbled wall, landed upon the dirty floor of a long-forgotten room comprised of a shattered mirror and a lumpridden off-white bed. He entered the hallway of the apartment and dashed up the staircase and exited a window that faced the river, clambering out onto the ledge and sidling down into the cracked-stone alley.
A beggar wheezing out his final breaths lay nearby, blanketed beneath trash to ward off the chills induced by the plague’s fever. He looked at the ragged figure, blood trickling from the mottled lips, skin pallid and flecked with dark blue contusions, and the rage swelled inside of him. He reached down and rested the glove on the beggar’s pate. “May this give you some comfort, friend,” he whispered.
The beggar looked up at the mask with vacant eyes. “Thank you,” he rasped. Color slowly spread across his face.
He glanced one more time at the beggar and exited the alley and saw the tall shadow of the Tower looming in front of him. His heart hammered furiously. He cantered towards the ornate black gate that marked the entrance, observed the protective film that magically surrounded the building’s perimeter, cast a quick glance behind him to see an entire battalion of Regiment soldiers surging through the street towards him.
He made quick work of the guards at the gate with a few blasts from the glove, shot another blast at the gate’s lock, burst through it as it tore away from its hinges with a piercing shriek. He tore down the path that ran through the center of the large yard at the base of the Tower, adorned with intricate topiary. Soldiers on both sides of the yard fired at him and though he felt the surging heat of the bullets as they whizzed past none of them struck their target.
He plummeted through the door, slammed it shut behind him, vaguely noted the ornate blue and white designs upon the gleaming tile. The pain in his abdomen was increasing exponentially. With each hurried step, with each sharp intake of breath it grew and swell. He felt it spreading into his legs, his chest, rattling against his ribcage, now wrapping around his forearms like the tendrils of an invisible parasite. Blurry white spots frayed the edges of his vision.
“NO!” He gritted his teeth. He could not fall unconscious. Not now.
He stepped through the glass door which separated the foyer from the Main Atrium of the first floor. In front of him was the crank-elevator shaft which led straight to the top of the Tower. To his left and his right were two spiraling staircases which also led to the highest floor. The elevator would be faster, but if he took it he ran the risk of someone shutting down the crank and trapping him in the shaft. He would have to take the stairs.
The soldiers in the Atrium spun upon their heels with pistols drawn the moment they heard the doors swing open. They unleashed a torrent of bullets in his direction but he held up the glove and conjured a spherical shield which surrounded him as he ran. The bullets disintegrated the moment they collided with the glowing green ball. The shield would deplete the glove’s charge but it did not matter. He had no intention of using the glove to slay his target.
He would use the last of his harpoons.
He ran up the stairs with the soldiers on his heels. Every step was accompanied by a pang of agony in his stomach. He gasped for breath behind his mask as his lungs burned. More bullets flew and some hit the wall and some dissolved as they struck the shield. The soldiers shouted. He reached the fourth floor, the fifth, he was almost to the sixth, his vision went blurry again, the pain exploded in his abdomen, he screamed aloud, he lowered his hand and thrust it forward towards the soldiers, a green blast of chromiatic energy enveloped them, their charred corpses tumbled down the staircase, he forced himself up the last flight of stairs, he was almost to the eighth floor —
And then as the last fibres of energy faded from the glove he slammed it against the locked door which was the entrance to the eighth floor. The entrance to the living quarters of the Grand Minister. The door buckled and cracked and collapsed like a piece of crumpled paper.
He stepped inside and looked across the long rectangular room. At the far end were two double doors which had been opened wide, leading out to a balcony, where the Grand Minister stood, peering out at the city which stretched below.
“I knew you would come.”
He peeled the glove from his hand and cast it to the floor. “Did you?” he made his way around the left side of the long table which was laden with territorial maps and various important documents and envelopes sealed with stamps of red wax.
“Yes. It was only a matter of time. You’ve killed off every one of my officials – the Grand Clerk of the Court, the People’s Advocate, the High Priest. My closest friends and confidantes. My lover. Why should I suppose I would be spared?”
He did not respond.
“Though I hoped you would be stopped at the East Station. Which is the reason I had a war machine sent there.”
“You knew?”
“Of course. Your lieutenant – Tor, I believe his name was? He came to me a few days ago. Told me of your entire plan. Told me where you would be. He seemed to hope to receive some kind of reward.”
Hot rage boiled inside of him.
“But I should have known that you would find a way to escape.”
“Do you know who I am?” His heart was pounding as he grabbed the strap of the harpoon gun slung over his left shoulder. He removed it, held it in both hands, index finger of his left hand resting calmly on the springing trigger.
“Yes. They call you the Harpoonist.”
“Turn around.”
As the Grand Minister turned to face him and stepped inside he reached up and pulled his mask away from his face.
The Grand Minister’s face erupted in terrified shock. “Jakar!”
The Harpoonist inclined his head. “Hello Ana.”
The Grand Minister stepped towards the table. Her black leather outfit was sleekly tailored and outfitted with numerous awards and insignias. Her hair cascaded to her shoulders in brunette curls and framed a petite and angular face encrusted with emerald eyes that were now widened with an overwhelmed dismay. “You — you are the one who — you killed Altair — you killed — you —”
“Every one of them,” he said. His brow furrowed as his eyes shimmered with indignation. “And now, tonight, I am here to finish the task.”
She laughed – a derisive and cold chortle – as she regained her composure. “You’re going to kill me? You’re going to take the life of —”
“A tyrant. Yes.”
“For what purpose? What do you hope to accomplish? Even if you kill me now the plague has already decimated the city. There is no hope for recovery. You’re trying to save these damned rabble when there is nothing to be saved.”
“You’re wrong.” He inched closer towards her. “I know about your blood, Ana. I know that you carry an immunity to the plague. And I know that such an immunity can be duplicated and administered in an airborne fashion to cure the populace of Turhaven.”
“So what did you do to draw that information out of Blackburn? Torture him? Rip off his fingers until he told you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Is that all he told you? Did he tell you the source of the plague as well?”
His finger, resting on the springing trigger, began to tremble.
“No…”
She smiled. Her face alight with a frozen grin of malicious glee. “I am the source of the plague, Jakar. I created it. My blood carries an immunity because it was from my blood that the plague was manufactured. After my advisors and my regiments were inoculated, of course.”
The room around him shrunk and expanded simultaneously. Panic seized him by the throat. “What do — what do you mean —”
“I created the plague to destroy this city,” she said. She inched away from the table, slowly stepping backward, towards a tall black cabinet. Through the glass front he could see a cutlass hanging from a rack inside. “I wanted to see every last undeserving bastard in this forsaken place suffer. The way that our mother suffered. The way that we suffered when we watched her die.”
Jakar’s heart plummeted into his stomach.
“But here you are, attempting to lead some noble cause against political oppression, attempting to put power back into the hands of the very people who robbed us of the lives we had. And you see me as the villain, Jakar? You see me as the one responsible for all of this carnage, this deterioration? No. The people did it to themselves. They —”
He pulled his finger back and the springing trigger clicked and the harpoon burst from the barrel of the gun and struck the Grand Minister in the center of her chest. She gasped and grabbed the shaft of the harpoon, attempting to remove it as blood gushed from the gaping hole between her breasts. Her eyes locked with Jakar’s one last time and then she crumpled to the floor and did not move.
He threw the gun down on the floor as the pain in his stomach returned. He looked at the lifeless form of his sister and a thousand questions tore at his mind but he shoved them away. He removed the vial and the sponge from the inner pocket of his jacket and mopped up some of the blood from the floor where it had spattered and squeezed the blood into the vial. Then he walked over to the transmitting glass and lifted it and placed the closed vial inside and turned the frequency to 100.3 and pressed the send button. The sponge fell from his trembling hand as the vial glowed and then dissipated. In a few minutes Rochel would receive it and begin synthesizing the cure.
He stumbled over to his sister’s body and bent down. He looked at her face – hardened, drawn with lines of early aging, furrowed with a rage that had fermented in her thoughts for decades; but still, beneath all of that, she carried the beauty of his mother. He looked at her slender hands, at the brown curls of her hair. He gave in as the memories flooded his mind: of the two of them as children, running around the estate, playing games, the closest of companions. He saw clearly before him the night that the Faction War began and their father was called to join the rest of the City Guards to quell a firefight in the Southern District, how he had held Ana’s hand through the night as they laid in bed and listened to the distant shouts and saw the glow of faraway fires through their window. He thought of the next day when the messenger arrived and told them that their father had been killed and how his mother had wept as she retired to her room and he held Ana in his arms as she cried. He saw the day when Faction soldiers stormed their mansion and he and Ana hid beneath the furniture in the parlor as the soldiers killed their mother and they barely escaped through a back window as the Faction members burned the estate to the ground. He saw how they wandered the streets as little more than urchins for half a decade, barely surviving, with nowhere to call home, with nothing but each other. He remembered the day that the last spark of joy fled his sister’s eyes and with a face hardened like flint she returned home to their ramshackle apartment to tell him she had joined the Poseidon Regiment and that she would not be returning. He saw before him that rainy afternoon as he stood in the doorway with the weariness of the world pressing down on his shoulders as his sister’s vague outline disappeared into the storm, the last time that he ever saw her, before the tyranny began and the plague erupted and he became the leader of the Rebellion.
He stared into her vacant eyes. “Why?” He knew he was asking himself just as much as he was asking her and he knew he would never receive the answer.  As the pain spread once more into his limbs and chest and head he picked up the body of the Grand Minister and trudged towards the balcony, stepped out into the brisk night air, looked down at the city below, and collapsed, weeping, with his sister in his arms.

Book Review No. 1

The Diamond Throne by David Eddings

Book 1 of The Elenium

Rating: 7 out of 10

I was first turned onto David Eddings by my wife, who read two of his other fantasy trilogies - The Belgariad and The Mallorean - in middle/high school. Or something like that. I’ve been actively searching for new-to-me fantasy series for the better part of this year, so when she mentioned Eddings to me I decided to take a dive at the local library.

The Diamond Throne, Book One of a trilogy called the Elenium, is set in a different world than the other two aforementioned trilogies. It takes place on a continent called Eosia, divided up into various kingdoms, with the Elenes [of Elenia, big shocker there] as the dominant kingdom/race in the world.

The story itself concerns a knight of the Church named Sparhawk, who returns from exile to discover that his beloved queen Ehlana has fallen deathly ill and, as a result, has been encased inside of a magic crystal shield to prevent her from dying. He and his companions immediately set out to locate a cure for the queen, while at the same time attempting to foil the plot of a corrupt Church leader named Annias, who wants to seize power for himself.

All of this sounds fairly standard for a fantasy trilogy. Yet I found that Eddings successfully avoids some cliches and conventions throughout the novel. A number of times, I had difficulty determining where the plot was going to go - in a good way. Some of the events that occur on Sparhawk’s quest seem insignificant - just like real life - and some of them seem like pointless dead-ends. The winding and wandering of the storyline, to me, made the overall plot more realistic than what one generally finds in a fantasy novel. At the same time, this made for some slow portions of the novel, particularly the middle section, where I tried to detect a sense of urgency behind the protagonist’s actions and couldn’t find much of one.

Also out-of-the-ordinary is the dialogue of the book. Sparhawk and his companions are rough-and-tumble types, sometimes bawdy, sometimes ridiculous. I get the impression that Eddings does not want us to take his characters too seriously, yet he doesn’t devolve into frivolous banter either. At the same time, some of the phrasing is awkward and samey between characters - I noted the use of “Anyway” as the beginning of a sentence numerous times.

Overall, The Diamond Throne is a quick and enjoyable read. It’s purely entertaining - no significant philosophical questions about life are raised here, no intense plumbing-the-depths of the human soul. But with relatable characters, a solid plot, and good pacing [for the most part], Eddings gives us a tale that is worth continuing. At least for me.

Project Update No. 2

Hello.

I am finishing up the last edits of Descent Into Madness, which releases November 3. There are a lot of things I could say about writing this novel, but the one word that comes to mind is — finally! I’ve been working on this novel for over half a decade, since the summer of 2010, and after many rewrites and revisions, I’ve finally gotten it to the place where I want it. It’s very different from my normal style - it’s a satirical fantasy in the same vein as, say, Lemony Snicket - but I couldn’t be more proud of the final product.

I’ll be posting information on how to purchase it and all that soon enough. Planning for a cover reveal around the beginning of October.

Yesterday, I finished writing a story called “The Harpoonist” and submitted it to the magazine Strange Horizons. If they decide to publish it, I’ll have to wait two months to put it up on the site, but it will be available in the magazine. Whoopee!

I’ve finished up the final edits on both Siloam and Regine. I’ve also made the decision to not make them available on the site. If you are reading this and you live far away and you want a copy, contact me. For the most part, I’ll be publishing small batches and simply giving the books away - they are short novellas, between 100-150 pages. Not really worth charging much money - if any at all.

And finally, I am working on another novella - a Southern Gothic novel called No Shade In The Shadow Of The Cross [thanks Sufjan] and the first book in the Mesonox Trilogy [formerly known as Blindsight]. I am particularly excited about both of these projects, especially the Mesonox Trilogy - I’ve been writing/planning the story for over a decade, and I am very happy with how it’s turned out. My hope is to have this one traditionally published, but as always - we’ll see what doors open.

Thanks for reading, as always.

Project Update No. 1

There’s quite a lot going on in the Evan Thomas Dixon Camp as far as projects go.

1) I am finishing up Descent Into Madness. Today I have completed the last revisions and edits of the hard copy of the manuscript; this week I move to enacting those changes on the digital copy before preparing it for publication. I’ll be self-publishing the novel and releasing it on November 3rd. Stay tuned for more info - I should have it available soon.

2) I’ve started work on my next project, a fantasy trilogy called Blindsight. It’s been in the works for a long time - about a decade - and I am super excited about finally getting it on paper. I’m going to seriously pursue traditional publication with this one, mainly because it’s my brainchild, and also because I think it has a pretty good shot at getting published.

3) I am editing some of my earlier works - namely, Regine and Siloam. These two novellas are what got me started on my writing adventure in the first place, so I’m excited about revising them and making them more presentable. Most likely I’ll make them available online, but mainly I’ll be publishing small runs of hard copies so I can give them away/sell them on the super-cheap.

4) Lastly, I’ll be working on some short stories to send in to various magazines and publications. As those become available, I’ll most likely post them on the website.

Whew, what a mouthful! It’s been awhile since I’ve updated, so I figured something more thorough was needed. Hopefully I can get myself into the habit of updating more frequently.

As always —

Thanks for reading.

Currently Reading: The Diamond Throne by David Eddings. A...

Currently Reading: The Diamond Throne by David Eddings. A fantasy series written in the 80s, recommended by my wife. Pretty awesome so far.