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    Young Dillon in the Halls of Shamballah
    Young Dillon in the Halls of Shamballah
    Young Dillon in the Halls of Shamballah
    Ebook127 pages1 hour

    Young Dillon in the Halls of Shamballah

    By Derrick Ferguson

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Dillon. A name that means many things to many people. Adventurer. Hero. Rogue. Nemesis. Friend.

    But even a man who is a legend in his own time started somewhere. Even Dillon was young once.

    YOUNG DILLON IN THE HALLS OF SHAMBALLAH pulls back the curtain on the past of a modern day hero. Many are the tales that have been told about Dillon, but none are stranger than the whispers of his having been raised in the mythical and eternal city of Shamballah and his training by those deadliest of adepts in the martial arts, the Warmasters of Liguria.

    Now, at last, the true story behind those legends can be told.

    This is a story of a Dillon and the events and people who would forge him into the man we know. This is a story of a Dillon in the days before his feet were set on the path that would lead him to the wildest adventures of them all. And it is itself an incredible adventure in its own right. This is the story of YOUNG DILLON IN THE HALLS OF SHAMBALLAH. And, once you’ve read it, you and Dillon will never be the same.

    A YOUNGPULP! digest novel from Pro Se Productions and Pulpwork Press!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPro Se Press
    Release dateApr 3, 2014
    Young Dillon in the Halls of Shamballah
    Author

    Derrick Ferguson

    Much like removing a band aid I suppose the best way to get through this is to rip it off as quickly as possible, accept the pain and move on. I'm really not all that good at talking about myself and can't imagine why anybody would be interested in the extraordinarily quiet life I live but... My name is Derrick Ferguson and I'm from Brooklyn, New York where I have lived for most of my still young life. Been married for 28 years to the wonderful Patricia Cabbagestalk-Ferguson who lets me get away with far more than is good for me. My interests include radio/audio drama, Classic Pulp from the 30's/40's/50's and New Pulp being written today, Marvel/DC fan fiction, Star Trek in particular and all Science Fiction in general, animation, television, movies, cooking, loooooong road trips and casual gaming on the Xbox 360. Running a close second with writing as an obsession is my love of movies. I'm currently the co-host of the BETTER IN THE DARK podcast where my partner Thomas Deja and I rant and rave about movies on a bi-weekly basis. I'm also a rotating co-host of the PULPED! podcast along with Tommy Hancock, Ron Fortier and Barry Reese where we interview writers of the New Pulp Movement as well as discuss the various themes, topics, ebb and flow of what New Pulp is and why you should be reading it. That’s it for now. Anything else you wanna know, just ask!

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      Book preview

      Young Dillon in the Halls of Shamballah - Derrick Ferguson

      YOUNG DILLON IN THE HALLS OF SHAMBALLAH

      by Derrick Ferguson

      A YoungPulp book

      Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

      This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

      Young Dillon in the Halls of Shamballah

      Copyright © 2014 Derrick Ferguson

      All rights reserved.

      Table of Contents

      INTRODUCTION by Gary Phillips

      ONE

      TWO

      THREE

      FOUR

      FIVE

      SIX

      SEVEN

      EIGHT

      NINE

      TEN

      ELEVEN

      INTRODUCTION TO YOUNG DILLON IN THE HALLS OF SHAMBALLAH

      By Gary Phillips

      Myth is a powerful thing. Our heroes spring from the forges of fate and destiny. Often they do not come to us fully formed but are trained and tested, challenged to become the challenger. It should not be an easy road for them. The journey is one of sacrifice and abandon. In that regard, I don’t know about you, but I’m a sucker for the origin story. Now don’t get me wrong, the best way to hook me is jumping into the hero’s story right off, we come to him or her as they are, up against the odds; planes falling out of the sky, machine guns rattling and strange gadgets turning the average citizen into brainwashed slavering fiends.

      That’s the stuff...and our heroes must be up to the task to deal with the arch villains who would seek to impose their will by force and ruin. This then is the world that Derrick Ferguson has sent his one name protagonist Dillon into for the last decade or so. In the course of several novels and short stories, Dillon, modern-day adventurer and soldier-of-fortune, has stared death down steely-eyed while dispatching his brand of justice. He is a man of considerable skills, imposing in his height and bearing, yet someone who is capable of compassion and understanding of the frailties of human nature.

      Once you’re hooked, once you’ve been seduced by this dusky paladin, you want to know from where did he spring. None of us arrive on the scene whole cloth and surely a man of Dillon’s considerable talents is no exception – though he is an exceptional character Derrick Ferguson in this effort, Young Dillon in the Halls of Shamballah, pulls back the smoky veil heretofore obscuring the early years of his life. It isn’t as if Derrick hasn’t provided pieces of Dillon’s backstory before – but now it’s all here.

      As Derrick has opined, I can truthfully say, says Ferguson, with no hyperbole whatsoever that this is totally unlike any Dillon adventure you have ever read.

      From the moment that the 12-year-old Dillon’s mother faces down their enemies in the ice and snow, to give her life to protect her child as he uncertainly sets across the silver bridge to mythical Shamballah, you’ll take that walk with him where nothing will ever be the same again.

      Nietzsche once noted, Two paths meet here; no one has yet followed either to its end. This long lane stretches back for an eternity. And the long lane out there, that is another eternity.

      Fate and destiny. Shamballah is the hidden Eternal City, the repository of many secrets as Derrick’s reminds us, because it must be removed from the wicked of the world. But when ready, the hero emerges from this fabled enclave to battle those who would plunge us into the pit. The eternal struggle of order versus chaos. Dillon has taken the path of the righteous and we get to see what has set him on that road in Young Dillon in the Halls of Shamballah.

      -- Gary Phillips

      ONE

      Vidisi looked up from the polished round wooden table occupying the center of the Second Outpost’s common room and his work. He’d been busy writing a new entry in the Sentry Log. Entries had to be made every six hours so he and his two partners long ago agreed that it was Vidisi who should do it as he had the best penmanship of the three. Vidisi didn’t mind. He liked writing and it was his hope that one day he would be apprenticed to The Hall of Archives. So he looked upon keeping meticulous and accurate logs as a form of training.

      He could see Nicholas Lyle through the doorway to the kitchen, busy cutting up onions and green peppers into the rabbit and vegetable stew that would be their dinner. Did you hear that?

      Nicholas half turned to face Vidisi, pausing in his task. The knife that he used was so sharp that if he didn’t pay attention to what he was doing, he could easily lop off a finger and not even know he had done so until he felt the blood gush. I didn’t hear anything. Except the wind. But we always hear the wind. That’s nothing special.

      This wasn’t the wind. Vidisi said firmly. He stood up, closed the Sentry Log. Believe it or not it sounded to me like gunshots.

      Gunshots? Nicholas chuckled. All the way out here? Are you sure it wasn’t crackling from the fireplace?

      Indeed, the heavy log in the fireplace did crackle quite loudly from time to time as knots in the wood popped, but that wasn’t what Vidisi had heard and he knew it. Vidisi stood up and walked over to a huge wooden cabinet next to the front door from which he selected a knee length sheepskin coat. I’m telling you, I heard what sounded like gunshots. The wind’s blowing up this way from the bridge and carried the sound up to us. I’m going to go check out it out.

      Check out what? The third Sentry entered the common room from his bedroom, yawning and vigorously scratching his sides. Orozo spent most of his off duty time sleeping. A somewhat lazy fellow, Vidisi privately thought, but still dependable in a pinch. What’s going on?

      Vidisi’s hearing things, Nicholas answered derisively. I think he’s just bored and looking for something to do. Says he heard gunshots coming from the direction of the bridge.

      Gunshots? Orozo’s bearded face twisted in a frown of disbelief. Who would be shooting way out here? There’s no game and the Migou haven’t been seen in this region for two years now. Some say they’re in hibernation mode. And there’s been not so much as a sign of the Tcho-Tcho for going on five years.

      While his partners continued to talk, Vidisi selected a knit cap he pulled on his head. For his only weapon he took a crossbow, one of several placed in a rack by the door. He slung a quiver of bolts over his shoulder. I’m going to check it out.

      Go with him, Nicholas, Orozo said. I’ll keep an eye on dinner.

      Nicholas frowned. Why don’t you go?

      You’re already dressed. All you have to do is put on boots and a coat. Orozo gestured at himself in bare feet, wearing nothing but long johns. It’ll take me twice as long to get dressed.

      If you’re coming, come on, Vidisi insisted impatiently.

      Nicholas grumbled but he also quickly dressed and took up a crossbow. The rules for the Sentries were few but clear and not to be broken. And the main one was that no Sentry went anywhere outside by himself. Vidisi opened the huge circular door and the two men stepped outside.

      The Second Outpost was one of ten built many years ago, placed in strategic positions around the perimeter of the city and crewed by three-man squads of Sentries that were rotated every three months. The outposts were quite comfortable. Main room, three bedrooms, kitchen, study, game room and training room. Simple yet functional. Sentry duty was usually quite boring, especially here as no one ever came up the main trail as long as anybody could remember. But they were maintained because one never knew. And there were other threats that needed to be monitored.

      The air held its usual chill but was not uncomfortable. Vidisi took the lead, arming a bolt into his crossbow as he did so.

      Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid? Nicholas asked. I still say you heard a noise from the fireplace.

      I’ve gotten so used to hearing the regular noises in the outpost that when I hear something out of place it stands out. And whatever I heard may not have been gunshots but it wasn’t normal sounds. Trust me.

      Nicholas sighed and continued to follow him along the wide, winding trail. He looked over his shoulder at The Second Outpost. A simple one story stone building, it had been constructed from the regional stone so that it blended in and didn’t stand out. The shutters that covered the windows at night were painted the same color as the stone. In fact, if it weren’t for the smoke coming out of the chimney, it was possible to walk within spitting distance of the outpost before one realized it was there.

      The trail curved around an outcropping and once the two men rounded it, the reason why they wore the heavy sheepskin coats soon became obvious. The temperature dropped sharply and within another two minutes, they could see their breath. The ground ahead of them gradually became covered with a thin crust of snow.

      And further on they could see the bridge. A shining, shimmering silver bridge that seemed woven from gossamer strands as delicate as any spider’s web. It spanned a deep gorge and the bridge seemed to actually

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