Spark City

by Robert J Power

  “I’d keep those particular jests to myself,” called Sigi before returning into the warmth of his tavern to close up for the night. However, not before he joined Wrek in a fine duet, a song about the mysterious trials for those entitled few who made the long walk to Spark City.

  Rock

  The dawn’s rays glinted down through the branches above his head – his tired, spinning head. The leaves rustled softly as each bough rocked gently in the breeze. Throughout the night, he had slipped further from any sign of civilisation but Erroh was more at ease in this quiet forest than in his own place of birth. There was a serenity to walking in such solitude, embracing the natural world, enjoying the morning air after the musky tavern. He even found a smile forming on his lips until he cracked his left knee against a fallen log.

  Pain.

  And tearing.

  Some stumbling as well.

  He fell in a heap and shockwaves coursed through him. They started somewhere around the kneecap and erupted spitefully through his body. Pulsing wet surges of agony with potentially dire consequences. Who would leave a jagged log out here in the middle of “The Wastes” anyway? He had always thought it a curious name for eternal forests of green that covered most Four Factions of the world. It was a title from a different era still used to this day. The Road was the path taken with a taste of civilisation but the Wastes were the glorious freedom of silence and wilderness. Moreover, The Wastes had torn his fuken knee apart.

  He instinctively blamed the absent gods, even if he struggled to believe in anything other than his own actions. The absent gods however had quite the faith in him but rarely did they let him know and when they did whisper thoughts in his head, he was disinclined to hear them.

  He crawled beneath the branches of an ageless tree to escape the morning heat and rested his head upon one of its gnarled roots. It was a fine place to lament in the quiet and gather his miserable thoughts. When the first wave of pain had passed, he dared an inspection of the wound. A crow above him sat on one of the branches and peered down. He imagined it mocking his clumsiness, a fair criticism, for his knee was a mess.

  Blood seeped out through a deep slit in his skin in a steady flow that could lead to unfortunate things if not treated swiftly. The crow had its own opinions on the matter. It began heckling him. Erroh wasn’t sure it knew the finer points of a healer’s touch. He took a clean rag from his rucksack and poured a few drops of sine into the centre before placing it across the wound. He tied a knot tightly and carefully bent his knee. It would do for the time being but he knew there would be a cost for such gracelessness.

  As the day drew on, the morning breeze dissipated. The sky became a radiant blue; it stretched out magnificently with no blemishes to mar its beauty, and Erroh hobbled slowly through the wilderness in search of a suitable site to camp. Leaning on a sturdy fallen branch, each step he took was painful, but he followed the scribblings of the innkeeper’s map and finally he heard the most welcome sound to any wanderer, the beautiful and babbling sound of a stream.

  The brook’s cool water flowed seductively through the clearing, untainted by the sun’s heat, meandering with each crease in the land. Erroh was in love. It expanded into a slow moving pool and Erroh had his place to recover. Reeds and long grasses grew along the sides, a large willow tree hung out over the water providing wonderful shade. He left his belongings in the long grass within easy reach and carefully he dropped into the water.

  Dipping under the surface, he drank deeply. He hadn’t realised the thirst he had earned. Lost in pleasure, he let himself float across the still surface, enjoying the gentle drag of the current easing him towards the nearest bank. This was it; this little sanctuary was his new home. He was done. It would be a grand life to live, floating along the banks of this little oasis without unwanted responsibilities. This was a life better suited to him than any Spark City promised. He was happy alone, was he not?

  Erroh stripped off his clothes and threw them under the trunk of the tree. Gliding to the edge, he pulled himself out into the scorching dry grass. The water on his body began to evaporate in the heat immediately. He reached down apprehensively to the discoloured tourniquet. Crimson fluid had begun to leak out steadily.

  He opened up the little tin and sighed dejectedly. Taking out the needle and thread and some dressing, he poured a few drops of sine into the deep hole, then he poured a few more down his throat. Both caused a great deal of stinging. His arms began to shake as he held the threaded needle. He closed his eyes and took a few deep calming breaths. The first few seconds were the worst. It took him two attempts to break through the skin.

  He sat in silence for a while, performing the operation. His resolve was pushed to the edge of madness and he battled the urge to fall unconscious every few moments or so. He did his best. He never screamed out and his hands stayed firm. Finishing the last disordered stitch, he cut the thread and fell back in the grass. His short black hair was drenched in sweat and involuntary tears sneaked out of his eyes. They did so in silence as he curled up in a ball and held himself until the shivering stopped. He never saw the sleep steal up behind him.

  The first drops of rain woke him from his slumber. He opened his eyes, and tentatively got to his feet. The sky had turned from vibrant blue to something far less agreeable. The shattered moon was barely visible in the gloomy night and a deep cold had covered the land where once there had been burning warmth. Retrieving his cloak to stave off the chill he grabbed his pack and damp clothing and shuffled around the clearing searching for shelter. The rising wind blew on his hood and caught the rain as it began to fall heavily. He thought about seeking cover among the trees but he didn’t trust his senses in this light, and besides they would offer little reprieve from a cutting wind. He cursed his stupidity for not making a camp. The cold crept into his bones and took hold. He pushed on from his wonderful pool into complete darkness, dreaming of finding sanctuary in a little shack or a mossy cave.

  What he found was a rock.

  It was a very nice rock because it was the only object that could provide any type of cover. He burrowed his frame into the long grass at the foot of the grey boulder, which stood as high as a southern steed, and placed his pack under his head while pulling the heavy cloak over his trembling body. Droplets of rain struck from above, they rolled down his covering and were lost in the grass. There were worse places than under a cloak, protected by rock, to spend a night. He closed his eyes and rubbed his hands. It was something his mother had taught him. Soon enough, there was less a chill running through his body. The sounds of the storm calmed him and after a little time he surrendered to fatigue and fell into a more natural sleep.

  At first light, he stuck his head from out under the makeshift cover and tasked himself with assembling his bow. It was a stunning, and useless, bow. In truth, it was useless in his hands alone. To anyone else with the slightest skill at archery, it was quite a treasure. His stomach rumbled as he attached the top arm to the centrepiece, patiently screwing the bolts tightly with its accompanying tool-key. He flipped it upside down and did the same again with the bottom limb. He hated this weapon and he really hated this process. Grunting, he attached the thick cord securely to each end. Testing the draw and stability, he reached for his quiver. A bow was not a blade. It was a weapon for hunting and little more. Some would agree while others less so.

  He hobbled cautiously towards the trees using the grand weapon as little more than a walking staff. As usual, it took a few shots before he downed a bird. He imagined his father’s sarcastic comment as he finally made the kill. It would likely involve something about a barn door. It was a fair jest. He felt a pang of regret as he retrieved his meal. A little for the pigeon’s life he had taken, more so for the lost arrows. He knew he should practise more but he just couldn’t bring himself to care enough. He was simply no archer.

  He gathered some damp twigs and after stripping them of their bark, placed a few in a small triangle. The rest he stripped into deli
cate strips of kindling. Unlike his skills with a bow, fire-lighting was a natural ability. Such a morning was no test of his skill but he was not complaining. After a few moments, a spark ignited the tinder beside the miniature tower of twigs and a comforting crackle filled his ear. It helped his racing mind find peace. In the far distance, he saw a thin stream of smoke emanating from behind one of the countless tree-filled rises that shaped the land. He watched the smoke disappear into the blue above. Looking down at his own miniature flames, he turned the little handmade spit expertly. His fire was just as impressive in its own way.

  Erroh was stuck here. A prisoner in this beautiful haven until he was certain there was no sign of infection. However if he did spot the first warning signs, he knew that tainted things could be cleansed by fire. He had learned that from his father. Salvaging fallen logs from the forest, he was able to dig a few holes around his rock and wedge them in tightly. With some rope, he tied a long slender branch across both logs. He stripped a few large branches and spread them across the roof of his shelter. It took hours with his injury but by day’s end, he had made a perfect little life for himself at “Rock.”

  Every day was the same, predictable and peaceful. Each morning he would crawl out from beneath his castle, check the stitching for infection, and then bathe in the water. After stretching his muscular body, he would step tentatively into the woods and attempt to hunt a few birds.

  In the afternoon he would sit, lost in useless thoughts staring out over the hills watching the smoke in the distance. The innkeeper’s map had a distinctive blotch in that vicinity. Big enough to be a place of interest, yet like every other scribble barring the one, it had no name. Perhaps it was just a stain.

  Eventually, restlessness pushed him to unsheathe his sword. In truth, his father would not allow such a thing as a simple wound around the knee to come between his studies of warring. They were fine stitches, they would hold.

  He always held “Mercy” in his left hand. Unlike most perfectly adequate swords found out in the wastes, the weapon was a marvel and put many others to shame. Forged many years before the Faction Wars, its steel was near flawless. Its hilt suggested nobility, baring a crest of goat’s horns wearing a crown. Its guard was sturdy and bore suggestions of many failed strikes and its body was strong and thick. Erroh kept the edge sharp and well oiled. When held in the sun its finish was capable of blinding.

  Aye, a marvellous weapon indeed but in truth, its leathered grip felt wrong in his hand.

  Perhaps that was the point.

  Careful not to tear his knee apart Erroh always began by spinning the deadly blade in an arc above his head, faster and faster until it was a blur. Without stopping, he dragged the blade to his side. It always looked impressive, extravagant but it was little more than childish bravado. Few however would dare such reckless manoeuvres themselves. His father considered it as little more than a habit. However, not all habits were necessarily bad things.

  As days blurred into one, so did the nights. He exhausted his mind with solitary card games. More often than not, when unable to solve a game out, he would cast the little grubby cards aside in annoyance, convinced they plotted against him. A few breaths later he would pick them all back up and deal himself a hand once again. To finish most nights, his thoughts would return to “the Cull” in Spark City. The fuken Cull, the event he knew little about but was destined to attend. An event he had waited his entire life for, and still the only knowledge he had were whispered embellishments. Some said it was life or death to attend. Some said that those who failed were castrated and bled to death. Some said it was simply a test of prowess as a male. Others merely suggested it was a divine meeting of the minds where wits were tested and the winner was gifted a female Alphaline to mate with and spend a life.

  Such a treasure was terrifying.

  Only a select few were chosen to attend and Erroh was one such individual. It was not through luck either. His fate was sealed and he felt his doom nearing as each day passed. They were wonderful thoughts to have as sleep took hold.

  It started as a low rumbling noise.

  Sprawled out under his cloak, he woke and reached for his blade instinctively. The wind was still, the night was clear and something was coming. The shattered moon was full and it lit up the lands. Crawling out of his camp quickly, he shook his head to wake his senses and listened for the threat. It was approaching from a path on the far side of the clearing. He slid the leather armour over his head, desperately trying to regain his composure, as his fingers became numb tools. He struggled with the buckles and his arm began to itch. Wishing the absent gods had delivered a cave in which to hide, he stood alone in the centre of the clearing, sword outstretched.

  Onwards came the ominous rumble, building in intensity. It owned the darkness. Erroh saw birds scatter from their nests in terror; they flapped confusingly in the dim light. Their crying protests were lost in the disturbance.

  It was louder than thunder.

  Vibrations stirred the tall grass, they danced in unison with every thump from beyond the trees, and he waited for certain death. The first of the many sounds began to emerge from the wall of noise. He expected to see some terrible beast break though the tree line and crash into his world, some loud beast that could probably fly. That made no sense, he knew this world, and he knew her creatures.

  He heard incomprehensible voices in the air, vulgar throaty tones of indistinguishable words, horribly foreign to his ear. The thunder surrounded him. It caught in the valley’s walls and reverberated right back at him deep down to where all his fears and instincts lay. He had walked the road and never truly felt fear before. His father would have urged him to gather the fear and use it to strike harder.

  After the many days spent in the glade, he knew he could make his way through the forests if needs be. Aye, the stitches would tear but anything was better than facing whatever lay a few trees away from him.

  “Pass by,” he whispered to the gods who he did not believe in. In the noise, who would hear him anyway?

  His mind raced. If it was not some mythical monster, than perhaps it was an army. He had heard many marches in his young life though he himself had never donned a uniform nor waved a flag of allegiance. Moreover, what army could march anyway? There were no armies in this region anymore. The world was at peace. Only the brutes from the frozen lands of the southern territories bore grudges, and though much of the world was uninhabited he found it difficult to imagine they would ever venture this far north unnoticed. Whatever the southerners were up to, it was keeping them busy. Maybe it was a convoy of Alphalines, alluring, uninterested, and returning home to their tower in the city. None of these thoughts helped.

  Hooves beat the ground and long grass danced merrily in time with the cacophony of noise all around him. Closer still.

  Then something happened.

  The thunder began to pass by. He saw a few flickers of burning light through the dark, their brightness making little impact against the thick shroud of leaves, which covered the camp. It was the leading voices of riders. Yelling their mounts onwards, Erroh listened as the wave marched further on down the valley. Howls, barks, and squeals from a thousand beasts met his ears and a deadly curiosity came upon Erroh, but he ignored any instinct to seek out the noise. Instead, he took uneasy breaths and listened for the noise to fade.

  Only when the last of the torches reached the bottom of the valley did his nerves begin to settle. They headed towards Spark, but there were many miles between here and there.

  Aware that hunting packs frequently left one or two scouts a mile or two behind, to catch any creatures foolish enough to come above the ground too soon after they passed, Erroh waited.

  A calm breeze played across the dell, leaves took flight playing soothing songs. It was glorious after the deafening symphony. With the distant rumble finally lost in the noises of the forest, he took his place by the side of Rock. Opening the plug on the bottle, he leaned back and drank in the angry liquid. K
eeping one ear on the road, he downed another healthy swig, corked it, and lay back in the grass. After counting the little specks in the sky for a while, he closed his eyes and slept lightly.

  He wanted bread. Bread and cheese. Melted cheese with some bread. All of the bread. He would love some boar as well. All he wanted was boar. Huddled around the tiny fire under his shelter he turned the pigeon-laden spit. The smoke stung his eyes but it couldn’t be helped. The soothing tapping sounds from the rain, now grated his head. He was eating pigeon again. A slimy bit of grey meat fell from the body and dropped into the centre of the flames. A little black cloud rose up from the oily piece and into Erroh’s face. A few drops of water fell onto his forehead, through a gap in the shelter above his head. It just added to his misery.

  He wiped the drips away and sighed. He did not bother adding salt to the horrible meal. It brought little flavour, so why bother waste any? The first bite of the oily meat was the worst but then again, swallowing was almost as bad. Every day the meal became less appetising. He grimaced as it slid down his throat. He cast his gaze out through the downpour. The smoke behind the hills had not appeared today. He imagined it was because of the heavy rainfall. Distracting himself from the taste, he set about picking at the stitching with his knife. Each thread snapped apart satisfyingly as his wrist flicked the tip gently. An uneven scar ran across his knee as he tugged the remaining stitches free. He had been here long enough. Time flew when you were hiding from your fate. The city was calling and beneath his immature longings of freedom where he kept safe his loneliness, hope and warmth, something was beginning to stir, as his father had suggested it would.

  Stretching his knee, it felt good enough to face the road, and good enough to step into the Alphas’ domain.

  He knew most of the lore surrounding them and enjoyed hearing the ridiculous tales in every tavern along the road. The reverence with which all “lowerlines” treated Alphalines was mythical. Some thought them wild brutes, often whispering they were less man and more animal, capable of incredible deeds, should they feel the whim: wild, like fire in the night.