Spark City

by Robert J Power

  Magnus insisted that Alphas were no different to any supposed lowerline male or female. They were human but they were dangerous. Every one of them was considered an elite warrior. Every one of them had endured a demanding life of education and training. Every one of them was a master in the art of war. Erroh liked to think he was good with a blade himself.

  Meeting Alphas was not the only reason to be in the city. His little sister lived there now. Would she even remember him? Sent there a decade ago, apart from a few exchanged letters a season they were strangers. When he’d begun his walk, the letters had stopped. Maybe she would have word of his parents. That would be nice.

  He stretched his knee and stood out in the downpour. Dressed in only his black leather trousers, he spread his arms out and stood on his toes. Favouring his stronger side these past weeks would not serve him well. Leaning his head back and closing his eyes, he stood as still as possible. He had always struggled to master his balance but it was a battle he would win eventually. This, he was certain of.

  Erroh reached for the steel and fought the pommel’s weight ever so much. It trembled in his hand and the rain splashed down upon the metal. The driving wind delivered another harsh gust against his cold body. He took his stance. Muscles screeched with the strain as he began the first slash. The cold bit into him and he felt involuntary shakes throughout his body as he performed the second manoeuvre. His body knew the sword form instinctively. By the third move, his body flowed smoothly and his knee offered little complaint. He followed the strikes with a few slight feints and then he thrust, slashed, and killed invisible opponents with great violence. Throughout the storm, he trained. His mind clear and his body warming, he found a peace. He twisted, spun, and let the beauty of swordplay overwhelm him completely. He performed his tricks and he did so with proficient violence and speed. He pushed himself through all his routines completely and his knee held firm.

  The following morning, once dawn had broken, Erroh took a little blade and brought it to the surface of his rock. He scraped at the massive stone and eventually dust fell away. It would be wrong not to leave some mark upon his sanctuary. Standing back, he surveyed his mark for time, allowing himself the slightest bit of pride. “Rock of Erroh.” It was a fine name. It had been a fine rock.

  He considered tearing down his shack but thought better of it. Perhaps it would be a welcome port of call to another lonely traveller along the way, some windswept night having prayed to the gods of shelters for grace. Perhaps time would simply cover it up in a thick canopy of green as it did the rest of the world.

  After gathering his belongings, he disassembled the great stringed bow and stored it back in his pack. As the first warm rays of the sun began to warm the road, Erroh stretched his limbs for the walk. He did so with the skill of a young man that had walked many miles already. He picked up his pack, left the parting of the trees, looking forward. There was no need to look back.

  Leather and Steel

  He would never eat pigeon again. Fuk pigeon. He thought about that boar he had promised himself instead, and then the melted cheese. They were fine thoughts to occupy his mind, as he stepped further into the wood. The ground underneath him was soft and broken. Never being a terribly skilled tracker, he struggled to make sense of the many marks from the mysterious noise, save for them being fresh, varied, and plentiful. In the light of the day, they seemed far less terrifying. He headed towards the smoke following the route a pigeon might take, desperate to flee inaccurate arrows. His eyes were thin slits of concentration and each step was as careful as the last, wary of subtle obstacles like gnarled roots, greasy mossy patches and fallen jagged logs.

  The warm rays shone down through the leaves of the ancient trees. Their massive trunks, sturdy and aged like mountains. They probably stood grandly before the birth of this world. They had seen things he had only read about. They survived such things and now they swayed in the wind almost soundlessly.

  “This is freedom,” he muttered to himself wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. He had been alone so long he sometimes forgot his own voice. It was a strange thing to hear his quiet words in this eternal green, a single voice with lonely words. Thoughts of the city, and his few days of freedom left, returned to him. He still had miles to walk. Alone.

  Eventually the heat caught up with his determination and he forced himself to take rest at the bottom of a pine-covered valley.

  He sat in the grass under a break in the trees and let the sun shine down on his face. It was only here that he finally noticed the difference. The smoke was black, a dark bruise on the radiant blue, and an affront to the beauty of the day. He stared up at the ominous sign and felt a chill run down his spine. The monstrous black clouds looked like death. Something terrible lay ahead. He considered changing course. “They might have boar,” he whispered.

  A few hours later, he reached the top of a valley edge and looked down to the settlement below. It was little more than a few decrepit buildings clustered together, slowly losing the battle to the certainty of time. A faded road ran through them, cracked, grey, and ancient. It turned to nothing but mud and grass beyond the town’s boundaries. It was a glimmer of the old world and all was deathly still. There was no sound in the air but the flapping of the flames. There would be no boar tonight.

  Various pieces of cloth hung across the windows of some of the ruins, acting as braces against the harsh winds but there was no one left for them to protect. In the centre, a fire rose into the evening sky and it was terrible. The flames would never stop burning in his mind and he would not let them either. Cattle and swine ran freely throughout the devastated town, their pens knocked down during the attack. They were oblivious to the horrors that surrounded them, happy to graze in their newly obtained freedom. Chickens pecked at grain that had spilt messily onto the ground from torn open bags. Some grains were lost from the chickens grasp and carried to the bottom of the street in a steady little stream of red.

  Terrified.

  Touching his sword along his waist as if a comfort, Erroh walked cautiously into the village to search for anyone left alive. Even he was able to recognise a cavalry’s tracks in the soft muddy ground as he drew nearer. The path turned from mud to hard stone as he neared the town and each step he took became louder. They echoed in the stony silence and each step nearer seemed to steal his hope and replace it with an awful despair. It is no small thing to walk among the dead, no matter what bards, poets and storytellers declare.

  The nearest body still held a pike in its hand and a hole in its chest. The strike had gone through cheap armour and downed the defender where the road met the town. The body lay in a heap, it would never move again. Its eyes unfocused, staring into the heavens, the wind ruffled its hair. Erroh moved on from the dead man towards the rest of the devastation.

  Slowly he stepped between each structure, his eyes darting each and every way, his sword still sheathed, peering into the ground floor windows where he could. His heart dropped like a heavy weight with every grisly corpse he discovered. He found quite a few. He discovered an old man still asleep in a little dark room in the last building. He looked so peaceful with a warm blanket covering his body; Erroh almost went as far as checking for a pulse when he saw the slit across his neck. The blood had soaked up in the straw underneath.

  It was too much. He had seen death before, though nothing like this. He ran from the building, his sadness and horror giving way to an anger he had never known himself capable of.

  “Face me you animals,” he roared, pulling the blade from its scabbard, challenging the world to a duel. He charged through the town, his mind a furnace of rage. He could not see sense. He could only see the injustice of the world. It was all he could do. He wanted to destroy. To tear these brutes apart, whoever they were. He wanted vengeance for those whom he had never known.

  When he had calmed himself he returned to the centre of the town where most of the bodies were strewn like discarded delicacies for feasting carrion birds. Their
shields and bodies were splintered and split alike, and their masculine limbs still gripped swords, flails and battle-axes. Of all the horrors, when he came upon the smallest fighter of them all it was the image of the broken pale boy which stayed with him longest.

  And then he braved the females burning in the pyre. They had been chained to each other and set alight and now the flames rose as high as a killer seated atop a great horse. He hoped their throats were slit before the end. Through his weeping eyes, he could still make out their shapes.

  There was nobody left but the dead. The fire would run its course, the sun would set, the ashes would scatter and the world would carry on. All he could do was remember and hate. A hate far deeper than the simmering revulsion his father held for those who ruled this world now. He wished his father were with him now.

  Scavenging was shameful work but there was a fortune in this place. Each edge was as sharp as the day they were forged. All the blades would find a strong price in Samara, he thought grimly. Only a couple of the finest pieces would end up in his sack though. He knew it was wrong to take the weapons of any fallen warrior but steel was steel and he hadn’t a piece to his name since the card game.

  The spot he chose was beyond the meeting of road and stone. It was soft ground and easy to dig. It would catch most of the sun of the day. In truth, he had few places from which to choose. It was a fine place to rest peacefully. Had he the will, he would have gifted each dead warrior a solitary grave but as it was, he could only do what he could. They were dead. He recovered a spade and dug into the soft ground. To his relief, the ground gave way without much difficulty.

  When many hours had passed and the day turned to night, Erroh finally dropped the shovel in frustration. Not even half way through the first foot across, he was too exhausted and heartbroken to continue. His grand thoughts of a deep grave were now all but a sober wish. He could do no more than cover the bodies deep enough to deter the carrion birds. It was regretful but it was a task greater than his capability. Worse than that, a part of him wanted to take up his belongings and leave this nightmare behind but somehow he didn’t. Instead, he found a place just outside the town and beneath one of the many surrounding trees lay down with some bread. Trying not to think of the baker’s likely fate, he wrapped his cloak around him and watched the shattered moon spit her shards of light across the sky. He thought it a fitting display in honour of the fallen. He did not sleep well.

  The following morning, he found himself at the fire. The flames had burned away but whoever had lit this terrible pyre had been greatly skilled at such things. What remained were glowing embers and the heat was almost soothing. It would smoulder for the day. To kill a male in this world was a great sin but there was no greater crime than taking a female’s life. The thoughts of their brutal end once again tore through him anew. This close to the city it was no mere barbaric crime, it had to be an intended affront to the “Primary.” It was a venomous warning, or else an unsettling declaration. His eyes broke from the dying fire to the painted words scrawled messily on a building at the far end of the town.

  “The Woodin Man walks. The tainted must burn.”

  He would bear the message in its fullest. Erroh answered to the Primary like so many others and he imagined her wrath would be greater than anything he could imagine.

  The two fiends entered the town wearing heavy armour. The smaller of the men wore leather with matching helm; the other covered himself in thick steel. Their movements echoed loudly in the dead silence. “Leather,” moved like a hunter, watching for prey. His head shot to either side, searching for any stirrings in the quiet buildings or the surrounding greenery. In his grasp, he held a thin short sword.

  His companion “Steel” rested a massive war hammer on his shoulder as he walked confidently. He took the lead and they moved through the village. They stopped by the flames and exchanged low cautious words. Leather stalked around the fire while Steel propped himself up against a cart filled with vegetables at the edge of the road. He removed his helm and rummaged through the produce absently. Chewing on a fresh carrot, he stared into the fire. The bodies had almost burned to nothing. Almost but not quite. Leather eyed something of interest behind one of the buildings. He hopped a long wooden log fence and disappeared while Steel took another bite of the vegetable and tossed it carelessly into the fire. They talked more but Erroh could make out very little from behind the trunk of a large oak where he slept the night before. Steel stepped towards the enclosure and after a few seconds received the heavy load from his companion. They carried the slaughtered swine across the road easily enough. Their feet splashed uncaringly in the pools of crimson and they sat down by the warmth. Steel lit up some weed tobacco from an old wooden pipe while leather stripped the fresh swine. He attacked this task with relish.

  The smell hit the air and Erroh was disgusted. What type of men could pick up battle spears from the dead and use them to cook meat in the embers of dead females? But his mouth salivated. It had been weeks since he’d eaten well. The two figures remained undisturbed and Erroh finally found the courage to move from the safety of the tree. He had a task to finish after all. He resented the strangers and their disrespect, but the last thing he wanted was to engage them aggressively. There were two of them; it was hardly a fair fight. He left his armour behind, intending there to be no further bloodshed. The town had tasted its fair share already. It was unlikely they lived an honest life but they were not responsible for such atrocities. Their crime was only disrespect, was it not? He took a calming breath and slipped from his hiding place out onto the main pathway. They never heard him coming. It probably didn’t help matters.

  “May I join you?” he called out quietly. They were fine words. He’d taken quite a time to form them. He held his hands apart and smiled, which usually served him well. Some of the carrion birds viewed the events with intrigue. Maybe they found his choice of words merely adequate.

  “Who the fuk are you?” roared Steel in alarm, climbing to his feet and grabbing his hammer with both hands.

  Leather hopped up quicker and immediately began to flank Erroh. His eyes darted from side to side searching for a second or third attacker.

  “Answer him,” he roared, passing his sword from hand to hand smoothly. He had skill and he was probably a bandit. Erroh could see a black sash at his elbow and doubted it was decorative. Perhaps it was something else. He took three quick steps wide of Erroh.

  “I’m here for the dead and nothing more,” Erroh offered calmly. He leaned to the side, just enough that the pommel of Mercy became visible to the fighters. It hung loosely at his waist.

  “It’s all that I carry,” he assured them, allowing just enough fear to enter his voice. In truth, he was indeed terrified.

  “Are you alone?” Leather circled Erroh, his sword favouring the right hand. It was low and ready to strike. It was all going to end in the next few breaths. Erroh undid the buckle on the scabbard, let it drop loudly to the ground, and stepped away from their reach.

  “I’m alone,” he declared. He retreated a few steps more. He dared a “let’s be friends” smile.

  “That’s probably a mistake,” hissed Leather, getting into striking distance. He moved like a viper. No longer hunting, he had his prey. His eyes no longer searched for Erroh’s hidden companions. This one was quite alone.

  “Ah, leave him,” muttered Steel dropping the massive weapon.

  Erroh glanced from the bull with the hammer to the viper with the blade. Slowly, the leather foe lowered his sword. His eyes remained focused on his quarry though. He licked his dry lips and sighed in frustration. There would be no blood for now.

  “Now stop that running away shit,” muttered Steel in disgust.

  Leather flicked his greasy hair out of his eyes and returned to cooking his own piece of meat, muttering a few curses under his breath. The birds were disappointed but there was something in the air.

  The smell was intoxicating. Steel was quite the chef apparently. La
nced on a pike over the flames was a half onion and a slab of swine meat. He poured a thick golden liquid onto the slab of meat and sat back contentedly. A few drips of honey slipped through and found their way onto the onion underneath. Erroh smelled the sizzling flavours, licked his lips, and hated himself greatly for it. Leather ripped his own half-cooked slice from his own spit. Content that not all the blood had been burned away, he chewed noisily. His eyes never left Erroh as he took a seat on an old overturned wooden barrel. He pointed to the carcass of the swine beast.

  “Tear yourself a piece,” he grunted between bites. It was almost a challenge. Erroh was quickly sensing the mistake he’d made in revealing himself. He also wanted to try the recipe. Who wouldn’t? He could almost taste the succulent honey-soaked meat and he very nearly accepted the offer but he remembered the burning. There would be other fine meals to look forward to down the road. He shook his head limply.

  “Thank you friend, I have eaten,” he replied, seating himself on a slight kerb of the road, as far from Leather’s eerie gaze as possible. Steel sat between them, seemingly lost in his culinary concentration. Erroh could not fail to notice the subtle exchange of smiles between both men. Perhaps they were just glad of the company.

  “What happened here boy?” asked Steel, reaching out and flipping the meat onto its other side. Red droplets of juice seeped down into the onion; a few met their fate in the flames. It was a small sacrifice.

  “I saw smoke and came upon this,” Erroh replied shrugging. They seemed satisfied with his answer. His appearance suggested him incapable of such brutal deeds. They didn’t know him at all.

  “Was everyone dead?” Steel asked.