Spark City

by Robert J Power

  Spark City

  “You here to trade?” asked the guard, leaning out from a jutting wooden platform in the wall above Erroh’s head. Four similarly dressed guards covering the city gate watched him uneasily. Perhaps they sensed his bloodline. They were the Black Guard, the grand protectors of Samara, the “Wolves of the Spark”, and they were never to be trusted, according to his father.

  “I’m here for the Cull,” Erroh replied, though it made him feel uncomfortable. Spoken aloud it brought the event to life, did it not? No longer was it a carefree few miles down the road. He swallowed and feigned confidence.

  “You had best not be lying about such a thing, little cub,” the guard growled in a way that suggested the last thing Erroh should ever do was lie. He looked Erroh up and down, searching for deceit or confirmation. Somewhere behind the massive gate, Erroh could hear a low rumble of noise. Thoughts flickered back to a night out in the forest.

  “It is my right,” he said, when the guard made no movement to allow him through. Surely, an Alpha wouldn’t be stopped at the door. How embarrassing to be unable to pay his way at the last few steps. In truth he had things to barter, but not with this brute.

  “Not many would claim such a thing,” the guard muttered, his eyes falling to the pommel of Erroh’s sword. He thought he saw a flicker of recognition on the man’s face. Or perhaps it was an assumption that a lowerline would never have the wealth to afford such a piece? Whatever the guard’s thoughts, it was enough.

  “Go to the office of the Primary,” he said finally. “If you fail to present yourself there, the city isn’t big enough to hide you,” he warned and pulled at a heavy winch. His eyes never left Erroh as he spun the winch furiously. “I will remember you little cub,” they hinted. The scream of steel startled Erroh as the gates creaked opened just enough for a single Alphaline to squeeze through, upon which the low hum of civilisation he’d previously heard became a disarming roar of twenty thousand inhabitants.

  This was the famed City of Light. He hated it immediately. Everywhere he looked, wave after wave of dreary colours moulded together as one. There was a haze of grey, brown, and black in the people, in the buildings, in almost everything. He could taste it in the air too, an affront to his quiet life walking the road. All around him was a cacophony of unnatural noise, a tempest of activity, and he was overcome. He’d never expected to see so many buildings towering over him: grey stone structures sturdy, aged, and filling the city from wall to wall. Running between them were narrow streets with smooth cobbles, and people flowed through like swelling gushing currents in the Great Mother’s drift.

  Panic.

  He gripped his chest as it tightened. So many people. His eyes couldn’t focus on one for more than a few seconds. So much motion. The citizens thought it a small matter that so many could be crammed in behind these massive walls, while he thought it a simple matter of suffocation. They moved as one and Erroh stepped in against the main gate to collect himself. He could hear their talking, shouting, laughing, crying, wailing, screaming, and cursing but most of all, he could hear their bartering and he began to calm himself. He could see beyond the masses, gaps in the ocean of bodies. It was only at the main gate where many paths met that the crowds seemed to be at their worst. There was more than enough room for all, he told himself. This was a massive city. It was at least a mile in width and thrice as long. There would be no crush, he just needed to find a route and move with the right current. He would treat it as though crossing a precarious stretch of rapids. No problem.

  He noticed something else. Hanging loosely on the nearest walls were thin lines of cord no wider than his finger. Attached to some cords every few feet were delicate looking glass balls, perfectly lined up resting against the stone wall. They never seemed to end, with each cord covering the length of the wall and beyond. The nearest string of balls hung just above his reach but he could almost swear they were glowing. Not enough to affect the drawing darkness of the day but they were pleasant to gaze upon. Perhaps it was just his imagination. His mother had insisted that there was great beauty in the city. Little glowing balls were not the worst. He ignored the fresh scent of flowers and followed the glowing balls along their route. They seemed to flicker slightly and become a constant glimmer. He wiped his eyes and watched again. Then he looked away, deciding it was a trick of the light. Then he looked once more.

  A young female walked by carrying a blade and scabbard in her hands, it did not match her yellow dress in any way, but she didn’t seem to mind. She glanced at him with startlingly disarming eyes while he stared blankly around, completely oblivious to her. After a few seconds waiting for him to notice her and perhaps answer a question she had to ask, she shrugged her shoulders and disappeared back into the crowd. Her mind was on other things.

  Aye, they definitely were glowing and to watch a tiny light burning without kindling or oil was a wonder to him. They were eerily beautiful. He blinked and his eyes stung. This he didn’t like as much. Eventually he ceased his staring and stepped into the crowd cautiously. It took him longer than he thought to manoeuver the streets confidently. Two years of walking at his own pace hadn’t prepared him for the tight surge of people and their unpredictable march. Bumping and grinding, he fought the tide and his balance. The warmth, the stench, and the unpronounced aggression. He fought his rising anxiety once more as sweaty bodies surrounded him. They all appeared to stare blankly straight ahead, and Erroh was unable to do anything but match their collective charge, lest he stumble, fall, and probably die under their crush. However, he did not fall in the end, instead he slipped between their swell and found his feet and before he knew it, he’d ventured deep into the city in search of his prize and getting completely lost at the same time. When the crowded streets became little more than steady streams he finally swallowed his pride and asked a passer-by for directions. As darkness began to appear in the sky above, he found himself standing in front of the offices, knocking on their oak doors. To his surprise, and despite the late hour, they opened.

  A man named Seth greeted him and swiftly led him down a thin corridor to a gloomy windowless room where he gestured for Erroh to sit on a cushioned stool. A solitary ball of light hung from the ceiling above and swung gently in Seth’s wake as he closed the door behind them. He was old like Erroh’s father but his hair was thinning at the centre and his skin was meticulously shaved clean. He wore delicate glasses with eyes that suggested kindness in them. Perhaps it was just the light.

  “You’re the first this year,” Seth muttered. Rooting through his desk, his hands flashed over numerous scripts and books. As he did, his hands brushed a half full mug of dark liquid hidden among many sheets of parchments which he instinctively lifted it to his nose. After a breath, he dared a sip, grimaced, and slid the mug away from where it came.

  “My name is Erroh,” Erroh said after a few moments.

  “Aye, you’re the son of Elise and Magnus,” agreed Seth. “I know you have a sister here too. She will be along, but not today,” he said sharply. He looked at Erroh as if he’d forgotten his manners and smiled. “You are here to Cull?”

  Erroh nodded, his stomach turned.

  Seth scribbled a few important looking notes down on paper. The swinging light above them sent shadows across his aged face like fingers reaching out, unnerving Erroh more than it should have. This room felt wrong. He missed fresh air and light. How could any man sit in a room like this all day and not go a little mad?

  “She will be interested to meet you,” Seth said, reaching up and steadying the little light above him.

  Who would? His sister? His mate? Someone else? His stomach turned again.

  This wasn’t the arrival to Spark he had imagined at all. He had expected at least a little grandness. A few trumpets maybe. Instead he sat in a little room with a man he was not sure if he liked or not.

  “Place your belongings in here please,” said Seth sliding a chest across with his foot. He ran his finger along an old ledger,
its pages dry and yellow from age. He muttered a few more times and finally found what he desired. “Sign here,” he said tapping the page and gesturing to a black quill among the official looking debris. But Erroh didn’t want to sign anything. He just wanted to know what was to become of him. Questions burned in his mind, desperate pleading questions about the Cull. He opened his mouth to reveal his ignorance but instead he sighed and picked up the quill like a good little cub and scribed his name. He wasn’t supposed to know anything about the Cull. What chance would he have of learning something new, sitting here in the beast’s lair?

  “I have some worrying news from the road,” Erroh said, returning the quill to its inkwell. Seth blew at the ink and looked up with curious grey eyes. Go on, they suggested. So he did. He made it as far as describing the message on the wall before a dismissive finger silenced him.

  “It’s late in the day and the Cull must take precedence,” Seth said, leaning across the table. “All of the females have been waiting their entire lives for your arrival. We shouldn’t make them wait any longer, should we? Rest assured, you will be allowed to deliver your worrying news at an appropriate time,” he said.

  What type of wretched wanton female spent her entire life waiting for a mate, Erroh thought despondently? Then again, what type of male walked a few thousand miles just to meet her?

  Seth brightened. “On to the formalities. May I see the proof, for the right to attend?” he asked, glancing helpfully behind Erroh’s shoulder. He removed his father’s sword and slowly presented it to the enquirer.

  “It’s a fine blade,” he said running his fingers along the edge and caressing its crest.

  “Mercy,” Erroh stated quietly.

  “I know its name,” Seth said evenly. “Will this blade also be proof, for your future line?” he asked, placing it carefully into the chest.

  It was such a simple question with too many connotations. Erroh imagined a young cub, sitting in this very room, two decades from now, nervous and anxious, hoping to follow in his father’s footsteps. What strides would his own son have to take to match his own? What type of father would he be? Was he even ready to be a father yet? Oh fuk. He thought about bolting as panic overcame him. He coughed, it was all he could do, and a word appeared in his mind. Beautiful and obvious. Like father like son. Instead of fleeing, he quietly removed the other sword from his back and presented his token. He thought about the foolish oath.

  “Vengeance,” he whispered.

  This pleased his inquisitor; it was hastily scribbled down. It allowed Erroh a moment to dispel his worries somewhat. This was only ritual. He might not even be chosen. Or he would not choose. Or there may in fact be no choice at all. All he knew was that “words would be spoken,” according to Mea. He shook the unhelpful thoughts away. He was in this event now; best he could do was keep his calm. How bad could things get anyway?

  Seth placed the second weapon into the chest and locked it, before leading Erroh from the room, down the end of the thin corridor to one final door. A thousand coats of varnish hinted at its care but age had still cracked its finish in numerous places. In the fading light, he could make out decorations of battles carved into its oak frame. Aye, it was a fine old door and it looked as sturdy as a jail gate.

  “This could take a time,” Seth said quietly before disappearing back to his office. There was a distant slam and Erroh felt very alone in the building, thinking disconcerting thoughts about the future.

  It did take quite a time. Erroh paced up and down the corridor too many times to count. He stretched his routine fully, which proved less distracting than he had hoped. So he did it again. He hummed songs from the road, some of defiant brigands, some of visiting cities and some of great death marches through the desert, but time passed slower than the darkness in the little window above his head and soon enough he found himself fighting exhaustion. Soon after that, he fell asleep outside the grand oak door with the finely crafted finish.

  “She will see you now,” Seth whispered in his ear and Erroh shot awake, his hand reaching for a weapon. Any weapon. The man kneeling in front of him approved of his reflexes and stepped away, gesturing to the open door beside them.

  Erroh wiped his eyes and stifled a yawn before it overtook him, the hallway had turned to complete darkness but there was a slight glow from the open door and he stepped through into a chamber, which unsettlingly reminded him of an arena.

  There were more of the unusual glowing lights in the floor at his feet. They spread out along the bottom of the wall matching its circular shape. The only other object within was a similar door opposite to where he entered. The room was no more than forty steps across but he couldn’t see the ceiling. The floor and wall was the same black metal worn by the city’s guards and his feet echoed loudly as he stepped into the centre of the room and waited. The lights at his feet blinded him to anything more than a few feet above his head. He tried to remember how high this building had been from the outside, but he cursed his memory. He felt like he was gazing upon a starless sky and someone watched from above. After a few breaths, he heard a creaking, like a foot on a badly maintained staircase. He spun on his heels for any clue but nothing revealed itself. He stepped up to the second door and tried to push it but it stood firm.

  “Of course,” he hissed loudly as the door behind him slammed shut and he heard the predictable click of a lock. In that moment, he decided he did in fact not like Seth at all.

  Another creak in the rafters above distracted him and immediately Erroh fell silent and stared up into the nothingness. “Who’s there?” he called. No one answered, and why would they? They were too busy hiding in the dark making their choice about him, or something along those lines.

  He heard another noise at the far side of the room and again he searched with little joy. He was not alone, this he was quite certain of. His body shook though not from anxiety. In the dim light, he caught his breath and he realised just how cold this cell was. No, it wasn’t a cell. It really was more like an arena and a place to view a fine ambush.

  A few more noises came from high up above. He did not bother to look this time. It was his attempt at defiance. “I can hear you,” he muttered under his breath and then he looked up again anyway. They sounded like padded footsteps; delicate like a feline at hunt. “I can hear you,” he called again and the phantom sounds replied and became an incessant moan all around him. It felt as though the building itself was alive, slowly waking from a slumber and he was stuck within.

  It’s a test, you fool.

  Of course. That made sense. This city harnessed sunlight in a ball. What else could it do in the dark? The noise grew to a roar and Erroh almost believed some beast would drop from above with talon and venom. The room’s noise reached its zenith and fell unnaturally silent and Erroh found himself staring into the stillness of darkness once more. He could feel eyes upon him. His father had told him to trust his instincts. If you can’t see, then listen. So he did. But his imagination betrayed him. He heard a hundred sets of blinking eyelids, a thousand carefully taken breaths and lastly he heard ten thousand skipped heartbeats. But really, his ears heard nothing. And then after a few moments of nothing much happening, something happened.

  Four men dressed in the city’s armour crashed through the far door and attempted to surround him. They carried crude heavy clubs in their gloved hands and they moved with murderous intent. He leapt back before they could surround him fully, reaching for his sword he cursed loudly. It was a fine curse with just enough crudeness to merit the situation. Four against one was a different kind of beast altogether.

  Well, at least there weren’t five, whispered the absent gods in his mind.

  Retreating to the wall, he kept his hands up. This was a test. It had to be a test. The nearest Wolf leapt forward and swung viciously at his head. He ducked under the blow and stumbled away. Not a test. They meant to kill him. Magnus was right. He spun away from another strike and the wooden club cracked against the wall behi
nd him. A loud metallic echo filled the room and disappeared in the rafters above. He swung instinctively, punched the attacker across the black helm, and regretted it immediately. He stifled a scream and rolled under a third and fourth attack nursing his aching hand before crashing against the far wall and stumbling to his knees. The room was far too small. He cursed loudly again and felt a lot better. Ducking and dodging was no battle plan, neither was striking out at metal. He leapt to his feet as the guards tried to form around him and waited to strike. His first victim broke the flanking formation by swinging wildly in the hope of a killing blow. Erroh sidestepped and grabbed the man’s helm while stamping viciously down on his knee. It lacked grace but there was a satisfying pop followed by wild screaming. Wrenching the club free and shoving the injured man to the ground, he turned to face the other three. Despite the adrenaline and the fear, Erroh was still. Everything around him seemed to slow down and he could feel the turning of the tide. This battle was already over. He just needed to trust himself and move with the moment. This he did, with very little difficulty.