The Spark
Page 18
“What is it?” Julien demanded.
“There is an auto blocking our path.” The mechanical driver stated. “The one called fifteen-fifteen can make way around it.”
“Then do so.” Julien ordered.
“What should the one called fifteen-fifteen do about the kinetic waving us to stop?”
Julien looked to Rosemary for guidance. His bitter heart would have loved to keep going, but he feared being accosted by the lady. As he suspected, she indicated they should stop and assist in any way they could.
“We shall stop.” Julien said.
“Understood.” The construct replied.
The auto came to a stop before Julien had a chance to switch the speaker system back to one-way conversing. There was a sudden rap at the cabin door, startling Rosemary and Julien all at once. Julien rose from his seat, cane in hand, and headed for the door.
Through the window, the silhouette of a man with wild hair stood in wait. His movements indicated he had been exposed to the elements for too long. Julien did not hesitate and opened the portal to the passenger cabin.
The light from the small everflame lanterns of the cabin washed out into the night, revealing a man with stark white hair. His clothing was black and there was the unmistakable bulk of the electrokinetic grounding armour underneath.
“Bless my eyes.” The man said. “If it isn’t the famed Julien Di Marco!”
“I’m sorry,” Julien said as the man reached to shake hands. “Do I know you?”
“No, of course not.” The man admitted. “Not yet at least. Allow me to introduce myself; I am the new headmaster of the College of Kinetics, Henry Zehr. Electrokinetic professor for these past three years.”
“Headmaster?” Julien furrowed his eyebrows. “What of Cyril?”
“Passed on to the halls of Del Morte.” Zehr said, pushing the thin white of his hair out of his face.
“Then he was stricken with the disease.” Julien said to himself more than anyone.
“You mean that awful kinetic killing sickness?” Zehr almost laughed.
“Aye.” Julien admitted.
“No.” Zehr said, patting Julien’s shoulder. “There is no ailment making the rounds. Poor Cyril suffered an accident during lessons with the first year pyrokinetics. That disease you mention is a rumor generated by the great enemy, to further hurt the kinetic people in the eyes of the populace.”
“Why was I not notified?” Julien demanded. “Cyril and I were good friends and colleagues. Why was your appointment not brought to my attention? It is my duty as councilor to approve the candidates for headmaster, and for the council of Wynne to decide which candidate will take on the station.”
“All good questions my dear ser.” Zehr said. He turned his gaze to the lady Rosemary, as if noticing her for the first time. “As you know the college moves quickly. We had to do what we all must in times of despair and urgency. We had to…do what was necessary to keep the college life running smoothly.”
“I see.” Julien said, unsure whether or not he could trust this man.
“Yes,” Zehr continued, never removing his eyes from Rosemary. “The wires for communication must have been damaged by this unseemly weather. When we did not receive your replies I took it upon myself to come find you in Gossac. I must have just missed you, for your stewards mentioned you were headed for the college. I assume you stopped at The Leviathan, for it is the only way I would have passed you on the road.”
“Well, I am glad you thought to seek me out.” Julien said, gaining some comfort with the curious situation. “In the end it doesn’t seem to matter, your missing me in Gossac, for now we have found each other on the road.”
“Quite so.” Zehr said with a static laugh. “I was just cursing my luck when the glow of your auto crested the ridge.”
“Del Morte does work in strange ways.” Julien added a chuckle of his own. “As for your entitlement, I suppose you may keep the station for the nonce. Once the issues facing Wynne have been dealt with we will discuss the appointment further.”
“Thank-you ser,” Zehr smiled. “I am glad to see you are not afraid to do what is necessary in these dark, and troubling times.”
Julien nodded his thanks, noticing the way the man before him gazed at Rosemary. The lady seemed uncomfortable with the appearance of this man. Why, Julien could not place. In many ways, it seemed as though Zehr and Rosemary knew of each other, or at least it seemed as much.
“Now, come out of that cold,” Julien insisted, pushing the curious situation out of his mind. “And tell me more about yourself.”
“Gladly.” The new headmaster of the college said with a large, electrifying smile.
Zehr climbed into the passenger cabin, pointedly sitting across from Rosemary. Julien paid it no mind, resigning the oddity of his companions’ relationship to nothing more than strangers on the road. Julien shut the cabin door and took his seat next to Zehr.
The auto rumbled to life as soon as the door shut.
The golem at the helm wound a path around the headmaster’s vehicle. Once the iron wheels returned to the rough roadway, the three travelers were off. Julien dreaded the thought of the long, hard road ahead of them. He estimated the journey to the college would run late into the night, for their destination lay deep in the northern valley of Driftwood Isle.
The standard issue rifle was slick and heavy in his tired hands. The knee upon which he knelt ached from the added weight of the weapon. Pebbles, rock and broken twigs dug into the flesh of his bony knee. Marcus fought the discomfort for it was necessary to succeed. It did not matter how long the regiment trained this morning, nor yesterday or even the day before. There was a need for perfection, for war would soon come to Wynne.
“Ready!” The gruff voice of the drillmaster echoed over the firing range.
Marcus brought his rifle to bear, nudging its maple butt into his shoulder. Instinct took over as he locked his aim on the circular, red and white board across the field. Even now, after weeks of grueling, intensive training, it still amazed Marcus how his body reacted in such a honed, automated manner. He had to force his body to remain steady and poised, ready to react as a first line rifleman. His gaze remained fixed on the target across the field. Tension filled the air as the exhausted regiment waited for the drillmaster to give the order. The men to either side of Marcus were as fixated on their target as he.
“Fire!” The drillmaster hollered.
A violent clatter of a dozen rifles releasing their rounds filled the air like a thunderous cacophony. Marcus’ ears rang in protestation to the rising roar. In the distance, a flock of birds took flight as the sudden eruption disturbed their rest.
“Ready!” The drillmaster once again ordered as the clamour came to an end.
Marcus fumbled in his breast pocket for another bullet. He had to load the round into his rifle’s chamber before the call to fire came again. Many of the men, including Marcus, struggled in the beginning. Their sluggish pace often kept the regiment behind for another hour of training. That was then. Now Marcus moved with the precision and speed expected of a man of the Imperial Order.
He slammed his ammunition into the chamber, brought the rifle to bear once more and took aim at the bullet-riddled target across the field. Once more the air filled with the claps of rifle fire as the drillmaster gave the command.
Marcus’ shoulder was sore, tired, and bruised from the relentless training. Each time he released the deadly ammo, the butt of his rifle would slam into the soft flesh of his upper arm. The bruising Marcus could tolerate. It was the agonizing sting each new round brought to his body. Marcus had to grit his teeth to tolerate the pain, for the muscle underneath had been well tenderized.
“At ease.” The drillmaster said as the final echo of gunfire faded.
Marcus lowered his rifle and looped his sore arm through the worn leather strap. He slid the weapon over his shoulder, freeing his hands of the tiresome weight of the object. The muscles and tendons in his legs sighed with reli
ef as Marcus rose to a proper, relaxed standing position. Reaching into his pocket, Marcus retrieved a well-used kerchief and dabbed the perspiration from his brow. Marcus let his eyes follow the length of the rocky field to where his target sat, riddled with a dozen puncture holes. By now, he had become quite the good shot. Many of his landed shots struck the same, inner ring of the target, a feat many in his regiment couldn’t achieve.
“Well done.” The drillmaster clapped his hands, walking to the head of the regiment. “Well done indeed. Our glorious leader will be proud to hear of the success you all have brought upon yourself, your comrades and the Order.”
The pride bubbling in Marcus’ heart was hard to contain. Each man in the small company seemed to contain their own swelling hearts in check as the dour memory of the day’s training evaporated with the offered compliment.
“That will be all for today.” The drillmaster said, twisting his bushy mustachio between thumb and finger. He paused for a moment, staring down the each man in turn. With a quick wave of his hand he dismissed the unit.
The small regiment shuffled in unison for the old roadway that would lead them from the southern training fields back to the barracks. The walk would take the better part of the morning, perhaps longer as the troupe was well beyond exhausted. The road itself was less than the cobbled roads Marcus knew in Malefosse, but it was more defined than a game trail. It was a rugged and worn dirt path, currently slick and muddy under the light drizzle of rain. On good days, the detachment could march three abreast, but on a dreary morning like this, the company proceeded by two.
“See my bullseye lad?” A man named James bragged, slapping Marcus on the shoulder.
“No.” Marcus said as he reached into the pocket of his black topcoat. He retrieved a small tin. Inside were a dozen or so cigarettes. He offered one to James before putting one into his own mouth and giving it a quick light with a beautiful, silver lighter Garius Syrah had given him. “I was too busy admiring my own.”
“Little shit.” James laughed, stepping over a wide puddle.
“No more than you, James.” Marcus teased, tossing his comrade the lighter. It was odd, calling this man James. Marcus knew him as the prolific, womanizing, salt mine overseer, Jimmy. The pair worked on several deep expeditions into the heart of the salt caves. Coming to the Imperial Order had changed both of them; enlightened their minds with history, educated them in the ways of speech, and honed their bodies into perfectly oiled machines of war. Despite all this training and new persona, Marcus could still see the old, goofy Jimmy.
The trail bent to the east before dipping into a low coastal valley. If the troupe continued east, they would come to the sandy shores of the isle where the waters of Fascile Bay sloshed. But to those quiet beaches they would not go, for the path they followed would lean back to the north where the dirt gave way to pebbles, leading over the rugged highland paths.
“You going to come diving before cleaning up?” James asked, a grin of devilish desire playing his lips as he enjoyed the smoke.
“Can’t.” Marcus stated, perhaps more cold than he intended.
“Why not? James furrowed his brow. “I haven’t seen you make a trip to the dark in ages.”
“It’s cause he can’t.” A fellow soldier said.
“Aye,” another agreed. “Don’t you know anything James?”
“I know plenty.” James declared, though Marcus knew his old supervisor had one of the daftest minds in all of Wynne.
“Quit your lying.” The first soldier declared. “Our boy Marcus will make some excuse, not pull duty tonight, and we will see nary a sign of him until the morning’s drill.”
“Why is that?” Another trooper asked. “Where do you run off to Seyblanc?
“I…” Marcus paused for a moment. He thought for several moments, taking several drags of his cigarette. These men were his brothers now. They would be at his side in combat and death. These men had to trust him, yet he was told not to speak a word of his duties. “I work down in the shop with the kinetics; imbuing ammunition, fastening bolts, and testing new inventions for our glorious leader.”
It wasn’t a total lie.
The truth of the matter did see Marcus spending much of his time tinkering with the kinetic folk on their experimental arsenal. Garius Syrah, the all-powerful leader of the Imperial Order, had taken note of Marcus’ love of invention and sent him to the labs from time-to-time. Syrah had taken note of another useful skill, one he would have been remiss without. Marcus was a thinker, a quick one at that. Not only could Marcus formulate an action plan in record time, he could also move to act as soon as the thought came to him. It was his quick thinking that brought Marcus under Garius Syrah’s personal wing. If it weren’t for Marcus’ swift mind, Garius Syrah would have lost the woman whom he loved.
“That’s it?” James asked, flicking his the butt of his smoke into a nearby puddle.
Marcus ignored the question, shifting his rifle over to his other shoulder as he sloshed through a deep puddle. It was embarrassing, the work he did. Not the time spent in the lab, but rather the rest of the time. Marcus was tasked with watching over the Valvian captive in Garius’ private room. The glorious leader worried over an unforeseen injury the woman suffered, and since it was Marcus that saved her, Garius insisted on having Marcus watch over her whenever possible.
Marcus supposed it wasn’t too terrible, for there were many perks. Marcus was there when his glorious leader poured over the details of his looming war. Often, he would be tasked with reading encoded telegrams to Garius as he ate his meals. For being a lowly private, Marcus was a very well informed individual. He did not doubt he knew more about the Order’s agenda than some of the commanding officers.
Where his duty dragged was the loss of personal time. There was never time set aside for Marcus to bathe after training. Nor was there much time for him to enjoy a reasonable amount of sleep. There wasn’t even time for Marcus join his brothers as they went diving in the dark. Marcus’ mood was often sour, but not once did he regret his choices. The Order was the future, and its message of change would see a radical shift in the way Wynne functioned. Marcus was eager to bring it all to fruition; every day, the poor salt boy Marcus once was drifted further into the depths of time as the man he was growing into took over.
“I hear Marcus is Syrah’s little pet.” Someone from the back rank spoke up. “I am of the mind its true, since he’s being so mum about it.”
A clatter of agreement erupted amongst the men. The sudden noise frightened a seabird on a nearby rock.
“I am not his pet.” Marcus protested.
“Sure you’re not.” The same man said. “Just like I’m not a man.”
“Bugger off Samuel.” James said, coming to Marcus’ aid.
“No, its fine.” Marcus said. “You all want to know?”
“Aye!”
“Fine.” Marcus stopped walking. The regiment formed a small, loose circle around him. It was almost unnerving, all those watchful eyes peering down on him. Marcus took a moment to steady his nerves. “The truth is, yes, I spend much of my time with our glorious leader.”
“I knew it!” The man named Samuel declared. “He’s nothing more than a little bitch.”
“I stand as personal guard to Syrah and his possessions.” Marcus continued, ignoring Samuel. “I am in the know of top secret information, some of which our commanders don’t know. I do, actually, spend my time in the labs with the kinetics, but only when time is permitted.”
“Well then,” James said. “I guess that settles it. We should be saluting you!”
“No need for that.” Samuel rolled his eyes. “I would rather give all that up so I can go diving.”
An awkward laughter fell over the regiment. A sharp whistle sounded from over the next rise. It was not a welcome noise. On instinct, the troupe dropped to their knees and readied their weapons. Despite being on the Imperial isle, there was always the fear of the great enemy coming upon them.
“Company ready?” James whispered.
“Aye.” They replied in similar, hushed voices.
The whistle blew once more, sending the seabird higher into the air squawking in protest. A group of black clad figures crested the rise, all astride wonderful, mechanical horses.
“Regiment, at ease.” The leader of the riders ordered. Marcus knew that deep, soft voice all too well. It was that of Garius Syrah.
Marcus was the first to rise, slinging his rifle around his arm, snapping his hand in salute to the Order’s glorious leader.
“I said at ease.” Garius said, motioning with his hands for the regiment to be as they were. “I have a need to speak with all of you.”
Marcus thought it curious for Garius to ride out to meet the regiment, more so with whom he travelled with. The men in Garius’ train were the static haired electrokinetics. Marcus knew these men were here on some serious matter for Garius was loath take his electrokinetics away from the labs. Garius led his small party down the rise. The working parts of the mounts sang the song of steel against steel. A vibrant blue light issued from the many splits and cracks amongst the metal, and an intense azure glow glimmered from the eye sockets of the steed’s heads. The cortex glow of the mechanical mounts was beautiful, alluring almost, but even such simple beauty was lost to Marcus as the troupe approached the small regiment.
“I need Samuel McAdam to come forward.” Garius ordered, voice flat and still like a cool morning pond.
Samuel stumbled through his fellows, bumping into Marcus’ tender shoulder as he passed. The man whom had heckled Marcus looked nothing more than a sickly waif. Pale skin, wide green eyes and hair as brittle as straw. The black uniform of the Order seemed overly large on the thin man as he took his place at the head of the regiment.
“Samuel McAdam, ser!” He snapped his lanky hand to his brow in salute.