The Spark

by Howell, H. G.

  “There are some claims against you, son.” Garius said as he peered at the man from behind ornate pyrokinetic lenses.

  “What…what claims, ser?” Samuel asked. It was clear the man was afraid. Marcus did not blame him, for Garius Syrah was known to have a temper as fierce and wild as the element he was attuned to.

  “Some have claimed you are a sympathizer.” One of the electrokinetic lieutenants spoke with a voice filled with a static disgust.

  “What?” Samuel asked. Fear filled his over sized emerald eyes.

  “I am going to ask you this once lad.” Garius said. “Have you shown any compassion to the Valvian whores in the deep? Have you comforted them, plot to steal any away?”

  “Of course not,” Samuel proclaimed, both hands in the air in protestation. “I would never do such a thing. I am a man of the Imperial Order. I do what is necessary.”

  “A pity.” Garius admitted. “This one doesn’t seem to think that statement to be very true.”

  Marcus’ jaw dropped as Garius moved his mount to the side, revealing a naked woman whose hands were tethered to the hind quarters of the steed.

  “Oh Sammy!” She squealed, instantly recognizing the terrified Samuel. “I told ‘em ye were a good lad meanin’ me well! They’re goin’ to let us be t’gether!”

  “What the hell?” Marcus said to James, who looked as confused as Marcus.

  The red haired woman was released from her tethers. As soon as the ropes fell away she ran to Samuel, wrapping her arms around his neck in a loving embrace. The fear continued to build in his eyes, and Marcus thought there was a slight shiver in the man’s legs.

  “Ser, I don’t know what she is on about.” Samuel tried to lie. He tried to pull the Valvian woman off of him as he tried in vain to convince their glorious leader of his innocence.

  “It’s a shame.” Garius said to the regiment, ignoring the babbling of the naked woman and Samuel’s sudden bout of protestations. “Let this be a lesson to the rest of you.”

  “Del Morte be good.” Marcus cursed as Garius and his electrokinetic comrades stretched their hands out.

  Marcus did not need to see the flickering spark ignite in his leader’s hand, nor the sizzling blue crackle in the other’s to know what was about to happen. The boy in him wanted to turn away, cry even at the horror about to be unleashed. But it was the man he was becoming that kept his gaze forward. He was a man of the Imperial Order, and if watching unspeakable horror was necessary for his success, then watch he would.

  It happened all so fast.

  First the woman erupted into a ball of fire, while Samuel’s skin boiled under a barrage of electrical tendrils. Their screams were horrifying, the smell gut wrenching. Both of their bodies dropped into a crumbled heap, taking on the image of a wild bonfire with dancing streaks of lightning. The men around him shared the same look of terror Marcus knew was etched on his face. None knew how to react. For many of them, Marcus included, this was their first true taste of death.

  “The lesson,” Garius said over the crackling fire, humming electricity, and splitting flesh. “To sympathize with these women is a sign of weakness. The Order needs men with strong seed that will do what is necessary to bring our vision to Wynne. Samuel here was not such a man. I impart this to each of you – if ever you find a compatriot sympathizing with these whores, you have the right to do what is necessary to keep the strength of our Order intact.”

  Marcus didn’t watch as their glorious leader and his troupe take their leave of the regiment. Marcus was more transfixed by the horror before him. The burning flesh filled his nostrils like an unwanted lover, and the popping of body fat violated his ears. It was all Marcus could do to keep his breakfast down. The mortified boy in him wanted to weep and flee in terror, but the man he was becoming fought to bury the emotions.

  “Let’s march.” James said, though his voice was weak and shaken.

  Marcus did not need to be asked twice. The sudden, terrible display of kinetic power would haunt Marcus for the rest of his days. He knew, however, deep down he must find peace with what happened. War was coming, and there would be far worse things to come.

  Seven men sat around Dalar’s dining table. Seven. Each man held a goblet of crisp, Valvian wine from the northern steppes, though none drank. Their journey had taken the better part of the evening, despite the use of the golem driven auto. They were tired, though they knew the day would see little sleep.

  The attack against Le Clos Noire had been repelled, but the chancellor had not known at what cost for the telegram wires had been compromised during the raid. He sent the party to investigate the damages to the town before taking up their designated task of searching for Katherine Margoux. The damage to the town had been minimal, but the cost of life had been great.

  The party had agreed to let Dalar check on his family’s well being before they committed to interrogating the one hostage the local militia had been able to take. None had been prepared for the heart-wrenching blow waiting for the high scholar when he walked up the front path of his family’s cabin.

  A tear ran freely from Dalar’s eye, racing down his gaunt cheeks as he tried to recall his little boy’s face.

  His son was innocent, not much older than three. His laugh had been infectious, gay and light. Jakob had been a sneak and a devil, the way most toddlers were. His little feet had always brought him to some form of exploratory trouble. Jakob had feared nothing, and loved everyone. Now, all Dalar had, were the memories and the ghosts they brought.

  Dalar looked at the down cast face of each of the seven men sitting around the table. Try as he might, Dalar could not recall many of their names. They were simply faces on a journey. It confused him, for he had a hand in selecting the party he would be travelling with. Dalar chalked it up to a combination of the increasing stress his mind was under, and the sudden loss of Jacob.

  Some faces he was able to recognize, notably, the short, broad shouldered man with the large nose was an easy one to remember. He was the infamous, and oft mysterious, Nog Stonefinger of eastern Valvius. Fresh out of an Ynouxian prison, Nog brought an interesting, and feisty, atmosphere to the troupe.

  Issac Pennygild was another he recalled. The man was not a notable soldier, or renowned like the Stonefinger. Issac was a meek looking man, timid and soft. He seemed more like a scholar than a soldier. His hair was sandy blonde while his eyes betrayed him as a southern Valvian with their brown and gold-flecked iris. Dalar could not quite understand why the chancellor had insisted on Issac’s inclusion, but he decided to make the best of it.

  Dalar took a sip of the crisp wine, trying to drown his sorrow with the sweet tropical flavours of the drink.

  “Gentlemen, I wish to thank-you.” Dalar began by clearing his throat. “This has been quite a distressing morning for me. I would like to take this brief moment to express my sincerest gratitude towards your compassion and understanding.”

  He choked on his words as a wave of emotion surged over him.

  “I assure you,” Dalar continued. “I wish nothing more than to see our enemies pay. We have sat in mourning long enough, we shall see this prisoner and tomorrow we will set forth.”

  “Dalar,” the Stonefinger said as the squat man rose from his seat. “Yer loss is great, none can deny it. The men an’ I have spoken. We understand if ye choose t’ opt out of yer duties as leader. Yer wife needs ye. Le Clos needs ye.”

  “As does Valvius,” Dalar replied. “I thank each of you for the thoughts, but my loss, though great, is a loss shared across our fair province. If each one of us were to stand aside when our loved ones die at the hand of our foe, then there would be none left to defend our people.”

  The Stonefinger gave an approving nod as he took his seat again.

  “I am no fool gentlemen,” Dalar said as he looked over the assembled men, perhaps for the hundredth time. “I know you find it hard to trust the leadership of a man of my ilk. We come from very different worlds and training, but I assur
e you, I shall not lead you astray.”

  “We don’t doubt you Dalar,” Issac piped up. “We just want what is best for you and yours.”

  “I thank-you for the sentiment,” Dalar offered a soft smile. “But I have made a commitment to the chancellor, and to Valvius. I shall not retreat from my duties.”

  “Good.” The Stonefinger said, smiling with a broad grin. “It’ll be good for ye.”

  “Again, my thanks.” Dalar said. “Now, if you do not mind, I would like to have some time to mourn with my wife.”

  The soldiers nodded in understanding. Each rose from his seat, slow and respectful. They left the goblets of wine on the smooth surface of the table. A few took the time to down a mouthful before abandoning the beverage. Each man clasped Dalar on the shoulder as they passed him by on the way to the front door.

  Nog Stonefinger was the last to leave the table. When he came to Dalar he paused for a moment. Despite his stocy build, the Stonefinger was an amazing two or three heads shorter than Dalar. But the strength in his arms, and the fierceness in his beady eyes made the short physique of the man a fearsome sight to behold.

  “Use this pain scholar.” He said. “It will be useful in the days ahead.”

  Dalar did not know how to reply, not that the little man offered much time for a response, for he was well on his way to the door before Dalar could even react properly.

  Dalar waited and watched the men of his troupe from the broken bay window. Nog took the lead, directing the party past the front gate and on towards the town hall. Dalar watched until the men disappeared beyond the bend in the path before turning his back to the window.

  The few strides it took to reach the parlour felt like three leagues. Dalar was weighed down with guilt, despair, and anger. Fear also nestled in the depths of belly; fear for the future, fear for his wife. Guilt also made its home in his heart. If only he had been home when the attack happened, Jakob would have been alive and well, laughing and shrieking with joy.

  Upon entering the parlour, it was evident his wife had fallen asleep. She lay stretched out on the green and gold sofa, arms wrapped around Jakob’s favourite blanket, and feet hidden by a thinly knit throw. Dalar knelt beside his wife, whose eyes, even when closed, were swollen with grief.

  A swooning sensation filled his mind as he knelt beside her. Dalar closed his eyes and waited for the sensation to pass. He placed a hand on the edge of the callous fabric of the sofa’s arm to steady himself as his mind swam. Deep down Dalar worried about these deluge’s his mind endured.

  Before leaving the libratorium in Brixon, Dalar had searched for all the information regarding his symptoms. His search only turned up the legends of the ever-elusive lost school of kinetics – telekinetics. Being an educated man with a sharp mind, Dalar knew this lost school of kinetic power was merely a myth perpetrated by the various troupes of oddities and wonders that wandered Wynne.

  “Dalar? Are you alright?” the soft, weak voice of his wife brought Dalar’s mind back to a stable state.

  “I do not know.” He admitted. “ Of late, my mind…it keeps falling into disorientating swoons.”

  “Dalar!” Her wide eyes shot open, concern lacing her hazel eyes.

  “Fear not my love,” Dalar put his hand on her shoulder. “I am sure no trouble will come of it.”

  “I hope you are right,” she said as Dalar kissed her brow. “I could not handle losing…”

  Dalar’s heart broke as he wife burst into tears. He gently pulled her in close in an effort to comfort her. Moisture began to pool in his own eyes as he squeezed Lillian in his arms, projecting his heartache through his touch.

  “Why my sweet baby Dalar?” Lillian said between tired sobs. “Why? He never hurt anyone. He was just a baby. My sweet, sweet little baby boy.”

  “I wish I knew Lillian,” Dalar said, trying in vain to suppress his own agony. “Truly, I wish I knew.”

  In truth, Dalar had his suspicions. From the reports Dalar had read on the recent attack on Le Clos Noire, it was clear the operation was a well-executed affair. By the count of the fallen in the attack, it was clear the raid had been more than a mere insurgency to steal Valvian women, or for the goal of destroying Valvian property. These assailants veered from their normal modus operandi. Women, children, elderly and the sick were among those slain amongst the local militia defenders during the attack. There was no doubt in Dalar’s mind the event had been an extermination raid.

  But he could not share his suspicions with his poor wife. She was distraught and broken enough. The bastards had killed his only son, a boy of three, in cold blood.

  Even now, Dalar had a hard time processing the tragic truth. When he and the party had finally been permitted to leave Brixon, his heart rejoiced at the thought of seeing the beaming eyes and wide smile of his son. What he was greeted with upon his return home was the one thing a parent dreaded the most.

  “Dearest,” Lillian said, her voice haggard and hoarse from her despair.

  She shifted in Dalar’s arms and looked into his pale blue eyes. The hand she placed upon his cheek was soft, tender.

  “Do not leave me.” The gleam in her eyes begged just as much as her tone. “These soldiers can do this task themselves. You are not one of them. You are a scholar. Stay here, in our home, with me. I need you.”

  “Lillian,” he began, keeping his voice soft and comforting.“I cannot stay, nor can I tarry long. My heart is as broken as yours over Jakob, but the Chancellor has appointed me to this task. If I do not go now, I will dishonour not only myself, but also Jakob’s memory; I will shame those who died that night. I must do what is right by them, and for Valvius.”

  Dalar wiped the tears from Lillian’s cheeks in an effort to comfort his wife. When she recoiled from his touch, anger seething from behind her hazel eyes, Dalar knew there would be no talking to her.

  “Don’t you touch me Dalar Rhume.” She spat, pushing away from his embrace. “You would abandon your wife and dead son to go on a whirlwind adventure to play the hero to some other woman.”

  Lillian rose from the sofa, knocking past Dalar as she made for a small table that held a flagon of wine atop its smooth surface. Dalar’s breath came slow as he surpressed his anger as his wife poured herself a full goblet of the rich drink and gulped at it hungrily. He could not fault her actions, for she acted on the whims of despair and anger.

  “Lillian please,” Dalar came to his feet. “You know this is a task that I cannot refute by order of the Chancellor. If it were up to me I would have no part in this undertaking. It is my duty, now, as a citizen of Valvius to uphold the peace our province has brought to Wynne; to seek vengeance for those lost by the whims of this dire foe.”

  “Listen to you ser. You sound like a soldier now,” Lillian made a mocking sound as she poured herself another round of wine. “But we both know once the moment of truth comes, and battle erupts, you will be no more help then nipples on a construct.”

  “Lillian, you are angry and hurt, understandably so.” Dalar said. “You must realize what I do is for the safety of all Valvians. Something large is looming, and I fear it will mean the death of many more women and children.” He spoke softly as he turned his back on his wife. “I do pray that one day, you will understand why I must leave. I love you with all my heart Lillian, as I do our lost son. I shall carry your memories in my heart in the coming days.” Dalar stepped from the parlour, making his way for the front door. He could not comprehend what his wife was screaming as he left her with her grief and wine. It pained him to leave her in such a state, even as the flagon of wine sailed from the parlour into the front entrance. The obscenities streaming from her beautiful mouth were foul and fiendish. Dalar continued on his course, exiting through the heavy oak door of his home to the bright, sunny day beyond.

  His heart was sick as he departed his home. Guilt bubbled in his gut leaving his wife in such a tragic state. This was the curse being a man of the state brought. His duties would always be split betw
een his family and his province. This was a situation that called upon him to put the good of his people before the good of his heart.

  Dalar let his frustrations lead him from his home to the cobbled paths of Le Clos Noire. The walkway split to the east and west. The western path would lead him further into town to the market-square and temple of Del Morte. In this unfathomable heat wave he doubted any of the vendors worked their stalls in the square. He had half a mind to investigate - perhaps to visit Druxan the Pozian wine merchant, or Abigail the dressmaker.

  Time, however, was not on his side. He had a task to accomplish before setting out once more. It was the easterly route he opted for as he closed the irongate to his property.

  The stones of the roadway were smooth and slick from centuries of use. Most of the rocks were of varying shades of grey and white, but every now and then a ruddy, pink, or even black stone would appear and break the monotony of the path. The way was laden with twists and turns, the skeletal forms of bare shrubby lining the way. In the near distance a tall tower with aged copper shingles rose, scratching the sky with a weather vane of bronze and iron.

  Dalar kept his eyes on the reaching spyre of the town hall’s bell tower. The focus kept his attention on the task at hand and prevented his mind from wandering to the dark, tragic memories of his son. Several times he reached into his waistcoat, retrieving a well-used kerchief to wipe his sweat away. By the time he arrived at the hall, the little square of fabric was useless, well soaked with sweat.

  The roughly hewn stones of the hall had been stacked in a beautiful display of greys and whites, piled in a wonderful checkered patterning. The building’s roof, like many official buildings of Wynne, sported verdigris stained bronze and copper plating. The bell tower sprouted from the front base of the building, reaching high into the heavens.

  Unlike most buildings of office, the town hall of Le Clos Noire did not sport a mechanical clock, but utilized a device not of the modern times, but an item that paid homage to the annals of the past. In the sundried gardens that surrounded the hall sat a massive black and white marble sundial. The arm of the dial was not a solid piece of rock to spread its shadow over the numerals of the clock, but rather an intricately wrought piece of gold fashioned after the gear triad of Wynne. It was at the dial Dalar found the waiting troupe of soldiers.