The Spark

by Howell, H. G.

  “Come to me paestichos. Come to Druxan of mother Pozo!” He roared to life, running into the press of new intruders.

  From her hidden spot behind the young barrel of wine, all Lillian could hear was the incessant song of Night and Day; wails of dying men and the rich, thick laughter of Druxan of Pozo, her most favourite merchant, loudest of all.

  Marcus’ eyes watered from the bitter, putrid stench of the rotting corpses. It was pungent, with notes of a sickly sweetness and violating vileness. The square was alive with the nauseating odor, making it difficult for Marcus to suppress his desire to vomit.

  Many of the men tried to avoid the over laden market. This proved to be difficult as many of the village’s streets and walkways led to, and from, the square. It was an unlucky man whom had to traverse the sordid space.

  A light, warm breeze brought new tendrils of the horrid smell of death and carrion in Marcus’ senses. He spat a glob of phlegm to combat the urge to retch. Wiping sweat from his brow he cursed his luck. The commander demanded a count of the dead for his reports and it had fallen to Marcus to lead the tally.

  “Add fifteen more long-rifles.” The only other man tasked with the count said through a napkin he held over his face.

  “For being so few in number, the Valvian’s sure did a number on us.” Marcus said as he added fifteen ticks to his list.

  “Aye.” The soldier agreed. “But we won.”

  “Yes,” Marcus agreed. He reached into a shallow pocket on the breast of his uniform, withdrew a small kerchief and wiped the growing beads of sweat from his brow. “However, the damage they inflicted makes it a bitter victory.”

  “We don’t need the kinetic’s.” The man spat into the face of a slain pyrokinetic. “We are men of the Order. We can do what those freaks of nature can do, only better.”

  “Oh?” Marcus raised an eyebrow as he stuffed the kerchief back into his pocket. “Can you generate fire, or electricity, on command? Can you, or any of the other men for that matter, will these elements to harm our enemy?”

  The man fell silent. Marcus stared into his resentful eyes, awaiting a smart response. The buzzing of the flies filled the hanging silence like a low heartbeat, ticking the seconds of the silence with their carrion song.

  “That’s what I thought.” Marcus said as the man failed to offer argument. Marcus attached his pencil to his clipboard, grieving over the results of the tally. “We may still have numbers, but we will not last against any major offensive by the Valvian’s, should they try to retake this town. The kinetics were our sure fire way of holding a solid defense.”

  “What about Vladimir?” The man asked as he moved over the corpses, coming to stand next to Marcus.

  “He is…busy.” It wasn’t a complete a lie. Unbeknownst to the remaining troops, the lone surviving electrokinetic had specific orders from Garius Syrah. His task was horrific and sinful - so much so, Marcus doubted any positive results would come to fruition.

  If, by some horrible chance the kinetic were to be successful, the whole course of this war would surely change.

  “Sure he is.” The soldier spat again, wiping sweat from his own brow. “Why must it be so thrice damned hot?”

  “You know why.” Marcus said, patting the man on the shoulder. “But you must really learn to stop complaining. Some men might take it as a sign of weakness.”

  “I’m not weak.” The soldier protested. “It is unbearably hot, and dry, here. To top the discomfort of the sun, we must also suffer the stench of the rotting dead. The commander ain’t thinking straight.”

  “On that much we can agree.” Marcus smiled. “I will speak to him when I bring these numbers to him this afternoon.”

  “You better boy.” The soldier said, though it sounded more like begging. “I can’t tolerate the smell anymore. It seeps into my dreams.”

  “Well we don’t want that do we now?” Marcus asked, letting heavy sarcasm lace his words in mockery. “Tell you what, go to that fat Pozian’s cellar, have a cold glass of wine, and go diving in the town hall. Take the day to yourself.”

  “Don’t you toy with me lad,” the soldier’s eyes lit up at the prospect of an afternoon of drink, sex, and relaxation. “I may just kill you if you’re messin’ with me.”

  “I’m not toying with you.” Marcus placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You have had to endure the rankness of death with me this morning, any man deserves time to collect himself after such a task. I will tell the commander I relieved you of your duties for the day.”

  “He won’t like it.” The man tried to sound somber, but the stupid grin on his face betrayed the sincerity of his words.

  “No,” Marcus admitted with a smile of his own. “But that is something I will have to deal with. This commander is of noble birth. He doesn’t appreciate the work men like you and I do; his birth prevents him from seeing us as the equals our glorious leader envisions for the Order.”

  “You’re a good lad.” The soldier smiled. Marcus caught a shimmer of water building in the man’s eyes. “You should be our leader Marcus Seyblanc. You are a man I would follow to death.”

  “Well, let’s hope death is a day far from now.” Marcus smiled. “Now go, enjoy your drink before I change my mind.”

  The soldier tripped over his feet as he scurried over the corpses with nary a word of parting. It felt good to have a laugh again, even if it were at the soldier’s expense as he clambered, jumped, and skidded around the piled bodies for the wine cellar across the market.

  Marcus envied the man. It had been a long while since Marcus had the chance to drink and fuck his days away.

  The last time he wasted his day as such was before he was a man of the Order; it was the last time he and his old friend Gionni, had spent with each other. After that afternoon, Marcus enlisted into the Order, despite his parent’s wishes, and Gionni went off to fight in some battle.

  Now Gionni was dead.

  Marcus had been the one to find his friend’s mangled corpse in the basement of the town hall. In many ways, it seemed as if the Valvian scum let a feral beast loose while Gionni was chained and strung up. His lithe body had been torn asunder; Gionni’s arms had been ripped from his torso, his head smashed against the stonewall, and even his legs were twisted into unnatural angles.

  Marcus had to fight with the commanding office to have Gionni buried. The officer intended to have the boy’s body added to the pile of dead in the square, just like his brother’s in arms. In the end Marcus won out by suggesting his friend’s corpse would be of no use for Vladimir’s experiments.

  Tucking the clipboard under his arm, Marcus made his way through the pungent, decaying bodies. He stepped over the arm of a child, the lifeless face of a blonde woman, and had to leap over an obtuse gentleman. The cobbles between the bodies were slick and treacherous from the vile liquid of decomposing flesh, squirming maggots, and other such carrion. At one time in his life, the grizzly sight and smell of this market of death would have burned into Marcus’ memory; if he were still the lad he had been a mere handful of months ago, Marcus doubted he would be able to maintain his composure. Now he was a man of the Imperial Order, familiar with the horrid imagery of war and death.

  The far side of the market greeted him sooner than he anticipated, but that was more than likely due to his familiarity with finding the quickest means across the dismal square. He passed the ruined shells of a dozen buildings, damaged and broken during the assault. Glass crunched under his boots as he followed the winding pathway. Every now and then he had to scramble over a pile of rubble; brick, stone, dirt and wood had been shoved to the side of the road into heaping piles of debris.

  The destruction of property during the raid had been fierce and devastating, leaving many of the homes and businesses ill suited for the Order to garrison. The worst of the damage, however, had been to the temple of Del Morte, a vast wooden palace located atop an overlooking crest of the town. It could not withstand the mighty fires of the Imperial pyrokine
tics.

  Many of the priestesses died in the inferno. A small handful survived and had been imprisoned with the other survivors. In many ways, it saddened Marcus to see the holy women be taken fast and fiercely when the men came calling.

  Several let their bodies perish the mortal realm, determined to not let their personal sanctuaries be violated by the Order. Those bodies had been added to stockpile of corpses, of course, as did the bodies of the ones whose hearts gave out from the ordeal. Of the handful of priestesses to have been taken prisoner, only one remained and she was a silent, brooding crone whose gaze struck fear into Marcus’ heart.

  His feet led him beyond the ruins of the town, out towards the fanciful estate cabins on the northeastern fringes of the village. Marcus’ destination was a quaint wood cabin, four houses up on the row. It was the only building they could find with enough cellar space to house the multitude of ammunition and weapons. As such, the commander made it the main outpost for the occupation of Le Clos Noire.

  “You’re late boy.” The gruff-voiced officer pointed out as Marcus entered the house.

  “There was a lot to count.” Marcus stated, joining his commander in the dining room.

  The room had a spacious table made of a light wood Marcus could not quite place. Several large maps covered the flat surface of the table; maps of the immediate region, the Valvian province, and Wynne as a whole cluttered the spacious wood. A gaping hole, where once a bay window occupied the outermost wall, offered a revealing look over the not too distant town.

  “No word from Syrah yet?” Marcus asked, noticing the maps lacked any position markers for Valvian, or Imperial, troops.

  “No.” The commander said, motioning Marcus to come closer. “But that’s none of your concern.”

  “Of course, ser.” Marcus said as he stepped closer. His toe caught the edge of a trap door as Marcus rounded the far edge of the table.

  “Give me the report.” The man said, ignoring the blunder as he reached for a scrap of paper and a pencil to make his own notations.

  “Where would you like me to start?” Marcus asked, shifting the clipboard from under his arm and back into his hand. “Ours or theirs?”

  “Makes no matter.” The officer sat into a nearby chair, readying himself for the report. “Give me some good news, start with theirs.”

  “Yes ser.” Marcus looked over the ticks on his page. “We took; two hundred of their militia, seventy old men and women, thirteen men, one hundred and fifty women, and twice as many children.”

  “Those are lovely numbers.” The commander’s laugh was as gruff and violent as his voice. “Almost the whole town’s population no doubt.”

  “Aye.” Marcus admitted. “Of course, we have thirty or so prisoners.”

  “Many of which are wounded and dying.” Marcus’s commanding officer pointed out. “And how did we fare?”

  “Not so well.” Marcus said, shifting uncomfortably. The fact that such a paltry number of defenders were able to wreak such havoc on the Order’s numbers worried Marcus.

  The defenders were mainly civilians, and simple militiamen – not trained military troops. How could the Order hope to survive a war when such basic defenses could decimate such a sizeable force as theirs?

  “How did we fare?” The commander repeated.

  “The defenders were smart.” Marcus prefaced as he avoided the officer’s glaring eyes by peering over the figures on his clipboard. “They targeted our kinetic support, killing all ten save for Vladimir. We lost forty-five long rifles, three hundred and fifty standard rifles, and they managed to bring down two of our airships.

  ‘We do not have much left,” Marcus continued. “One kinetic, who is tasked with wild experiments to be any real use to us, and only fifty-five standard rifles, how can we hope to hold this town against retaliation?”

  “You craven boy?” The commander rose from his seat, walked around the curved edge of the table and stopped short of Marcus. “You weak?”

  “No ser.” Marcus jutted his jaw out in defiance.

  In truth, Marcus was afraid. The numbers did not bother him half-so-much as the lack of communication with Syrah. Yes the wires had been damaged, but there were other means in which their glorious leader could communicate with them. The isolation worried Marcus most. Without knowing enemy movements, or their own movements, how could the Order hope to hold Le Clos Noire?

  “You seem like a sniveling, weak little…” A loud crack interrupted the officer. Marcus’ heart jumped as the sudden sound rang in his ears.

  Stunned, Marcus watched as the commanding officer slumped to the floor, a gaping hole in his head. As the body fell away, another round of sudden thunder erupted. Marcus fell to the floor, his instinct to survive taking control. He could not see the assailant, but there were at least four. Their shouting voices gave that much away.

  Marcus reached to his belt, withdrawing the repeating pistol from its holster. Checking the clip, Marcus readied himself. The voices of the assailers were close. He slowed his breathing, trying in might to drown the raging beat of his heart so he could discern where the foe was. Marcus peered around the legs and chairs of the dining room table. He angled his gaze to catch a view through the gaping hole in the wall.

  Four heads sped past the base of the window, headed towards the front door. Marcus crawled across the rug, taking up position against a tight corner with a commanding view of the main entryway. Distant calls to arms drifted through the window as the men of the Order scrambled in the town to find the source of the commotion.

  Marcus knew they would not make it to the cabin in time; Marcus had to take care of these men, his life depended on it. He checked the clip of his pistol again, ensuring there were enough rounds for the job.

  Marcus waited, patient and calm.

  The door burst open, the four men poured into the entry hall. Marcus did not miss a beat.

  He felled the first man with a calculated shot to the head. The man fell lifeless in a crumbled heap, causing the man behind him to stumble. Marcus fired two rounds into the man’s stomach, and a third between the eyes. Another assailant dove into the living room, hiding behind a wall, whilst the other rushed into the dinning room.

  He was an easy target.

  Marcus took the man’s legs out first, before focusing a small barrage across the entry hall with the hopes of pinning the other man. Marcus’ aim was better than he anticipated, for his rounds burst through the thin wall, slaying the intruder in the hail of bullets. The man in the dining room did not try to fight, for his weapon fell out of reach when he fell to Marcus’ gunfire.

  Confident there was no further risk, Marcus rose from his corner and approached the wounded man.

  “Who are you?” He demanded over the man’s groans of agony. Marcus kicked the man in the ribs. “I said who are you?”

  “Matters not.” The man coughed in defiance.

  Marcus shot him in the shoulder for the arrogance.

  “Who are you?” He demanded, again, as the man howled in pain. “How many are you?”

  “Only four.” The man grunted. “We were seven but the others refused to join us.”

  “Where are they now?” Marcus asked.

  “Long gone into the wilds.” The man’s laugh was intended to be mocking, Marcus did not doubt, but it came coarse and laced in pain.

  Marcus doubted this man would be of any use, so he ended the man’s suffering with a final bullet to the head.

  “Marcus!” A man’s voice called.

  Marcus turned to face the new speaker. It was the soldier from earlier, the one he had dismissed for the day. The trooper was at the head of a large troupe of Imperial soldiers, all ready for action.

  “The commander’s dead.” Marcus said, turning his back on the dead Valvian. “One of these four did the deed.”

  “Who will lead us now?” The soldier murmured, to himself more than anyone.

  “Marcus can!” A man in the back declared.

  “No,”
Marcus raised his hands in protest. “No I can’t.”

  “Sure you can.” Another agreed. “No secret you worked close with Syrah. Who better to lead us than someone who worked more closely with our glorious leader than most of our officers?”

  “Here, here!” The others voiced their agreement.

  “But…” Marcus tried again to protest, though his voice was lost to the cheers and excitement of the men pouring into the wooden cabin to congratulate him.

  Marcus feigned a smile. It was an honour to be leader, but he was not prepared to be one. His whole life had been under the guidance and service of others; be it mining supervisors like James, his parents, or even his time under Syrah. Marcus had been born a salter, a servant to the nobilities of Wynne. How these men hoped for him to lead, Marcus knew not.

  “What’s the word ser?” The soldier from earlier asked, with a grin as large as sin.

  The troops fell silent. Marcus looked at each in turn, surprised by how hungry they were for orders. It was a strange feeling to be in charge.

  “Well,” he began as he gathered his wits. “Add these men, and the commander, to the pile.”

  “Yes ser.” A small handful of men ushered past Marcus to gather the lifeless bodies of the assailants.

  Marcus met the eyes of the soldier from earlier. The blue of the man’s eyes were glossed over, indicating he had been well into his drink when the attack occurred. There was something else in his eyes, something hidden under the layers of drink.

  Looking into the man’s eyes, a thought occurred to Marcus.

  “Is there any word from Vladimir?” He asked. “How is his progress?”

  “My progress is wonderful.” The deep, accented voice of the sole remaining kinetic said as the man stepped through the assembled men. “Though the former commander’s stock pile has…hindered me greatly.”

  “Then perhaps we should remedy that.” Marcus said, never letting his gaze leave the soldier’s eyes. “If we move the corpses to the location of your lab in the woods, would you be able to progress more efficiently?”