The Spark

by Howell, H. G.

  Nothing. Nothing but towering oak, hunched maple and twisting saplings could be seen.

  Dalar let his gaze venture to the opposite side of the game trail, southward.

  Again, nothing but the aching, dehydrated brambles of the forest and its remnants made itself visible.

  “I don’t see, or sense, any movement.” Dalar whispered.

  “Neither do I.” Issac agreed. Dalar noted the man held a pistol in his hand, ready for some surprise attack.

  “Put it away lad.” The Stonefinger said with a cool, calm voice. “Whatever’s out there will show itself when it’s good an’ ready. We’ll roast these nuts, then we’ll take watch.”

  “Agreed.” Dalar lowered himself beside the small pit Issac had constructed for the logs.

  Nog got a fire going in quick order. Of course it helped the wood was as dry as a dusty crypt of antiquity. Issac offered up a small flask of Pozian rum from his travel gear to roast the collection of nuts in. While the fire licked the underside of the cooking instrument, the soft popping of tree nuts brought an invigorating aroma to the small camp. It was a comforting scent, one that took Dalar back to the comforts of his home in Le Clos Noire.

  It was a hollow comfort, however, for he doubted much home now remained. Even if his cabin had not been raised during the assault a week ago, it still would not offer him the solace his soul sought. Jakob was gone. All he had lived for had been stripped away in a moment of aggression. Dalar spent many nights during his watch trying to understand why anyone, friend or foe, found the need to slay an innocent child. It was a concept Dalar did not doubt he would soon come to appreciate.

  Despite Nog’s proclamation of the nuts going well with the salted meat and tough bread, the dinner proved to be a loss. Most of his collection proved to have been rotted to the core. To mar the dinner more, the meat had an off taste to it. Dalar figured the excessive heat worked as a slow burning oven and sped up the spoiling process.

  Night fell over the Narn Wood in surprising time. Issac complained at first, as was his won’t, but Dalar knew the nightfall was no queer magic of the wood or a curse from Del Morte.

  “It’s late autumn.” He said as Issac cursed his way to sleep. “It’s natural.”

  “Right scholar.” The Stonefinger agreed, though Dalar picked up a hint of sarcasm amongst Nog’s gruff voice. “Ye got first watch tonight.”

  Dalar didn’t complain. He knew these woods, its sounds and smells.

  “Well,” Dalar said to himself as Nog settled into his bedroll. “I used too.”

  The thought was tragic, in many ways. At one time the wood was lush and vibrant, bursting with life. Dalar had spent much of his early years with the scholarhood traversing the different trails and paths the great Narn had to offer. His first formative publication was an in depth study of the many flora and geographical nuances of the forest. The work was so well received Dalar had earned an early pass into the ranks of scholar, leaving his apprentice state before many of his fellows.

  Incensed by his success, Dalar returned to the Narn the following spring to study the wildlife in greater detail. His original intent had been to chronicle the basic life style of the woodland creatures, but as he foraged deeper into the wood his research took to following the hibagon tribes. They were noble beasts, sharing many desires as humans. It bothered him how greatly the animals had changed in order to survive this drought. The hibagon were a historically peaceful creature, now they were only mad with hunger.

  Long hours passed as Dalar watched the crackling fire. Every now and then he would poke and prod the logs into a new position to bring a new vigour to the low burning flames. Watching the swirling movement of the embers brought peace upon Dalar. It was easy for the high scholar to let his thoughts drift and dance to and fro as he stared into the glowing pit before him. There was something peaceful, and powerful, about the chaotic movement of fire; it seemed to Dalar that no matter how wild and uncontrolled the flames might appear, there was always a type of restraint or control within the flame.

  Dalar admired it. In many ways he wished he could find the same sense of control in his life, now so desperately out of control. Lillian was gone. Jakob was gone. His home and friends were more than likely gone as well. Where was he during the attack? He was out in the parched vineyards and farmlands of Valvius, disillusioned by the idea of duty and pride.

  He doubted the power of his mind, for this new gift, or power, or…whatever he should call it brought his whole existence into question. Chunks of his long forgotten childhood poured into his memory like a flood breaking through a dam. The ability he contained was powerful; the kind of power only spoke of in legendariums. How could he ever hope to control such a powerful force of will?

  “You will.” A strange, yet soft voice said.

  Dalar snapped his vision from the dancing embers, bringing into focus a tall man in heavy motley robes. The garment was wrought from a heavy fur, thick and brown. Woven into the thick hide of the robe were dozens of coloured leaves - red and orange, yellow and brown, purple and green. The man wore a twisting crown made of driftwood, with thin vines wrapped tightly about it. Heavy, round, vibrant red berries followed the contours of the crown that sat lightly upon a head of long white hair.

  Gleaming eyes, dark and brooding, yet friendly all at once, peered out from underneath bushy eyebrows. The nose was bulbous and porous, housing a dangerously long braided beard.

  Dalar did not move. He had never met a man quiet like this in his lifetime. Nor had he ever seen such a bear as that in which accompanied the stranger.

  “Don’t let Kytos fool you.” The man said, indicating to the gargantuan brown bear next to him. “He is nothing short of kind.”

  “I…” Dalar didn’t know how to react. All his lessons in diplomacy and people interaction escaped him. There was a power here, Dalar sensed. An ancient power, he did not doubt.

  “Might I join you Dalar?” The mysterious man asked.

  Dalar nodded his head slow, never taking his eyes off the curious companions in front of him.

  “Lovely.” The man smiled before lowering himself across from Dalar. “Don’t rack your mind on how we snuck up on you lad, we are very soft of foot, Kytos especially so.”

  “I…” Dalar stammered as the great bear, Kytos, lowered itself onto its hind legs, each of which looked to be as large as Dalar was tall. “How do you know my name?”

  “Well,” the man leaned forward, reaching into Nog’s pot, withdrawing a charred chestnut. “I could say Kytos and I have followed you and your party since that most tragic of events on the forest border, picking up each of your names through your obnoxious conversations. But that would be a lie, and Kytos and I are honest folk.”

  “Then how?” Dalar asked. Kytos cocked its massive head to its side, almost in annoyance with the question.

  “We’re old lad.” The man said. “When you’re as old as we are you…well you learn things about this place – how to control things. It is quite the gift, and you, Dalar, have an extraordinary gift.”

  “My telekinetics?” Dalar offered.

  “Of course lad!” The man’s voice echoed through the wood. “Kytos and I don’t call it by any of your cultured names for these things, but yours is quite something. And rare!”

  “What do you know of it?” Dalar queried.

  “I know it is a terribly powerful gift.” The man said, leaning over the fire. “A powerful gift Del Morte chooses for a select few. Why he chose you I do not know.”

  “What can you tell me about it?” Dalar asked, shuffling a little close to the fire to hear the soft voice of this stranger.

  “It affects the mind, yes, in many ways.” The man said, peering deep into the fires. “You will forget things, good things along with the bad. In time your ability will consume your mind completely, leaving you hapless to the world. At that point Madness will take you.”

  “Madness…” Dalar swallowed hard. Madness had taken dear Benjamin Riley. Madnes
s was a terrible way for a man of the scholarhood to go, for Madness was all consuming, degenerative and will breaking.

  “You have a powerful gift Dalar Rhume.” The man reiterated. “Use it while you can. There are fires coming, fires that will need quenching. Only a man of Madness can stave off the end.”

  A glowing ember spat from the fire pit, only to fall on Dalar’s nose, scalding the skin. He jumped up, cursing Del Morte for his luck.

  “What in Del Morte’s grace are ye doin’ scholar?” Nog cursed, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  “Sorry,” Dalar said. “I was talking with this man here when an ember from the fire landed on my nose.

  “What man?” Issac asked.

  “The man right there, beside the giant…” Dalar paused. The spot where the robed man and his oversized beast sat was bare, showing no signs of recent use. “They were right here. I was talking to him.”

  “Scholar,” Nog’s voice was soft, compassionate almost for such a rough edged voice. “I’m thinkin’ ye need to sleep some. The heat must be gettin’ to ye. Pennygild yer up.”

  Dalar tried to protest, but the Stonefinger was having none of it.

  “If what ye say is true ‘bout our forthcomin’ trek, ye need yer rest.” Nog stated. “It’s a long walk from ‘ere to Stovice, so get yer sleep.”

  Although Dalar didn’t like it, he relented. As he curled beside the fire, wrapping his thin bedroll up to his chin, the strange meeting played over and over in his mind. It was such an odd occurrence, one that worried him greatly.

  “Madness,” Dalar whispered, contemplating the implications of the robed man’s warning, eyes drooping as sleep took hold.

  “Most wonderful lady,” Druxan’s thick, Pozian accent came weak, strained from the man’s wounds.

  “Yes my good ser?” Lillian whispered, shuffling herself closer to her most favourite wine merchant.

  “Please, my lady,” he reached his wide hand for hers. There was sadness in his voice, and Lillian did not think she liked it very much. Lillian took it, trying to be as comforting as she could for the wounded man. “Druxan is sorry for not keeping most wonderful lady safe. Druxan failed.”

  “My dear Druxan,” she said softly, “you were wonderful. It took many men to bring you to where you are. You should be proud.” She placed her free hand on his thick, stubbly, cheek. “I am honoured to have had you fight so wonderfully for me.”

  “The honour was Druxan’s.” His once wonderful smile of gold and silver teeth was now a bruised, gummed affair. “The end is coming for Druxan. He can feel it.”

  “Oh, don’t go talking like that ser.” Lillian said. “You are a strong, brave man from mother Pozo.” She smiled as she put on her best Pozian accent.

  “Aha, madam is right.” He coughed, wincing through pain as he chuckled. “If only Druxan had his Night and Day he would make these paestichios pay for what they do to you most wonderful ladies. Yes, Druxan would.”

  “I know,” Lillian leaned forward and gave his blood-crusted brow a gentle kiss.

  “Lady is too kind to Druxan.” The robust wine merchant gave Lillian another, toothless smile. “Perhaps Madam should see her.” Druxan pointed a thick, stubby finger at Anna, who lay weeping in a corner across from them. Lillian smiled, kissed Druxan’s brow again and crossed the small space to where the priestess lay.

  It was surprised Lillian that these men allowed the cardinal to keep the shawl over her face, despite tearing most of her robes away to get at her woman’s parts. It almost seemed they feared to fully invoke the wrath of Del Morte, as if, in some strange way, the invaders still respected the deity worshipped across Wynne. Perhaps it wasn’t as strange as Lillian suspected, but it was an oddity to be sure.

  “Anna?” Lillian asked, sitting beside the priestess.

  “Del Morte has left us.” The woman wiped tears from her cheeks. “He has abandoned his children to the whims of these rapists and murderers.”

  Lillian chewed her lip, not knowing what to say. She was not an overly devout woman herself, but even she could appreciate the sentiments Anna was expressing. It did disturb Lillian, however, to hear a revered devotee as esteemed as the cardinal question her faith. It was not right. But what was right anymore?

  “No, Anna,” Lillian said in the most comforting tone she could muster. “It was you who told me Del Morte had a plan, and to trust in his workings. Things are terrible now, but give it time. Things will change. Trust in Del Morte.” The words were strange and foreign to Lillian. In all her life, she never expected to find herself counseling a priestess of Del Morte.

  “Yes, child. You are wise.” Anna sat up and leaned against the wall. “Please forgive me, I…I am not strong, like you.”

  “Madam, please, I am not strong.” Lillian protested.

  How could she be strong? Her whole life she lived with fear of losing those she loved; ever since losing her parents as a child, Lillian was a worrisome wreck, always fearful of losing those she cherished. Then she lost her grandmother, then the kindly mayor of Le Clos Noire and her darling, sweet little Jakob. Even her Dalar was probably lost to her now. It was as if all that she dreaded most in this world had come to pass.

  “Child, you are.” Anna turned to face Lillian. “The hardships you have faced have built a resolve and strength in your soul. I can see it in you. It will lead you to great things.”

  Lillian smiled. Not knowing what else to say, Lillian slid back to her own little nook that was now her home.

  As she lay on the hard floor, Lillian could not decide what was a worse annoyance in the small prison; the bleating of her poor Pozian wine merchant from the pain he suffered due to his wounds, or the consistent weeping of the cardinal of Del Morte. In truth, Lillian could fault neither of them. Druxan had nearly died in a suicidal charge in the bowels of his wine cellar, firing his pistols, Day and Night, at any foe that approached. Anna, well, like every other surviving woman in Le Clos Noire, she was raped by several of the black clad men every night.

  Lillian was raped as well, though she had learned to numb her mind to it. She had already lost her darling son and her husband. What pain could be worse than losing those you loved? Surely, uninvited penetration by these men was not so bad when compared to such loss. So, when the men came calling for her, Lillian simply waited while they had their way with her.

  Perhaps Anna was right. Perhaps Lillian did have strength. Despite her losses, despite her situation, she did not desire death. There was a fire building in her gut, a fire that vied for vengeance. She found herself listening to the intruders, learning more about the goings on in town. She had to learn how these men operated, what was happening in the world outside. Lillian needed to know everything she could so that one day she could unleash a wrath of vengeance upon these vile men.

  When she first woke in this room, shared with the small handful of survivors, Lillian did not know where they were. Through her eavesdropping she discovered they were being held in none other than the basement of the townhall. She had never been to this section of the building, so she understood not recognizing it. There was a pungent smell that hung on the air like some pestulant gnat. She learned there had been a member of this Order held captive down here. To hear his comrades talk about it, it seemed the captive was slain and thrown about, and his body had been left to rot. She heard it said the newly promoted leader of the occupying forces had been childhood friends with the prisoner and had ordered an exquisite burial.

  Lillian wasn’t sure how the Order felt about this new leader named Seyblanc. To hear them speak, he sounded young, and green in the field. It was also said he was a personal servant to some man named Syrah – whom Lillian deduced to be this Order’s head commander. There also seemed to be tension, for their plans weren’t going as intended. Apparently their reinforcements had not arrived and this new leader of theirs refused to send a telegram to their commander-in-chief to inquire about the delay. By this man’s refusal to contact their main position, Lillian was ab
le to conclude there was some major event happening somewhere in Wynne they had not expected – an event that was stranding the men here in Le Clos Noire.

  As the days wore on, Lillian realized she needed to escape this confinement in order to bring Le Clos Noire back to the people of Valvius. She did not speak of these desires with anyone, not Anna or Druxan, or any of the other survivors. She could not trust them. So she lay in wait, learning what little she could by their evening callers.

  Slowly, a plan began to formulate. It was daring, and a little bit exciting. If there was one thing she feared most in life, aside from losing those she loved, it was the specters and spooks that haunted the world. Her plan required her to become a living ghost.

  The days passed on in slow manner. Lillian consistently thought of her plan of escape. The more she thought of it, the more she felt it the best thing to do; each day that passed Lillian’s desire to put her plans into motion grew, hungry to make these vile men pay for the trespasses against her and the citizens of Le Clos Noire.

  Finally, after a long night of violent rape, Lillian decided the time had come.

  She spent the day comforting both Anna and Druxan, her two most cherished friends. It pained her to think what the impact her death would have on them, but it was a pain she knew she had to inflict in order to save them. She was certain they would one day understand. Of the two, she feared for her favourite wine merchant the most. He clung to life with but a thread of will, and she feared he would let that go once she was gone.

  “My dear Druxan,” she whispered. “If ever comes a day I am no longer here, you must promise me to hold on to live and fight another day.”

  “Most wonderful lady should not speak in such ways.” He muttered. “She is going no where before Druxan.”

  “I know,” Lillian’s voice was soft, sad almost. “But please promise me if it does happen that you will live to fight for me.”

  “Druxan does not need to promise such things.” The wine merchant did his best to stick his chin in the air. “In mother Pozo, we fight for our women even after they are gone. Most wonderful lady must know this. If she were to leave poor Druxan, he would live to see a day to make all the paestichios pay with their life’s blood.”