The Spark

by Howell, H. G.

  “Thank you ser. “ She gave him a sad smile, knowing the anguish he would feel in the next several hours. Lillian shuffled to her little nook, resigning herself to her last few hours of life as peacefully as possible.

  The rest of the day passed with no great fanfare. Lillian Rhume sat in her nook in the basement of the town hall, letting memories great and small fill her mind to pass the time.

  As the appointed hour drew near, Lillian’s heart began to race. Through the small slanted windows, she could see the sun begin its setting course. It would not be long before the first group of men came looking for their evening’s pleasure.

  Lillian rested her head against the cold wall and took one final look at the small group of survivors. Her heart reached out to each one of them, especially her dear Druxan, who still lay on his back from his injuries. Across the way from him Anna sat rigid, as if she had gained a new strength from Del Morte. Lillian did not doubt the cardinal would now face each night’s raping with a steel resolve, much the way Lillian had done for the past couple weeks. At least, so she hoped.

  Taking several shallow breaths, Lillian let her eyes droop close, shutting the world of the living from her view. The first sounds of the night’s callers drifted from above as Lillian put her plan into action. She allowed her body to go limp, forcing herself to take small, short breaths to help in her feint. All she could do now was wait and hope that she had the fortitude to survive whatever tests the men of the Imperial Order of Wynne would put her corpse through; Lillian prayed to Del Morte for the strength to make it through to the end of her ruse.

  “I ‘ear they’re massin’ in the south.” A grizzled voice said as it entered the basement.

  “The south?” A younger one asked. “Not in Brixon?”

  “So it’s said.” The grizzled man replied. “Me thinks they’re goin’ to come at us from Pozo…or Grubbenbrut.”

  “Strange.” The younger man said. The shuffling of hard-soled boots against the stone floor grew near. “Which one you want to start with?”

  “That one.” The tone in his voice was enough to betray his intent; Lillian didn’t need to open her eyes to know he was after her. “I like me a sleepin’ girl.”

  “You sure she’s sleeping?” The younger man asked. “She’s looking awfully stiff.”

  “Eh?” The grizzled man moved closer.

  The sweet, thick odor of brandy filled Lillian’s nostrils as the man stooped over her. A calloused hand reached around her throat, checking for a pulse. Lillian could tell the man was having a difficult time finding it, for his hand shook from drink.

  “Fuck.” He pulled away from Lillian. “Bitch is dead.”

  “Shit.” The younger man added. “We best go tell Seyblanc we have another one for the wood.”

  “Yer right.” The grizzled voice sighed after a moment of silence. “Grab her an’ take her topside.”

  The younger man’s hands were almost tender as they scooped Lillian’s body off the floor. Lillian had to force herself to continue her shallow breathing as adrenaline began to pump in her veins. She worried the excitement of her plan working would cause her to lose concentration and ruin everything. As the man whisked her to the surface, she could hear her dear wine merchant sobbing, cursing - doing everything in his weakened state to express contempt and hatred for the two men and their Order.

  The man struggled his way up the basement steps, burdened by drink and Lillian’s limp body. Yet onwards he went, one stair at a time. Neither the gruff leader nor the young man whom carried Lillian spoke. Each lost in the moment of the grizzly task they now had to endure. As the triad returned to the main floor of the building, the hushed voices of a half dozen men filled the silence. Their murmurs were far to quite for Lillian to discern anything of interest, yet through weeks of habitual listening, she found herself straining her ears.

  A sudden blast of hot, thick air laced with the most irksome humidity bombarded Lillian as the front doors of the town hall swung open. Being confined in the shadows of her dank basement prison, Lillian had forgotten how wretched the weather was. Yet she endured the sweltering heat as the men marched down the cobbled paths of the village.

  Before long, the grizzled voiced leader could be heard banging on a door. By the tone of his mutterings, something was amiss.

  “Seyblanc’s not ‘ere.” He said as he returned from the doorstep. “Probably off with tinkerin’ with Vladimir again.”

  “Then what do we do with her?” the young man asked as he shifted Lillian’s body to redistribute the weight.

  “Take her to the wood I s’pose.” The older man suggested.

  “But…he’ll want her checked.”

  “I checked her,” the leader spat. “Good enough fer me. Let’s get her t’ the wood so we can come back afore our time is up. I needs to have me a juicy cunt afore I go back on watch.”

  “Fine.” The younger boy relented. “But you have to help me. Bitch is heavy.”

  “Fine.” Wide, rough hands grabbed Lillian by her ankles, pulling them outwards. Lillian hung limp in the small space of air between the two men as they shuffled onwards again.

  As she hung between them, Lillian could not believe her fortunate luck; a drunkard to check her pulse, a missing commander to confirm the death, and a pair of horny men in need of a fix before returning to duty. It was almost too good to be true. It was as if Del Morte finally heard Lillian’s prayers.

  She had some time to let her mind devise her next course of action once she was dumped in the woods, yet Lillian was finding it difficult to concentrate under the beating rays of the setting sun. Thankfully, she did not have to endure the searing pain for long. For as soon as the sensations were starting to finally grow unbearable, the sweet reprieve of broken shade fell upon her; sooner than she knew it, the direct sunlight on her shut eyes gave way to the cool, sparse shade of tree branches devoid of foliage.

  At first, the heavy air smelled much the same as any wood. It pleased Lillian to have such familiar scents of maple and oak, brush and decaying leaves greet her. There was a sweet, pungent odor lingering on the fringes of the typical forest smells – a scent that grew stronger the deeper they went. In her heart, Lillian knew what the terrible aroma was.

  Bodies. Long dead, decaying bodies of the friends and neighbours that did not survive the assault on Le Clos Noire. Lillian had to fight every natural reflex in her body as it screamed in agony as the wretched odors filled her nostrils. This was the final stage of Lillian’s simple plan, and the one she feared most. This was the part of her plan she feared would break her newfound resolve.

  “Del Morte be damned.” The young man cursed. His voice was nasally as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Let’s just drop the bitch and get out of here.”

  “Don’t ‘ave to go an ask me twice.” The gruff man let go of Lillian’s ankles, letting them drop onto the hard ground below.

  Lillian had to bite her tongue from yelping as the younger man let her head and arms drop to the parched earth below.

  It did not take long for the sound of the men to fade away. A deep stillness fell over the wood as Lillian lay there, as if the forest held its breath waiting for her to spring to life. She did not wait long. The putrid stench finally became too much for the lady. Lillian rolled to the side, and let her body wretch. It was such a wonderful feeling. When there was nothing left in her, Lillian sat up, and opened her eyes.

  It was a grisly scene, though not as terrible as she had imagined. There were dozens upon dozens of corpses in various states of decay strewn about the forest floor; men and women, children and elderly, militia and foreign soldiers – all lay as equals in this realm of death. Yet, there were obvious signs of many missing bodies. There was no carrion either. Each body lay as whole as it had in its final moments alive.

  Lillian noticed a building, which looked rather new, sitting on the furthest western fringes of the wood. Smoke rose from its singular chimney, and strange metallic rods and coils sat tall and p
roud on the cabin’s roof. She traveled most of this wood in her early days, and she had never seen such a building in the forest. It was an oddity to be sure, and she decided it best to investigate.

  Not wanting to be caught off guard, Lillian examined the area around her. She found several pistols of varying designs, all without ammunition. There were no blades to be found either. She crawled her way over body after body in search of anything that could serve as a makeshift weapon, but it seemed the Order was indeed intelligent and had taken the weapons for themselves.

  “Del Morte, please,” she whispered as she searched a young militiaman. “Something, please.”

  With shaking hands Lillian opened the fallen soldier’s jacket, and was about to give up her search when she found a small, three-inch long knife in a hidden pocket. “Yes! Thank-you lord. Thank-you!” She hugged the little blade, not caring if its small reach would be effective or not. Lillian turned her gaze back to the cabin, now surprisingly close.

  In her haste of finding a weapon, Lillian had forgotten to pay mind to her proximity to the building. She lowered herself to the ground, hoping against hope she had not been seen. She lingered by the young soldier’s body for several minutes, watching the cabin for sign of activity, yet, aside from the slow crawling smoke from the chimney, it appeared to be devoid of life.

  Taking her time, Lillian once more slid from corpse-to-corpse. In order to save Le Clos Noire, Lillian would have to master stealth, patience and cunning. Yet the fearful girl she had been her whole life screamed in protestation, begging for Lillian to simply flee into the woods and never look back. The woman she had become could not run, not while the last two remaining people she cherished most in this living world were prisoners in their own town.

  Lillian reached the back of the building after what seemed an eternity of slow slinking and sliding. Taking a few steadying breaths, she rose to her feet and placed her back square against the wooden walls of the building. Through the cracks of molding, Lillian could hear a man muttering to himself over the din of machinery. Even though she could not make out his words, it was obvious to his accent was of the north.

  Never having listened much to Dalar ramble on about strategies and the like, Lillian was faced with an interesting dilemma. How in Del Morte’s great wisdom would she confront her foe? The first thing she decided was ensuring the man was indeed a member of this Order and not some traveler making trouble. With a tender step, Lillian rounded the far western corner of the cabin, rounding around to the front of the building. She had to squat to avoid being seen through a simple four-pane window. A soft blue glow emanated from the space within, reminding Lillian of Dalar’s mechanical steed. It was curious to see such a bold representation of the azure light in this remote outpost, so Lillian decided she had best peer into the window itself.

  Inside, the space was dark except for the bright glowing prongs and coils of some scientific nature. Even though there was smoke rising from the chimney round back, Lillian could see no traces of a fire or hearth. Every so often a shadow of a man would block out the blue light, illuminating the tell tale sign of a single, gold cog upon his jacket’s breast. Content with her discovery, Lillian lowered herself back to a squat to better prepare for her next move.

  She would need to create a distraction in order to draw the man out of the building. With no easily obtainable stones or twigs, Lillian’s only course was to knock on the door itself. Not knowing whether or not the door would swing inwards or outwards proved another challenge, yet there was no way Lillian could figure, or risk, to draw the man further into the woods. She would have to take him the moment he revealed himself.

  Taking her small, three-inched blade, Lillian pressed her back against the doorframe, still squatting to avoid being seen prematurely. She took a deep breath, readying herself. Reaching out with her left hand, Lillian gave a hard rap on the door.

  The man inside paused for a moment. A long silence filled the wood as nothing happened. Suddenly, the soft click of a releasing bolt-latch shattered the quiet. Lillian tightened her grip on the hilt of her small weapon as the heavy door pulled open. A man wearing a suit of wiring and metals under the black uniform of the Imperial Order stepped into the wood. He had a hand raised over his eyes to block the glare of the sun as he orientated himself to the sudden brightness.

  Lillian acted on instinct, knowing this momentary disorientation would be her best chance of taking him down. Without making so much as a peep, Lillian lunged at the man with all of her fury. The force of her sudden weight sent both the kinetic and her tumbling into the confines of the cabin. The fall did not stop her though. She plunged the blade into the unsuspecting victim time and again, letting months of rage, loss and fury power every strike. So great was Lillian’s resolve in taking out her foe, she did not feel the sparks of electrical energy feed into her blade from the kinetic’s body, burning her hand.

  When Lillian could no longer lift her arms, she slid off the man’s long deceased body. Her hands slick with his blood; blisters bubbled and popped from the electrical shocks she had received. As she sat in this lonely cabin in the middle of the corpse-strewn wood on the outskirts of town, she finally felt a purpose. It felt good to have taken a man whom wished harm on innocent men and women. It felt good to be in command of people’s destinies. There was a power filling her – a power she knew that would lead her to the great things Anna declared.

  Lillian took her time in leaving the cabin, letting her handiwork stand as a warning to those who would come find him. She found a steel shut hearth, where, indeed, a fire was burning, albeit low. With great effort she slid the steel plating down, letting the orange glow of the fire mingle with the glowing blue of the man’s devices. She continued to examine the space, and found nothing of interest. Although, Lillian did find it curious that he had a body strapped to a table near his mechanical devices.

  Just as Lillian was about to leave the cabin, she did find something of interest. A top a small chest was a gauntlet made of copper and iron. Wires ran up the length of the forearm plating, leading from a meter of some kind and down into the palm of the gloved hand. It looked to be a kinetic device of some sort, but Lillian couldn’t tell. She had never been one to pay attention to Dalar speak about the kinetic people.

  Lillian found a lonely pistol with four rounds of ammunition next to the odd device. She snatched the gun up in wonder. It was not as powerful as her husband’s clockwork pistol, but it would serve her needs just fine. If she were to become a ghost, Lillian had to learn how to work with what she had on hand.

  Flies buzzed like a dense cloud over the body. The first hints of decay were beginning to set in, sped up by the deadly heat of the Valvian sun. Marcus Seyblanc stood over the dead man with a handful of officers, looking for any sign of evidence to suggest what happened. This was becoming a growing issue in occupied Le Clos Noire.

  It started with the chief electrokinetic, Vladimir, who had been stabbed over and over again in his lab in the dead wood. Since then, the murders had been as varied and curious as the first.

  “This isn’t going to help morale,” a young sergeant said. “You’ve got to put a stop to this Seyblanc.”

  “I know.” Marcus replied. Del Morte only knew how much he needed to. With the morale of his troops already low, each new death only served to dampen their spirits even more.

  “Graham, Gibson, take this man to the dead wood.” Marcus ordered before turning his back on the scene. The remaining officers fell in behind him as he led the way to the command post.

  The troupe marched through the market square, following the north running street to the more spacious properties and dwellings of the more well to do citizenry of the village. Rubble from blasted buildings had been piled along the side of the path, while wooden planks closed off large openings in the walls and windows from the kinetic blasts. Blood stained many places along the roadways, marking where men had fallen in the fierce fight for the village.

  The cobbled path t
ook a winding course into the upper echelons of the village. Every so often, the path was interrupted by cast iron gates, many which led to the sizable manses of the rich. Marcus ignored many of the upscale homes. He was a salter born and such luxury was lost on him.

  Before long the path came to a final bend. A small gate led to the modest property and cabin that housed the Imperial command post. Upon entering the cozy home, Marcus headed into the dining room. Now, no meals came from the kitchenette to the square table; this room was no longer a place for family gatherings, it was a command hub laden with maps Wynne and its provinces.

  A large, black cog marked the location of Le Clos Noire on the Valvian map, as well as the Imperial Isle located in Fascile Bay. These were the only two locations Marcus and his officers knew of Imperial positions. Marcus planted a green marker over the Valvian capital, Brixon, as he figured that would be where his foe was gathering, despite the high flying rumours of Valvian airships flying to the south-westerly province, Pozo.

  All Marcus could do was sit and ponder his next move. He motioned for his officers to gather around the table. Coming around to the head of the table, Marcus kicked shut a small trap door that had strangely been left open. It had been a magnificent find for it led to a hidden cellar beneath the whole dinning room. Marcus decided to use it as a store for the extra weapons and ammunition the Order had brought over. No one was to go into it without his leave. Why it was left open was a question he would have to ask later, for the moment required answers to a more pressing matter.

  “What’re we going to do?” Marcus asked, leaning on the table.

  “I think we should burn the village and take the next one,” a low ranking officer suggested.

  “Not an option.” Marcus stated. “Syrah wants this town as a staging base for his war.”