The Spark

by Howell, H. G.

  “Then where is he?” the man asked. “Where is our great leader?”

  “It matters not where he is.” A sergeant said from across the table. “He will come when he is ready.”

  “Bah,” the man spat. “We should leave this place. It is cursed. It is why men are dying on their watch.”

  “You speak of deserting our post?” Marcus asked.

  “Aye.” The lowly officer jutted his jaw in defiance. “Syrah ain’t coming and I am not waiting here to be shot, stabbed or gutted in my sleep.”

  “Well then,” Marcus reached behind his back, gripping the familiar, smooth wood grip of his pistol. “We will not make you wait. We will do what is necessary to ensure that won’t happen.” With surprising ease, Marcus drew his weapon and released three rounds. The bullets implanted themselves into office before the man could even realize what was happening.

  “Simon,” Marcus said, turning to the man to his left. “Take this coward’s body and nail it to the stage in the market square. I want it known what happens to deserters.”

  “Yessir.” The officer walked to where the still form of his comrade lay, scooped the corpse over his shoulder, and departed the house.

  It was strange, killing a man in cold blood. Marcus had done it once before, following the teachings of the Order, and even then it felt strange. He found killing a foe that is after your blood easy, even desirable, because the bloodshed is more justifiable. It was doing what was necessary to ensure loyalty and strength that still managed to bother Marcus. But, he knew, that was only because there were still traces of the boy he once was lingering in his soul.

  Marcus hardly slept at night. The shocked, betrayed look James had given as Marcus shot him in cold blood managed to filter into Marcus’ nightly dreams. As did the sad blue eyes of Belle, the pregnant beauty Marcus had taken before departing for war. Deep down, the boy Marcus was prayed to be down with the cold blooded killing; yet here, Marcus the man, stood, gunning down those whom showed signs of being weak.

  “You did well,” another officer declared.

  “No,” Marcus stated, cold and flat. “I did what was necessary. Now, what are we to do?”

  The room fell silent as each man looked at the map. It was an image they all knew by memory, yet it seemed the appropriate thing to do.

  “Anyone?” Marcus asked. The men remained silent. “Then here is my suggestion. We cannot stay here blind to the world. Yet, with these murders, I am fearful to send out scouting parties.”

  “And don’t forget the risk of desertion, ser.” A man to his right added.

  “Of course.” Marcus agreed. “What I propose is the construction of watch towers along the furthest borders of the village here,” he pointed to a spot on the map, just east of Le Clos Noire. “Here and here.” He did the same for locations to the south and the north.

  “What about the west?” another officer asked.

  “We have Vladimir’s lab.” Marcus replied. “We will use it as our western watch.”

  “But…the corpses,” the officer across the table stated.

  “The corpses should keep most trouble away. The smell alone will keep all but carrion at bay.” Marcus said.

  “That didn’t help Vladimir.” The man to his right said.

  “True.” Marcus admitted. “But he was alone. We will have two men at all times at every watch post. We will also double the evening’s patrols.”

  “I like the plan,” another chimed in. “What about Syrah? Will you send a telegram?”

  “No.” Marcus sighed. Sending communication to Syrah had been a long, heated argument – one that was brought up at every chance it seemed. In truth, it had nothing to do with Marcus refusing to communicate with their leader, as was said amongst the troops, it had everything to do with the machinery itself.

  “I have not told anyone, for fear dampening morale.” Marcus started. “But these murders have already done that.” He sighed again. “The use of the electrokinetics in the invasion short circuited the machinery and damaged its functions beyond any reasonable repair. Vladimir was working on repairs when his own experiments permitted him time. We are cut off from the rest of the Order.”

  “It makes no matter,” the man to his right said. “We are not weak Valvians. We are men of the Order. We are strong, brave, and proud. We will do what is necessary to survive until our glorious leader comes for us.”

  “Here, here!” The other’s proclaimed, empowered by the man’s words.

  After an hour or so of planning the appropriate means of constructing the watchtowers, Marcus saw the officers off for the night. He knew half of them would venture to the town hall to have one or two of the Valvian women. Marcus had half a mind to join them, but, as always, he chose to remain in the command post.

  It was a spacious home, built with typical Valvian flair. The main floor was built with high vaulting ceilings, green and gold wall coverings. There was a large bay window in the dining room, which he had repaired not long after his promotion. Marcus spent most of his time not pouring over the maps of Wynne, but rather sitting in the adjoining sitting room. There was a lovely sofa sitting across from a small fireplace with an oversized mantle. When he had first taken residence in this cabin, there had been a portrait of a family – a man, woman, and a young child that looked no more than three years old.

  As he spent his nights sitting in front of the fire, his thoughts often turned to that family. He wondered what happened to them; had they died in one of the assaults on the village? Did they flee to Brixon? Or were they away to the south on some family get away? It was clear by the objects and decorum of the home the family had been of moderate wealth, so, really, any of his questions may have been just as likely.

  Tonight he sat, staring into the low burning embers. He mulled over a glass of Valvian wine, not really enjoying it, but it served its purpose. Marcus’ thoughts wandered to his past, retracing the steps he took that led him to where he now sat. It was a curious journey he never imagined he would ever take. All his young life, Marcus Seyblanc figured he would grow to be a salter, like his father and his father before him; despite all his young hopes, he had always known his destiny.

  But life never quite goes the way one expects it to.

  Now Marcus sat on the sofa of a defeated family, in a defeated village, in command of a regiment of trained soldiers. It was a strange feeling, and one Marcus was growing to enjoy.

  A sudden chill ran down Marcus’ spine, as if his senses were telling him he was being watched. Marcus turned to check behind him, and was surprised to see Simon standing in the threshold between the sitting room and the front landing.

  “Simon?” Marcus asked, stunned to not have heard the officer enter the cabin.

  Turning his head, the officer faced Marcus. The man did not blink. He simply bore his gaze into Marcus’ soul.

  “What is it?” Marcus shifted uncomfortably under the unrelenting eyes. “Speak to me damn it!”

  Without word, or sound, Simon turned his head forward, and walked through the house to the back entrance near the kitchen. Marcus furrowed his brow, not understanding what was happening. He looked at the small clock that hung on the wall. The time read nine-thirty. Setting his drink down and retrieving his pistol, Marcus followed his officer out through the back door.

  When he reached the entrance, he noted the door wasn’t open. Neither was the cellar door. Goose pimples fluttered over Marcus’ skin, for he was certain he had not heard the door open or close.

  A wave of dense, hot air greeted him as he opened the heavy door. The crickets were singing loud, joined by two or three cicadas. The stars shone bright above, and the moon gave a wonderful, soft, luminescent glow to the world outside.

  “Simon?” Marcus called, hoping the other man was simply out of view. When he didn’t get an answer, he decided it best to leave well enough alone and go to bed.

  The familiar, insistent pounding on the front door woke Marcus the following morning. He pulled o
n his linen shirt, donned his black trousers, and slid his feet into his leather boots. He did not hurry to greet those who called on him, for he already knew what message they brought – there had been another body discovered.

  “Take me to it,” he said without so much as a pause as he opened the front door. And so, with his small array of officers, Marcus headed into town.

  It did not take long for him to realize where the body had been found, for a crowd was gathering at the center stage in the market square. Although he could not hear what his troops were saying, Marcus could sense the men murmuring amongst themselves. In truth he did not need to know what they were saying, for he had a good idea what they said.

  The mob of Imperial soldiers parted for the officers, each man staring at Marcus as he made his way to the stage. He did not return their looks, for he knew to do so would make him seem weak, or intimidated by them.

  His feet finally brought Marcus to the stage, and, for a moment, he wished he had not gotten out of bed.

  The scene was perhaps the worst yet. Nailed to a stage post was Simon, only, he had been nailed to the wood with a large spike through his mouth. A pocket watch hung limp and broken from his waist coast, glittering gold in the morning sun. Marcus approached the body, and held the tangling object in his hand. It was a beautiful design, laden with twisting vines and cogs. An ornate, flourishing ‘S” had been engraved in the center of the faceplate. Marcus pressed the latch release, causing the object to spring open. His heart froze for a minute as he noted the position of the hands. Nine-thirty.

  “Simon,” Marcus whispered, realizing he had seen the specter of the man at the exact moment he had been slain. Marcus turned his back on the corpse, not wanting to face the unwavering eyes of his one time officer.

  “Where was the watch?” Marcus asked. No one answered. “Where was the watch last night? This man was slain at nine-thirty. How did no one see this, or hear it?”

  “That’s the thing,” an officer said, voice kept low. “Those who did hear…well…you’d best come over here.” The man pushed through the crowd and headed to the wine cellar that had once belonged to the fat Pozian. Marcus followed, bitterness building in his mouth. The man pointed down the small flight of stairs to the cellar’s floor.

  Sprawled upon the surface of the moss covered storeroom floor were half a dozen men, all with wide gashes across their throats.

  “Seems whomever did this took out the guard, then finished with Simon.” The officer’s voice cracked, clearly hiding the fact he was struggling to keep his composure.

  Marcus turned to face the gathered troops. Their eyes fell on him full of malice, hatred, and loathing. He did not let that bother him though, for now was not the time.

  “I want the watches tripled at night,” Marcus said to the officer. “We need to find out what in Del Morte’s thrice damned kith is going on here.”

  “Yessir.” The man replied. “What of the watch towers?”

  “I want work on those started today.” Marcus insisted. “Take enough men to clean up this mess and have the rest begin the work on those towers.” Marcus motioned to the stage where Simon hung. “He has a pocket watch, I want it.”

  “Yessir.” The man said. “Anything else?”

  “Aye, have all officers meet at my cabin in two hours. We have much to discuss.”

  Marcus returned to the house and waited for his men to arrive. He postponed an immediate meeting to give himself time to deal with the major loss the Order had just suffered. It was one thing to lose one man here and there, but no less than seven in one evening was something else entirely.

  When the men did arrive, he had them assemble, again, in the dining room, encircling a table with a map of Wynne.

  “We need to keep the watches in the night.” He said, stating the obvious. “But I fear the men may no longer wish to risk it, not after last nights murders.”

  “Than what’re we goin’ to do?” A coarse voiced man asked.

  “I don’t know.” Marcus admitted.

  “What about Vladimir?” a man to his left asked. “How much of his work did he finish?”

  “I don’t know why?” asked Marcus.

  “If we have a enough kicking around, we could keep our troops safe as these … things keep the watch at night.” The officer suggested.

  “You know, you may just be onto something. Does anyone know?” Marcus waited for their response. “No? Well…I suppose we may just have go to those woods and find out for ourselves.”

  “How will we control them?” Another man asked. “Vladimir did not share the activation methods, and we are all out of kinetcs.”

  Marcus thought for a moment. It was a damning situation to be sure.

  “Well,” the gruff officer chimed in. “Don’t know how much ye know of the damn’d kinetic’s work, but he was onto somethin’ afore his death.”

  “Go on.” Marcus insisted.

  “Don’t know how much of it is finished,” the officer continued. “But he was craftin’ a glove fer us normal folk to harness electrokinetics.”

  “Perfect.” Marcus clapped, excited by the notion. “Take me to his cabin. We will look for his designs and see what can be done with this invention of his.”

  Gossimer stepped into an angry world. The light of the tavern behind him fought with the pelting rain to illuminate the muddy road without. In all his life, Gossimer Morgan had never known such dreadful weather like the torrential downfall of water from the heavens in Pozo. It was true he had heard of the rains when he was still a steward to Lucian Margoux on the snow laden Driftwood Isle, but living in it was an entirely different matter.

  The world had truly gone mad.

  Pulling the lapels of his jacket tight over his cheeks, Gossimer ran across the many, well-fed puddles in the road. All he wanted now was his bed. Not the skimpy little cot he had slept in over the past several weeks in the basement of some kindly Pozian family, no, Gossimer desired the comforts of his down filled mattress he left in Gossac. His life had changed so drastically in such a short time. One day he was simply a steward to the Valvian representative of the Grand Council of Wynne, and the next he had been cast out like an old dog. Now he found himself in the smallest province of Wynne under the care of some drill sergeant with a vile temper.

  There were many nights, like this one, Gossimer spent in the small Pozian tavern, nursing his bruises and pride over pints of ale. It was a convenient little building along the causeway that served as the supply road for the marshalling armies. Tonight, however, the tavern had been in a sour mood. Even the jovial Pozian barkeep and his serving wenches seemed to be in poor spirits. Gossimer hadn’t been able to ascertain why, so he simply downed his ale over a quick cigarette and left the solemn atmosphere behind.

  After what seemed like an eternity of running through the pelting rain, Gossimer finally came to the front landing of the house. He wasted no time in opening the door and entering the building, eager to shrug off the wet clothes on his back.

  “Ah, Gossimer.” A familiar voice said from the side room.

  “Mister Lucian?” Gossimer asked, perhaps with a little too much shock in his tone.

  “Yes, ‘tis I.” His former master said. “How have you been lad?”

  “Wet.” With the faintest hints of a smile, Gossimer indicated to his drenched clothes.

  “Yes, aren’t we all a little ‘wet’ here.” Lucian Margoux agreed with a smile of his own. “Come, sit by the fire with me for a while.”

  Out of habit Gossimer did what he was told with not so much as a second guess. Not that he needed to, but there was still a part of him that would forever be a steward to jump at command. He took the seat opposite his former master, ignoring the wet squish his trousers made upon sitting.

  “The time is drawing near,” Lucian said as soon as Gossimer was seated. “Our great battle will be upon us soon.”

  “Already?” Gossimer stated.

  “Aye,” Lucian nodded his head. “But don’t
go getting too worked up over it. I have postponed the assault.”

  “Oh?” Gossimer didn’t know what to say, really. In many ways, he was glad the impending battle would be put off, yet he hated the wait. It made him anxious, as if he sat on death’s door, waiting for the fateful blow to strike him down.

  “It would seem,” Lucian began. “Our friends in Grubbenbrut have decided to send us some assistance. Their troops should be here within the next little while, but I worry Gossimer, I worry about the Di Delgan’s. The lady Schernoff sent a telegram stating they had deployed a contingent last week. They should be here by now.”

  “Have you informed the lady?” Gossimer leaned forward in his seat, strangely curious.

  “I have,” the general admitted. “She says they must be struck by poor weather – a thread we can all understand. But still,” Lucian reached into a pocket and withdrew a tightly rolled cigarette, “they should be here by now.”

  Gossimer watched as his former master put the stick of tobacco between his lips, lighting it with a small match.

  “Makes no matter,” Lucian continued, taking a few quick drags of his smoke. “The Di Delgan’s will be here soon, and when the Grubben forces arrive we will make our move.”

  “Wonderful,” Gossimer tried to sound enthused, but the thought of war and death were ideas he did not readily enjoy.

  “Don’t you worry lad,” Lucian said, catching the hints of sarcasm in Gossimer’s tone. “You won’t be fighting in the front lines, despite what your sergeant will have you believe.”

  “Oh?” Once again Gossimer found himself at a loss for words.

  “Yes, I am having you transferred to a different regiment.” Lucian smiled. “You will be joining the constructs. Some of the men attached to the regiment are eager for front line duties. Its hard to blame them, being devout Valvian’s as they are. I’m sure you’re aware I plan to utilize the constructs as a tertiary wave to hold our lines once the battle starts?”

  “Yes,” Gossimer said. “We have been drilled on the battle plan. It’s smart. Well, at least I think it is. I’m not a strategist Mister Lucian, but I can see the sense in using a tougher element like the golems in defense and not offense. This Order won’t expect it.”