The Spark

by Howell, H. G.

  “That’s the idea.” His former master rose from his chair, flicking his cigarette into the fire. “I’m glad you noticed the sense. Some of these officers they sent me don’t seem to understand.” Lucian patted Gossimer on the shoulder. “Be at the west block on the morrow, you won’t be staying here after tonight. Report to Abraham, he is a stocky built man with a rough attitude."

  “Yessir.” Gossimer said, not sure if he should relieved or all the more fearful. To be put on a defense line was safer, in theory, yet he did not doubt it came with more responsibility.

  “Good.” Lucian smiled and headed to the door. “Whatever happens Gossimer, please be safe.”

  Gossimer Morgan smiled as the great Valvian general opened the rickety wood door and entered into the angry world without.

  The next morning the torrential rain slowed to a gentle pattering. Gossimer’s olive uniform was still damp from the previous night, not that it mattered in the morning rain. He struggled through the muddy road as it led away from his quaint, convenient quarters across from the tavern in the east block. With the road as it was, Gossimer knew it would take him the better part of an hour to get through the east and central encampments to reach the western block. But on he drudged, sometimes ankle deep in thick mud.

  Rows upon rows of sodden tents of canvas lined the fields along the way. Men sat huddled around wimpy little fires that were fueled by oil and covered by thick iron plates. Their olive wool uniforms looked as sullen as the soldier’s faces as they sat under the rain. The halved green and white flag with the three central golden cogs of Wynne had been embroidered on many of the men’s uniforms, marking them as men of Valvius.

  Most of his morning passed with no real change in scenery. He passed regiment after regiment of Valvian troops, all huddled within the easternmost encampments. When the first few signs of the rowdy, proud and ostentatious Pozian soldiers began to appear, Gossimer knew he was entering the central staging grounds. Like the Valvian emplacement, the Pozian’s were mostly kept in long rows of canvas tents. Whereas the Valvian’s were of a plain, off-white cotton, the Pozian’s ranged in colour; red, blue, green with yellow streaks – the Pozian flamboyancy exceeded even into its military.

  As he passed the Pozian rows Gossimer was greeted with strong scents of spiced meats and eggs, the sour stench of stale rums, and the sickly fumes of latrine trenches. The Pozian camp held an air of organized chaos. Where there seemed to be little in way of structure, as Gossimer knew it, there was certainly evidence of a greater, organic way the Pozian military operated. Where the Valvian military ensured all latrine lines were dug well enough away from the camps, the Pozians made it the duty of its troops to dig their own. Where this idea seemed foreign, and absolutely repulsing, it was clear the advantage. It seemed most of the Pozian soldiers dug their waste holes in clusters – usually near a grouping of two or three tents. The obvious advantage was shorter lines, and shorter distance to relieving oneself.

  Gossimer looked out over the field of rainbow tents, and its wonderfully complex and curious inhabitants, and continued on his way.

  The west block was quite unlike the previous two staging grounds for the massing army. In lieu of sodden tents of canvas, or acquired homesteads and inns, the western grounds had taken residence under the protective roofs and walls of a large manufactorum complex. It really made sense when Gossimer thought of it, for the west block was the designated staging area for all of the mechanical weapons of war; the intricate working of the many cortex powered golems, airships and other vehicles of war needed the shelter from the constant rain in Pozo.

  Gossimer entered the largest building of the complex. It was previously a warehouse for the finer wares the factory had once produced, with heavy, iron doors marked by large, blocked lettering – A3. The great doors to the building were open, offering Gossimer a view of the everflame lit interior. Dozens upon dozens of golems had been packed into tight little regiments. It was a terrifyingly beautiful sight, seeing the way the soft everflame reflected off of the metallic bodies of the constructs.

  His feet led him inside the building, moving past rank after rank of the silent entities. Each machine towered over Gossimer by at least a good two-to-three heads and equally as wide. Their mechanical innards all seemed to have the same placement and functioning as Nine’s, as well as very similar gold and copper plating to protect the delicate interior. Perhaps the one thing Gossimer found the most interesting about the constructs was the similar builds of the beasts, yet the glaring individuality captured with the varying faceplates. Many of the masks that protected the secondary cranial cortexes were visages of fierce warriors, not dissimilar to Nine. Yet, at the same time, just as many were eschewed into masks laced in torment, sorrow, and even extreme euphoria. There was something unnerving about the exaggerated smiles of the euphoric masks of the golem’s that sent chills down Gossimer’s spine.

  Many of the constructs had been powered down, clearly to save the energy bound within their dual cortexes, or for preparation for some kind of maintenance. There were some, however, still in full operation. The azure glow from their cranial cortex shone bright through the eye slits of the machine’s faceplates, watching Gossimer’s every step as he passed the assembled rows of golems with a lifeless curiosity. It had always been an unnerving feeling for the lad when Nine did this, but now his skin crawled in discomfort as uncountable gazes watched his every step.

  As he neared the final stretches of the golem’s ranks, Gossimer noticed an office space. There was a large, several paned window that looked into the room beyond. Sitting at the desk was a sturdy, robust man reading over some papers. He had a small pipe sticking out of his mouth and his grey hair had been greased back. The chevrons on the arm of his olive uniform marked him as a man of authority, leading Gossimer to assume this was the man he needed to find.

  “S’cuse me ser,” Gossimer said, knocking on the open door. “Are you Master Abraham?”

  “Might be I am.” The man said, turning to face the interruption. “What can I do for you boy?”

  “Master Luc…the General told me to report to you.” Gossimer corrected himself. It was bad enough Gossimer was being reassigned due to the relationship between himself and the general, so he felt it best if he just acted a standard trooper with a standard unit transfer.

  “So you’re the spindly thing Margoux has given me in return for my lads?” Abraham’s tone was harsh, coming between puffs of his pipe. His dark eyes read over every inch of Gossimer as he entered the cluttered office.

  “I am, ser.” Gossimer said, snapping into an attentive stance.

  “Well,” the man leaned back into his chair, removed the cherry stained wood pipe from his mouth and pointed it at Gossimer. “Can’t say I’m impressed any. Larson and Cole, both broad shouldered, stern and brave to boot. But,” he returned the pipe to his mouth, “you’ll do.”

  “Thank-you, ser.” Gossimer’s voice was flat, almost as robotic as Nine’s.

  “I ain’t no ser, boy.” Abraham said, shuffling the papers on his desk. “Around here we don’t worry about such pleasantries.” He rose from his surprisingly little chair, walked around the desk and came to stand in front of Gossimer. “When we’re in the field, don’t matter if you’re a grunt or a ser, we all die the same.” The man slapped Gossimer’s shoulder with a bawdy laugh. “Just call me Abe.”

  “Yessir.” Gossimer said.

  “Come, boy.” Abe’s laugh was meaty and thick as if it developed in the very bowels of his round belly. “Let’s show you your new duties.”

  The rest of the day passed with Abraham touring the facility of building A3. The first task would be ensuring every construct was accounted for every morning and evening. Despite being designed to obey orders, the machines sometimes had a will of their own and would go missing. It was a rare occurrence, but one the newly formed Alliance of Wynne could not afford to risk. If a constuct went missing, the first place Gossimer would have to check would be the main
tenance building across the way. The mechanics knew to not keep any constructs later than seven o’clock, and to not take any until eight in the morning, but sometimes, depending on the work they were doing, the maintenance would run late. If anything, this happened more and more frequently the longer the machines were in this dreary weather; despite being sheltered in building A3, many of the machine’s joints and gears were stiffening and the cortexes were outputting more energy than needed.

  Once the count was finished, which Gossimer figured would take the better part of an hour; he had to select five golems from every regiment to remain functioning while the rest powered down. Abe went on to say that this served two purposes. The first, and probably most important, was to ensure the cortexes did not drain all their power. The Alliance would need the golems in top working order and having near depleted power sources in the field of battle would only serve to benefit the enemy.

  The second reason, and perhaps just as important, was security. With Pozo being near the shores of Fascile Bay, the risk of Imperial Order spies, or insurgents, was high. The Alliance could not risk any sabotage of any sort against the golems – or airships - and by keeping so many of the constructs active, they had an unrelenting security force.

  Beyond that, Gossimer’s duties would be basic cleaning, buffing and polishing of the machines. It would also fall on Gossimer to ensure the golems would be well versed in the battle plans once the fighting began.

  Once the war was in full swing and the constructs were in the field, Gossimer’s duties would change. He would need to run repairs with the maintenance crews, keep watch with the golems, and, more than likely, aid in the fighting. If a call for retreat were to be sounded, Gossimer would have to rally the machines to him and create an avenue of escape for the Alliance forces.

  If that call ever went out, Gossimer feared it would mean his death, for the last to board any of the airships would be the construct legions and their crews. But, that was a thought he did not wish to think about for the nonce. Right now he needed to worry about the present and ensuring he could do what he could to make sure the machines were ready for war.

  After the tour, Abe took Gossimer to a small alcove on the second floor of the building. This was to be Gossimer’s new living space until the Alliance forayed into the field. It wasn’t much. The alcove was more or less a nook in the walls of the building with a steel bench about two-and-a-half feet from the grated floor. Gossimer could tell it would not offer him much comfort in the night, and he found himself wondering if the Alliance cared more about the upkeep of the constructs than their crews.

  “The rest of the day is yours,” Abraham said as he turned to leave Gossimer to his alcove. “We’ll start you on your duties at dawn.”

  “Yessir.” Gossimer said, more from habit than anything. His new commanding officer shook his head as he continued back the way he came, clearly enjoying Gossimer’s inability of using his name.

  With a sigh the lad sat upon the hard surface of the bench that now served as his bed. He turned his eyes to the ceiling as the soft clinking of metal caught his attention. High above, several long links of steel chain links hung from the ceiling of the warehouse, each ending with large brass hooks. He noticed a large hole near the back of the building where the day’s gentle rain trickled through. It was evident the space was there by design, for it’s shape was far to perfect a square to have been an outside force. What purpose the hole served he could only guess, but it did give an eerie feel to the warehouse; the soft patter of rain against the steel cat walks and the clinking of the chain links melded together in a wonderful, ominous chorus in the silent building.

  Feeling the need to discover, Gossimer tucked his bedroll underneath the bench and headed for the exit.

  He spent several hours in the light rain, exploring the various buildings in west block. The immediate one across from A3 – so conveniently tagged A4 – was nothing more than a mechanic’s shop. The men had been busy fine-tuning the conduits of three golems and paid Gossimer no mind. He didn’t linger long, not wanting to be nosey, so he proceeded deeper into the manufactorum complex.

  There were many warehouses not in use, but the ones that were had been stuffed full of machinery. Perhaps the most common commodity Gossimer found were long barreled canons of varying design. The latest style the artillery crews were excited for were the new rotating, multi-barrel, long-range canons. To hear them speak, these devices functioned through the aid of winches and gears. In the field, the crews would have to load all seven of the barrels with their deadly payload, then tighten the rotary winch, take aim, and release the safety. Once the safety was removed, the rotary would spin into action, letting a spark release in the upper most barrel before rotating clockwise for the next loaded canon to repeat the process. It was hard for Gossimer not to share in their excitement, for these new artillery pieces had the promise of being a real devastation in the fields.

  Near the far end of the complex was a large refinery that, at one time, must have mined for precious ores hidden within the earth. Or, at least he suspected. Now the large building served as a dry port for the massive airship fleet that sat anchored on the moist ground. There were dozens of the ships, more then Gossimer expected to exist within Wynne.

  Each ship was as different as the one next to it, each one being large or small, wide of girth or narrow for speed. The sight of the grounded ships sent chills up Gossimer’s spine; he never thought a sight such as this would be so inspiring. Gossimer feared war. He feared death. But the wooden ships propped atop the sodden earth filled him with a strange pride, eager and emboldened to face the foes of Valvius and Wynne.

  Perhaps it wasn’t just the sight of the ships that drew this spirit forth. Perhaps it was seeing how strong the Alliance forces were, before the addition of Grubbenbrut’s and Di Delgi’s forces. There seemed to be an endless stream of soldiers waiting to head to battle, the regiments of mechanical golems sat in silence, numbering in a frightful amount of steel and iron, gold and bronze bodies; the amount of artillery was astounding, giving Gossimer faith the foe would be well bombarded before the main weight of Alliance forces fell upon their lines.

  There seemed no feasible way for this so-called Imperial Order of Wynne to stand against the might of justice.

  Later that night, as he lay upon the tough surface of his new bed thinking of his dear Elenor, Gossimer sudden noise from below caught his attention. It was not so much as a commotion or racket as it was a shuffling of heavy feet. The first thought to race through his mind was a rogue construct, but as he made his way to the stairwell, it became evident the foot falls were coming further into the warehouse, not receding out.

  Gossimer passed under the gaping hole in the ceiling, fat drops of rain hitting his head, but he did not care, there was a disturbance that needed his attention. He came to the base of the stair and peered into the open warehouse without. Standing in the center of the space was sole construct, whose fierce warrior mask screamed of familiarity.

  “Nine?” He asked, stepping into the dim light of the everflame lanterns.

  “Ser Gossimer.” The soft, electronic voice of the construct stated in greeting.

  “What are you doing here?” Gossimer asked walking towards the golem. “Why aren’t you with Mister Lucian?”

  “The one called Nine has been assigned to Ser Gossimer’s care.” Nine replied.

  “My care?” Gossimer furrowed his brow. “You mean one of these regiments?”

  “No.” Nine stated. “Master Lucian has assigned me to Ser Gossimer and no one else. The one called Nine is tasked to protect and watch Ser Gossimer in battle.”

  Gossimer didn’t know what to say. He had thought his reassignment to the construct regiments had been the kindest act the hard-edged Valvian general had ever shown, but sending his own personal golem to watch after Gossimer in the heat of battle now took that title.

  “Well, I welcome the help.” Gossimer smiled, though he doubted the machine could re
ad his expression. The lad walked over to the lumbering machine, and patted its broad shoulder plate. “Thank-you.”

  “Do not thank the one called Nine.” The construct said. “Thank Master Lucian.”

  “I will.” Gossimer let a soft chuckle release from his lips. “Come, we will put you here for the night.” He began to lead the golem to an opening in a nearby regiment when a heavy, hand touched his shoulder. Gossimer turned and faced the construct.

  “There is more.” The machine said. “Master Lucian wants the one called Nine to inform Ser Gossimer the Grubbenbrut detachment shall be here on the morrow and to prepare space for a hundred and fifty more constructs.”

  “Del Morte be good,” Gossimer swore, looking at the already tightly packed warehouse. “Where we will we put them all?”

  “Ser Gossimer will find space.” Nine replied.

  “What about the Di Delgans?” Gossimer rubbed the back of his neck, trying to figure out where the new constructs would go.

  “No word.” Nine said. “Master Lucian says they will be along soon.”

  “Of course.” Gossimer smiled. “Come on, let’s figure where we will put these blighters.”

  Rough, slanted roofs peaked over distant dunes, each with misaligned metal pipes twisting for the sky. Soft grey smoke churned from the shanty chimneys, filling the air with the delightful scent of burning wood and roasting fish.

  “Stovice.” Dalar said, more of a relief for himself than anything. It had been a long, tiresome trek across the northern reaches of the Valvian province, compounded by severe isolation in the Narn Wood.

  “Don’t look like much from ‘ere.” Nog Stonefinger said between gulps of water from his canteen.

  “It isn’t, really.” Dalar admitted. “Stovice is nothing more than a fishing hub for the northern cities. Not many modern maps even bother to note its existence. There is an inn, however, where we will find a soft bed for the night and a good hearty meal.”