The Spark (24 page)

“Evening tide, ser.” She said on approach.

Druxan poked his head over the stall, smiling from ear to ear. His smile revealed a mouth full of gold and silver teeth.

“Ah, my most favourite madam in all of Wynne.” He said with his thick, Pozian accent. He took Lillian’s hand with his own, kissing her fingers over his stall. “Druxan is very sorry for madam’s loss. When he heard, his heart wept for days. No child should be taken from this world so young.”

“Thank-you, ser, for your kind words.” Lillian smiled.

“Thank not Druxan,” he said, jutting his jaw into the air. “In mother Pozo, children are sacred. Woe comes to those who harm them. The Stonefinger was too kind by taking the bastardo so swift.” Druxan slammed his broad hand against the stall, shaking the whole structure. “If it were Druxan, that
paestichos
would have suffered many times.”

Lillian felt her smile fade, saddened by the bitterness in the Pozian merchant. Her heart screamed the same as he, but she also knew the blonde boy was someone’s son and that was a pain Lillian did not wish to share with any mother.

“Please, my dear Druxan, let’s speak no more of this.” Lillian’s tone was flat, emotionless almost, trying to maintain composure.

“Druxan is sorry madam. We Pozian’s are a feisty bunch!” His laugh was coarse, loud and yet, somehow, very comforting. “But you know this and is why you come to Druxan for your vintages.” He gave her a wink from under his bushy brows.

“I do.” She couldn’t help but laugh herself. “Do you have something to chase the heat from my blood, dear Druxan?”

“But of course madam,” he said proudly. “Druxan has the most perfect rosé for the lady.”

With a quick step, the stout Pozian disappeared into a nearby cellar.

As Lillian waited, she watched the market gradually empty as the patrons drifted back to their homes. The great bell tower of the town hall rose as a silent warden in the distance, watching over the denizens of Le Clos Noire. All Lillian saw was a brooding watcher waiting to toll its screaming death knells again. Every night she went to bed Lillian feared the call would rise from the shadows again. Thankfully, the bells never took up the call.

“Ah, madam,” Druxan said as he emerged from the cellar with an elongated bottle with a soft, pink liquid inside. “This is the most perfect vintage for the most beautiful of ladies.”

He grasped the bottle by its neck with one hand and brought it to rest upon his forearm, displaying the contents to Lillian.

“This vintage is from south Ynoux, gently aged in young oak from the Great Eerie Wood.” Druxan turned the bottle slightly, letting the fading sun catch the glass. “The makers of this most wonderful drink infused the juice with field berries, wild honey and added sugars from the Far East. It is most marvelous, light of body and fiendishly sweet.”

“Sounds absolutely delightful.” Lillian leaned close, examining the pink hues in the fading light. “How much?”

“Ehhhn…” his mouth curled into a deep frown as he considered the vintage in his hand. “Druxan sells this for fifty gold.” Extending the bottle towards Lillian, he said; “But for madam, I give at no charge.”

“You will do no such thing ser!” Lillian backed away from the stall, reaching for her hidden coin purse. “Fifty gold is far too much to squander.” She trifled through the contents of the sachet, counting the coin as she spoke. “Even for feisty Pozian’s like you.”

“Druxan squanders nothing.” Druxan said, puffing his chest in defiance. “Take it as condolence for your loss.” He extended the wine again. “In mother Pozo we give our very best to those who’ve lost kin.”

“Ser,” Lillian bit her lip, trying to contain her emotions. Lillian was deeply touched by the eccentric wine merchant’s kindness. “My dear Druxan, you are too kind.”

She could not help but smile as the sun gleamed off his gold and silver teeth as he grinned ear to ear. “Thank-you.”

“Not a worry most lovely madam. Like Druxan always says…” the merchant’s voice trailed off, cocking his head and furrowing his bushy brows as he noticed something of interest beyond Lillian.

“What is it Druxan?” Lillian turned to see what her Pozian wine merchant stared at.

Lillian’s heart froze as the sound she feared most reverberated in the air; panic caught in her throat as the call of
Doom and Death
rang out from the town hall once more.

In the distant sky the thick dark storm cloud had grown larger. In fact, it had approached at an alarming rate. The skies began to darken and the speckled dots of the formation became frightfully clear. What she thought was cloud cover quickly proved to be something worse, something more dangerous. The sky still carried a storm, though this storm came on the heels of a fleet of airships flying a black flag.

Doom! Death! Doom! Doom!

Ropes descended from the ships as they moved into position over Le Clos Noire. Dozens upon dozens of men in black military uniforms slid down the ropes to the cobbled streets. The town militia poured into the square, squatting to take aim at the intruders. Their aim proved true as many of the invading force fell away from the ropes as the Valvian bullets found their mark. Yet still the foe came.

As the intruder’s numbers made landfall, they turned their own weapons against the militia, setting the stage for fierce gun fighting. More and more men slithered from the heavens, landing atop their fallen brethren, filling the growing ranks of their ground forces. The gunfights turned to fierce and bloody melee as the militia ran out of ammunition.

As the last men trickled from the decks of the ships, gouts of fire and bolts of raw electricity shot from the heavens, adding to the carnage; buildings erupted under the blasts of the combined energies of kinetic air support. The bell tower buckled and fell away as two large balls of electrical might destroyed the masonry, silencing the incessant song of
Doom and Death
.

Lillian stood amongst the carnage, frozen with terror, or waiting for her own doom to join her son. She did not know which compelled her to stay, but there she waited. She had not noticed Druxan disappear into his cellar, nor did she notice his return. Her heart skipped a beat as his broad, rough hands pulled her behind his stall as a furry of bullets sought the pair. Lillian fought him, confusing Druxan with the foe, as he dragged her to his cellar.

“Madam must be still!” He shouted over the cackle of battle and destruction. “It is only Druxan.”

“Druxan?” Lillian’s cheeks burned bright as she realized the truth.

“Yes. Only good dear Druxan.” He said. “We must be fled to my cellars. Druxan can keep most wonderful madam safe there.”

Lillian understood his urgency and descended into the depths of her own volition. Her legs were heavy, sluggish even as she took the steps two at a time. An explosive roar burst from the roof of the neighbouring house just as she reached the safety of the cellar. Chunks of debris followed Lillian into the wide space below.

The air of the cellar was heavy with mildew, spilt wine and the lingering odor of aged wood. Lillian’s shoes scraped hard against the smooth, stone floor as she let Druxan lead her deeper into his stores of wine. She was surprised by how quick and nimble the short, stocky wine merchant was; it was hard for Lillian to keep pace with the Pozian as he led her past barrels and wooden racks filled with bottles of varying varietals.

Sounds of fighting filtered through the floorboards in the building above. The sound was intense as men cursed; pistols or rifles released their rounds, and the sharp howl of men in pain. In a few places, blood dripped through the wooden beams, and small holes blasted into existence by stray shots.

“Madam must stay here.” Druxan said as they rounded a corner. The space before them was shallow, filled with an ungodly amount of barrels. Some were young and light, while others were old and stained by years of fermenting wines.

“Here?” Lillian was not so sure she felt safe here, but with the constant reminder of the turmoil without, it was the best she had.

“Yes madam.” Druxan took her hand and led her to the back of the room. “Here Druxan can keep most wonderful lady safe. Here there is only one way in or out.” The Pozian puffed his chest with pride, reaching into the folds of his vest to reveal two beautiful, clockwork pistols.

“This is Night and Day.” He said, pulling both out to show Lillian. “Together, no man can stop them. Just as no man can stop the sun from setting and the moon from rising.”

“Druxan, they are lovely.” The wonderful ebony surface of one and crisp ivory surface of the other took Lillian’s breath away.

“Yes, they are.” He smiled. A sound in the other part of the cellar caused Druxan to snap his round. “Madam, go behind the barrel on the far right.” Druxan said, quiet, never turning his gaze from the source of the sound.

Lillian needn’t be asked twice. With a new desire for life driving her, Lillian found herself darting behind a young, pale cask. She sat down heavily, just in time to catch Druxan turn to face a group of black clad men. Even though she knew Druxan could not see her behind the barrel, Lillian smiled as her favourite merchant grinned from ear to ear one last time. From her hiding spot, she could almost sense eagerness in Druxan’s Night and Day.

Druxan was not about to let his prized weapons wait.

He twirled with a finesse Lillian had never seen in any man before, let alone a robust wine merchant. As Druxan twirled, turning full circle, he raised his weapons and fired into the approaching foe. Perhaps the intruders were as shocked by his speed as Lillian, for by the time the ringing of his first shot faded, the whole group lay lifeless on the cellar floor. Druxan spat onto the floor as the sound of more men entered the cellar.

Druxan looked to Lillian’s hiding spot, one last time. A proud, defiant twinkle sparkled in his eyes.

“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.

M
arcus’ 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 pyrokinetics.

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.