The Spark (36 page)

“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.”

G
ossimer 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.”

“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 maintenance 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.