The Spark (42 page)

T
he rainfall was light, nothing more than a soft drizzle. Gossimer stood next to his guardian, the mechanical golem called Nine, at the head of the mechanized regiment. They stood central amongst the three battalions that formed the fighting force of the Alliance; Pozians to the left, Valvians to the right, and the Grubben delegation made up the rearguard. Before the assembled stood the tall, majestic airships patiently waiting for their passengers.

Gossimer stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. He did not get much sleep, for he had been busy preparing the cortex-powered constructs for war. Late in the evening, word had come down the Di Delgan forces would be arriving in the morning and that all should be ready to ship out upon their arrival. The orders were sound, but that kind of last minute preparation sent panic, and anger, through the veins of both Gossimer and his commanding officer Abraham.

But, they were able to pull it off. All the golems were powered up with no issues. The machines were outfitted with large shock prods to use as spears against the men of the Imperial Order. Select few of the constructs, chiefly those of single digit numbering, were given shields of steel and silver for added protection. Gossimer thought the sight of so many armed constructs was both beautiful, yet, terribly frightening at the same time.

Now they stood in the open grounds of west block with the rest of the Alliance forces. The view of the amassed troops and artillery sent chills down Gossimer’s spine. The flags and banners of the regiments, and their respective provinces, all hung limp, sodden with the rain. Yet, the sight still inspired the young lad.

In all his young life, he had never dreamed of being thrust into the heart of battle. He had been schooled as a child about the history of Wynne, all of the great battles fought over its soil. Unlike the other boys his age, Gossimer never found himself at play as a soldier in one of the daring sorties; Gossimer had always been more focused on his duties serving the Valvian councilors.

Yet here he stood. It was rather surreal to Gossimer, and he doubted he would ever truly believe he was a man of war until his first battle. But, so do all who stand on the cusp of the unpredictable chaos of war.

“Men of the Alliance.” A voice boomed over the field. Lucian Margoux, the great Valvian general, stepped onto the deck of his flagship, the
Magellan
, with arms raised. “Today we come together as one unified voice – a voice that has chosen to not let the inadequacies of the Grand Council of Wynne stymie justice. A voice that has chosen to speak out against the tyranny and violence that Syntar has allied itself with. I, of course, speak of this so-called Imperial Order of Wynne!

‘Many of you have not faced the same woes we Valvians have for the last three years. Yet, here you are, now ready to bring about an end to the disease that has plagued my people. You are here against the mandate, and wishes, of the council. Pozians, Grubbens, you risk your lives for us Valvians when others would not. For that, I am forever in your debt.

‘In a short time, our Di Delgan allies will join us. Once they are here we will take flight and demolish this
Order
, and work to setting Syntar right once and for all!”

A cheer burst from the lips of the soldiers. Gossimer felt a stirring of pride in his heart, but, just as his silent wards, he did not lend his voice to the cheering. Lucian ushered his hands, calling for silence.

Just as he was about to speak, a long, solemn horn blew in the distance.

“Men, the Di Delgan’s are here!” Lucian proclaimed to more cheering.

“Ser Gossimer,” Nine said with his ever flat, electronic voice. “The one called Nine suggests you ready yourself.”

Gossimer didn’t need the golem to tell him as much, for the horn-calls were too slow and ominous to be calls of arrival. There was a foreboding note that lingered with each blast.

“Nine…” Gossimer was cut off as a sudden blast in one of the warehouses shattered the joy of the assembled military. “Del Morte be damned, what is going on?” Gossimer yelled as two more blasts shook the foundations of another building.

Whistles shrieked loud in the air, calling troops to form up. Panic gripped Gossimer’s throat as debris descended from the sky.

“To me, constructs!” Abraham hollered as the Alliance forces streamed into the cover of nearby buildings. “Gossimer, take half the regiment ‘round the far side of building A4 and see what you can see!”

Gossimer nodded, acknowledging he understood his orders.

“Nine, to me.” Gossimer hollered as he readied his rifle. “Bring your buddies too.”

“Understood, Ser Gossimer.” Nine replied.

The ground shook underfoot as Gossimer led the unit to his designated spot. The added shock of the bombardment made the moist ground even more difficult to traverse, but Gossimer still managed. It didn’t take long for Gossimer and his party of mechanical soldiers to reach the far side of the warehouse. Gossimer poked his head around the corner to try and see what in the hell was going on.

He couldn’t see much, for he was still deep within the west block manufactorum complex. But he could make out the far ridge to the south. Sitting in wait was an amassed army, all bearing the Di Delgan colours, waiting as their bombardments fell onto the Alliance position. From this location, that was just about as much as he could make out. Taking his unit back around the building, he rejoined Abraham the same moment Alliance whistles called for an advance.

“It’s the Di Delgan’s!” Gossimer hollered over the commotion.

“Say that again boy?” Abraham looked confused, almost as if he didn’t believe what Gossimer had said.

“The Di Delgan’s are attacking us!” Gossimer repeated.

“Del Morte be thrice damned.” The commander spat into the mud. “From where?”

“On the ridge. I saw only infantry.”

“The ridge? Fuck, the fools are rushin’ into a trap!” Abraham watched as a flood of Grubben soldiers ran past, weapons at the ready.

“What do we do?” Gossimer asked.

“We need to get the artillery on their position. But it’s all loaded on the ships.” Both Abraham and Gossimer ducked their heads as another shell found its mark and sent shards of debris into the air. “You take the constructs to the front, I will try to get us some artillery.”

“Me?” Gossimer felt the colour drain from his flesh. “But I…”

“You’ll do fine lad,” the commander smiled. “Just make sure to kill one of ‘em bastards for me.” With that, Abraham ran off to the airships.

“You ready Nine?” Gossimer asked.

“Yes.” The golem replied. “Ser Gossimer will be safe with the one called Nine.”

“I hope so.” Gossimer sighed. Taking a deep breath he called to the mechanical regiment and set forth through the manufactorum complex, heading straight into the mouth of battle.

For the most part, the ground was littered with chunks of wood and steel, iron and bronze. The Alliance had been lucky enough in that regard. As Gossimer led his machines to the front lines, cheers and shouts of praise left the lips of soldiers whose platoon hadn’t been called to the front yet. Gossimer saw them as cowards as he sped past. They were trained men with pride, yet there they sat amongst the cover and debris of the complex as Gossimer, a steward by trade, rushed into the thick of things.

He didn’t understand what was happening. The Lady Schernoff had been one of the most vocal and supportive allies to Lucian on the council. It had been her suggestion that Valvius’ top military men and scholars be sent to find information regarding the Order. Even his sweet Elenor, Schernoff’s information gatherer, had given Gossimer insight to the word on the streets. He simply couldn’t grasp why the Di Delgan’s offered so much to just turn on Valvius.

Gossimer slowed the advance as the regiment neared the front lines. The fine haze of rifle fire filled the air like a fog. The groans of men and clatter of gunfire resounded in Gossimer’s ears. The sounds of battle seemed all encompassing, so diverse and terrifying, yet so ambient at the same time. Commanders shouted orders, men screamed war cries and cried in pain; dirt and debris fell from the sky, joined every so often by the limbs of a poor individual. As he approached the front, Gossimer finally had a better view of the field.

The enemy infantry had now moved down the ridge and made an advance through the muddy fields. There were a few Di Delgan casualties, as many of the Alliance troops shot blindly due to being pinned by the barrage of artillery fire.

“The
paestichos
are armed by the devil!” A Pozian sergeant hollered upon seeing Gossimer. Some of the enemy troops carried large, multi-barreled rifles that fired in rapid succession, while others were fitted with strange tanks on their backs affixed with a hose that ran into the long mouth of a steel barrel.

“Aye,” he agreed as a large blast shook the ground beneath his feet. “Why do you just sit here like ducks?” Gossimer hollered.

“We wait for them! They must walk into our guns. We will kill many.” The commander said, jutting his chin in the air.

“You’re doing a great job!” Gossimer pointed to the few Di Delgan casualties. “They expect this.” There was a stirring in Gossimer’s heart, a welling of courage and eagerness to protect those around him; a feeling he never thought he would feel. “We must catch them now.”

“How?” The Pozian asked.

“We take the fight to them!” Gossimer indicated to the golems.

“Aha! Valvian man smart and foolish.” The commander laughed. “But me likes. Come, let’s make these
bastardos
pay with their blood!” The commander reached for the silver whistle around his neck, put the trinket in his mouth and gave three shrill blasts to signal an advance.

Taking another deep breath, Gossimer readied his rifle and ensured the blade at his hip was loosened in case he had need of it. Inspired by the sight of the surging Pozian platoon, Gossimer gave a cry to Del Morte and led his mechanical constructs into the open mud fields of battle. The constructs under his command fanned out behind him, creating a solid wall of steel and death for the Di Delgan’s. Incensed with the thrill of battle, Gossimer fired his rifle wild, taking snap shots at the foe. Though, his shots never found a mark, they certainly did fill the former steward with a sense of empowerment.

The Pozian lines reached the foe first in a dazzling array of violence. Gossimer’s unit hit shortly after. It took everything Gossimer had to swing at a young man with the butt of his rifle. Gossimer struck the man again and again, ensuring he would not get up. Blood made his rifle slick and sticky, but Gossimer cared not, he simply looked for the next foe. Several dozen Di Delgan soldiers went hurdling through the air as they were thrown by the constructs, or zapped with the long shock prods.

Gossimer felt the plan was working as the Di Delgan advance came to a halt and began to fall back. He was distracted, for a moment, by a bright blast of fire. Terrible screams filled the air as a handful of Pozian men fell to their knees wreathed in flame. The scene gave Gossimer pause as his battle lust waned as horror filled his bones. Distracted by the flame-totting weapon, Gossimer didn’t see the man running for him. He didn’t noticed the dark shadow sweep over him, knocking the assailant to the ground. When his attention came back around, Gossimer saw Nine standing over the body of a soldier.

“Ser Gossimer must be more mindful.” The soft voice said as the beast pulled its prod from the body of the fallen man. “Ser Gossimer must stay safe.”

“Thanks.” Gossimer said. Suddenly, the shrill call of the Pozian commander’s whistle pierced the sky, panicked, calling for retreat.

Gossimer couldn’t understand why the call to pull back was being issued. Then he saw it. Coming down the ridge was a large wave of infantry, more than Gossimer had ever seen. But it wasn’t the men he feared. It was what accompanied the rushing soldiers that frightened him.

It seemed to him the Di Delgan’s were certainly in cahoots with some vile force, for not only did their infantry wield weapons never seen on the field of battle before, but they were also supported by machines unlike anything Gossimer had ever seen.

There were three rolling down from the highlands. Each were made of steel and moved forward on what could only be described as a type of belt commonly found on assembly lines in factory complexes. Attached on swivels to the outside body were the same multi-barrel rifles some of the troops carried, though the ones on the machine were much larger. Sitting atop the chassis was a large barrel that looked like an oversized canon. Unlike the conventional artillery the Alliance had, these devices seemed to have been enhanced with kinetic specialties, for each of these roving machines of death held glass chambers filled with both electricity and fire.

“Run.” Gossimer said to Nine. “Back to the manufactorum!”

“The one called Nine understands.” The golem replied as dirt from an artillery shell bounced off of its metal body. Gossimer found it curious that Nine did not remove its gaze from the machines rolling down the hill. He didn’t think anything of it as his own fear of these new war machines sent him running back to the safety of the Alliance lines.

When Gossimer reached the manufactorum defences, he looked back to watch the approach of the Di Delgan machinery.

“Nine?” Gossimer stated, noticing a lone construct on the field wading off a tide of enemy infantry. “Nine!” Gossimer tried to clamber back out onto the field, but was held back by the Pozian sergeant.