The Spark (43 page)

Gossimer watched Nine wade through the infantry like a magnificent hero of legend, shock prod held high. Bullets from the side weapons of these new machines bounced off of Nine’s armour plating as if they were nothing more than bees. It was amazing to see such a brave act from a being whose sentience was supposedly not that grand. But there he was, the last remaining resistance on the plain of battle, casually knocking aside the foe. Gossimer’s mouth dropped as his mechanical friend, and would-be defender, leapt into the air, landing atop the Di Delgan machinery; Gossimer had never known the golem to be so agile.

Nine’s arm rose high as it plunged it electrically charged prod into the upper hull of the vehicle. The golem pulled the spear out and stabbed again and again, leaving gaping holes in the machine’s roof. Finally, the weapon broke under the stress of piercing the thick steel armour. Nine tossed the broken weapon aside and, with the strength known only to a golem, reached its hands into the holes and began tearing at the metal. Even amidst the roar of battle and screams of wounded men, Gossimer could hear the terror of the Di Delgan’s who operated the death machine.

Nine pulled a man from the interior, throwing him aside like a child’s doll. The device began to veer to the side, plowing into the soldiers nearby. The beast reached into the vehicle again, tossing another soldier. Now the Di Delgan war machine teetered as it began to pick up speed. Nine looked as though it was losing its balance as the vehicle sped out of control.

Gossimer’s heart caught in his throat as he realized the tank sped towards a blast hole in the earth. He knew without having to watch what was going to happen, but that didn’t make the next few seconds any better. The vehicle sped nose first into the large hole, tossing Nine from its hull.

“Let me go!” Gossimer struggled to break free of the Pozian’s hold.

“No.” The man’s thick Pozian accent sounded tired as he restrained Gossimer. “Boy must stay here. It is only machine. And look, the
paestichios
are coming!” The commander pointed to the field of battle.

Gossimer watched in horror as even more Di Delgan infantry crested the rise, flanked by more of the strange vehicles of war. The Valvian war looked to be over before it even began. Whistles blew wild across the Alliance line, calling for retreat. Gossimer stood frozen, wanted nothing more than to save himself, but also to go after Nine.

“I can’t leave him.” Gossimer said to no one in particular.

It was a strange dilemma; one the steward never thought he would find himself in. It was true that much of his time serving Lucian Margoux, Gossimer had been uneasy around the construct. The ever watchful, unwavering stare of the golem’s blue glowing eyes had always made Gossimer nervous. Unlike another pair of blue eyes he had fallen in love with.

As he stood on the fringe of the collapsing Alliance lines, Gossimer felt that same stirring in his heart he had felt when he found the courage to sound the charge. He was incensed by the thought of discovering the plot against Valvius and the Alliance, the thought of the beautiful girl he left behind, and the fallen construct he had grown to care for.

Taking advantage of the confusion of the retreat, Gossimer slammed his heel into the Pozian sergeant’s foot, causing the man’s grip to slacken. Breaking free of the man’s grip, Gossimer leapt over the bodies of fallen soldiers and sped out into the field of battle. The Pozian was swearing and cursing the steward as he sped headlong into the approaching Di Delgan lines.

Bullets screamed past Gossimer’s head as he made his way to his fallen friend. He reached the fringes of the blast hole, where the still form of his mechanical protector lay. The vehicle the construct had damaged was smoldered and in ruin.

“Nine!” Gossimer shouted, shaking the large body of his friend. “Come on damn you!” Nothing he did woke the golem, whose glowing eyes were now dark and cold. Gossimer looked about. He was surprised by the sudden aid of Pozian troops.

“They’re leaving…” One of the Pozians said, firing off a shot at a passing Di Delgan.

Gossimer paused for minute, noticing a handful of airships begin to lift into the sky. Gossimer had to get Nine operating again, but he also needed to get to a ship before they all left.

Suddenly, the air filled with a loud whistling. Two airships fell from the sky in balls of fire as victims of enemy artillery. More ships began to ascend. The ones that survived the barrage of artillery fire sailed away to the southwest.

“Grubbenbrut.” Gossimer whispered under his breath. He knew it would be the quickest, and safest, place for the Alliance to retreat to. But, based off the amount of ships lifting into the sky and those falling back down in a fiery spasm of destruction, Gossimer knew his time was limited.

With skilled hands, Gossimer popped open Nine’s chest cavity, revealing the cortex within. Unlike the cortex hidden behind the fierce warrior mask, the one within Nine’s chest cavity still glimmered a soft blue. Looking at the connectors and conductors, it was obvious Nine needed to see a mechanic, but it was still salvageable. Gossimer reached into the open cavity, he adjusted each of the nine connectors. There was a small humming, and suddenly, the cortex came to life with its normal azure glow.

“Nine?” Gossimer said, closing the chest cavity. “Nine?” The steward sighed with relief as the machine’s eyes began to radiate.

Nine’s head jerked as its cranial cortex came back online.

“Ser…Gossimer.” The soft electronic voice said.

“Del Morte be praised.” Gossimer proclaimed as a tear trickled down his cheek.

“Behind…you.” Nine sat up, pushing Gossimer to the side.

The construct rose, all nine feet tall, and faced off against a threat Gossimer hadn’t noticed. A group of Di Delgan soldiers had felled the Pozian troops. The men were scared, the way their rifles shook in their hands betrayed as much. Nine slammed itself into the Di Delgan troops, slaying and wounding most with a barrage of fist falls.

“Ser Gossimer should return to the lines.” Nine said, as he tossed a man against the chasis of the wrecked vehicle. “The ships are leaving.”

“Not without you.” Gossimer declared, grabbing the rifle of a fallen soldier.

“The one called Nine must protect Ser Gossimer.” The golem said. “The one called Nine will follow wherever Ser Gossimer goes.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here.” Gossimer said, watching the sky as another airship fell in a ball of fiery death. “To the ships!”

For the third time today, Gossimer led Nine across the battlefield. The bodies of Di Delgans, Valvians, Pozians and Grubbens scattered the field. Large holes broke the landscape, scaring the land in a way that reminded Gossimer of the surface of the moon when it was in full light. By this point, the Di Delgan advance had turned towards the eastern and western reaches of the Alliance camp. Gossimer figured they were planning to swing around and trap the Alliance in a pincer movement.

It didn’t take long for Gossimer and Nine to return to what was left of the Alliance’s lines. They rushed through the battered remains of the manufactorum complex. Gossimer felt like he had entered a strange new realm. Ships of varying design lay broken and aflame across the rooftops and pathways. The bodies of fallen men lay as haphazard as the fallen airships. A dark shadow sped overhead as an Alliance vessel was able to retreat through the artillery fire.

After what seemed like a surreal amount of time, Gossimer and Nine made it to the open field where the airships were moored. Only a small handful remained, most ready to take off. Lucian stood at the prow of his majestic ship, looking grim and defeated. Gossimer looked at his former master as he and Nine approached. In many ways, Gossimer felt sorry for the man, yet, in others, he didn’t. It was a strange feeling. The steward had always respected his master, but now, after the man got his war, it seemed to Gossimer that the man could not handle defeat.

“Boy!” A gruff voice hollered from the deck of a nearby ship. “Here, boy!”

Gossimer looked up and saw Abraham beckoning. Gossimer made for the gangplank and boarded the ship with Nine in tow.

“It is good to see you boy.” Abraham said. “Where are the other constructs?”

“I…” In truth, Gossimer had lost all track of the regiment he had been charged to lead. “I don’t know. We became separated when we charged into the Di Delgans.”

“Grim news.” Abraham said. “But it makes no matter. Much of our war effort is destroyed.”

“Stand clear!” The ship’s captain yelled as one of the crew kicked the gangplank away. The ship began to lift from the ground, leaving soldiers behind. Looking over the railing of the ship, Gossimer noted the final ships were lifting off as well. Lucian’s was the final ship to leave the solid ground.

The Alliance ships weren’t airborne for very long before the Di Delgan artillery opened fire. Gossimer continued to watch Lucian’s ship rise, praying to Del Morte that, at the very least, the General could get away. He didn’t know whether it would be to let the man live with the sense of defeat, or for him to find a means to exact vengeance for this deceit, but, one way or another, Gossimer wanted Lucian Margoux to survive.

The deck Gossimer’s ship buckled and heaved, sending all on aboard tumbling to the wooden floor as a series of blasts surrounded the vessel. Another blast punctured the canvas balloon overhead, while another sent sharp chunks of deck sprawling into the air.

“Hold on boy!” Abraham yelled just as the deck beneath his feet gave way to artillery.

“Abraham!” Gossimer shouted, running to grab the other man before he fell to his death. He was too late. The last the steward saw of the burly man was the terror in his face as he rushed to meet the ground below.

“Ser Gossimer should stand back.” Nine stated, grabbing Gossimer’s uniform. But it was too late.

The airship took a final blast of enemy fire before losing its upward momentum. The deck gave way from under Gossimer’s feet as the ship fell from the sky. Nine pulled Gossimer close, wrapping its large, mechanical arms around the steward as both fell amongst the crew and soldiers.

As Gossimer fell back to earth, wrapped in the strong, metallic arms of the only true friend he had ever known, he searched for his Master’s ship. A smile crept across the steward’s lips as he found Lucian’s magnificent battered vessel sail away into the southwest. Watching the airship sail into the morning rain brought peace to the young steward as a torrent of wind brought his world into a bleak darkness unlike any Gossimer had ever known.

L
e Clos Noire slept. The lights and hearths of the houses were long put out. A passerby would never have known the peaceful town was under occupation by the vile Imperial Order of Wynne; they would not have known of the silent shadow that darted from alley to alley, hunting down her next victim.

Lillian had learned much about herself in the days since her feigned death. She was resilient, and full of unbridled wrath; there was strength in her grim determination fueling her nightly haunts. For not having any sort of martial training, Lillian was surprised to find how easy she could slay grown men. Perhaps it was the method in how she took them down, always striking from the shadows like a silent harbinger of death. Lillian strove to drive fear into the wavering hearts of her foe. Every now and then would perform an act so gruesome, Lillian would not be able to sleep for days.

Lillian slid around the corner of the building she was pressed against, entering the neighbouring alley. She reached into a makeshift belt and removed the smooth musket-pistol. It wasn’t an ideal weapon and would draw a crowd, but it was all she had. The knife she started with broke when she killed the last soldier by using too much force as she buried the blade into the man’s throat. Lillian had cursed Del Morte for the rotten luck, knowing full well she would have to take the cumbersome pistol.

She darted down the alley, rushing to reach the far entrance. Lillian had watched this patrol for two nights, learning the path they took. She knew every street it followed; every checkin it made. Hell, Lillian even knew where the men paused to take break. This alley had shown to be the most ideal, for it lay just prior to a checkin, yet it was also far enough to provide Lillian a chance to fade back into the shadows.

The gruff voices of the patrol echoed down the street as they rounded the far corner. Lillian checked her weapon, ensuring there were enough rounds to fell both men. She pressed herself against the brick wall, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. The scrapping of hard soled boots against the smooth cobbles of the street grew became more prominent as the seconds ticked by. Lillian counted each footstep; just as she did every night she watched this patrol.

“Seyblanc gots to do something.” The one guard said, voice growing louder as the two men approached. “Something ain’t right ‘bout these murders. Something ain’t natural.”

“Shut yer mouth.” His partner hissed. “I don’t want t’ talk ‘bout that.”

“I’m jus’ sayin’ that maybe it ain’t no livin’ person offin’ us.” Guard one said. “S’all I’m sayin’.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Guard two spat.

Lillian reached into the fold of her skirt, retrieving the small rock she had gathered from the dead wood. Taking careful aim, she threw the pebble at a nearby window.

“What was that?” The first man paused.

“Don’t know.” The second man said. “A cat?”

“No.” The other man stated. “No cats in this cursed town.”

Lillian grinned as one of the men stepped within sight of the alley.

“Leave it.” Guard two ordered. “We ‘ave t’ meet with the lads in the market.”

“Alright.” The first man relented. “We’ll check it on our next loop.”

Lillian silently cursed Del Morte as the two men walked past the alley. There was a new vigour in the patrols since she took up her
hunting
. The Imperial men were less prone to explore the lures she often employed, especially if they had a scheduled checkin. She had to do something. The day had been long and she slept poorly; her body screamed for rest from the long hours she spent skulking about her town.

Peeking her head out into the street, Lillian ensured there were no other patrols or witnesses about. Content with what she saw, Lillian slid out into the open street. She set a quick pace to close the ground between her and the two men. It didn’t take her long. As soon as she felt the moment was right, she lowered her pistol. The blast was loud, cracking like thunder in the silent town. Guard two fell in a crumbled heap to the ground, a great blast hole in the back of his head. Guard one turned to face the sound. Just as he went to raise the alarm, Lillian released her final loaded into the man’s face.

She tossed the pistol aside and removed the combat blades of both men, took the extra ammunition they carried, as well as a repeating clockwork pistol that guard two had been fortunate enough to have possessed. In the distance, the loud clatter of the alarm bell screamed in the night.
Alarm! To Arms! Alarm!

Lillian finished rifling through the men’s pockets before running back down the alley, through the opposing street and into the wide-open plains of the Valvian plateau.

This was her course most nights, not trusting the walls of abandoned homes and manses within the town to keep her safe while she slept her days away. Lillian had found a wonderful hollow in what the invaders dubbed the dead wood. It was here she made her first kill, in a small cabin sitting in the heart of the forest, surrounded by the corpses of both citizens and soldiers alike. The hollow she discovered lay just to the east of the furthest reaches of the ring of bodies. It was an ideal location for it kept her close to her foe and not too terribly far from the village.

Here Lillian slept her days away, in the small confines of her new home. Often her mind filled with the doubts of the meek woman she had been. Parts of her wished nothing more than to run for the safety of Brixon, where she could mourn the loss of her son and husband properly. Then her mind would drift to the poor survivors who were imprisoned within the basement of their own town hall; the wails of her most favourite wine merchant would echo in her mind, complemented by the stiff whimpering of Anna. These thoughts chiseled Lillian’s heart into something strong and fevered; motivated to one-day see her friends set free.

It was her duty; Lillian
needed
to strike fear into the hearts of the invaders. It was her duty to the people of Le Clos Noire to exploit the low morale of the Imperial troops by invoking uncertainty within their hearts. To what end, she had not yet decided, but something in Lillian’s soul told her an end was soon approaching.

As she nestled into the little hollow she called home, Lillian’s mind worked at many ideas freeing her townsfolk. It would be a daring attempt, one she did not think she would be able to accomplish. Yet the stirring within kept her pondering and planning the would-be escape. There were many risks involved, with just as many unforeseen dangers.

Even if she were able to set the survivors free, they would not stand a chance against the combined arms of the Imperial troops; the citizens would be half-starved and weaponless. If the people of Le Clos Noire were doomed to death, Lillian knew they deserved the honour of dying for their homes rather than wasting away as prisoners. Lillian’s eyes weighed heavy as she poured over idea after idea, trying in earnest to find the plan that would lead to her success. Sleep was approaching, and she welcomed it, letting herself be taken by its sweet embrace.

When she woke, the light of day was fading into the sweet kiss of dusk. Lillian stifled a yawn with the back of her hand, straining her ears for any hint of intrusion. As always, no sound, save for the creaking of the trees, could be heard. With slow, careful precision, she crawled out of the hollow with as little noise as possible. One could never be too careful. Ensuring she was safe, Lillian stood up, letting her tight muscles stretch out sleep’s stiffness Lillian checked to see if she was still in possession of the combat blades and repeating pistol. Confident with her armament, she set about finding something to eat.

Food was hard to come by. The severe drought had prohibited many of the forest berries from growing, and those that had had already been claimed by the various birds and forest critters. Lillian tried her hand at hunting the small animals of the wood, but most proved to be too much effort for the little meat on their bones. Typically, Lillian resorted to stealing a loaf of bread from the bakery at night and enjoying her food in the dark. Tonight, however, she could not afford such a risky adventure. Tonight, she would make her move.

Lillian waited for night to fully fall before setting out for the village. The darkness provided her with enough coverage to stay hidden from the prying eyes of the watch. Every time she made the crossing across the dark plateau, she wondered if the night’s watch would be increased, or if it would remain the same. Tonight, however, she feared the guard would be increased, as fate was cruel that way.

She soon learned she was far from right.

Upon crossing the stonewall that marked the edges of the town, Lillian discovered the town’s streets were still and silent. She snuck around the dark village, senses on edge as she realized there were no foot patrols. To test her theory, Lillisn waited in an alley that sat to the west of a main checkin location. She waited there for an hour, and still no guards showed.

As she made her way deeper into the town, a clamour arose on the still air. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, nor was it welcoming. It was as if a rising tide of anger and bitterness rose into the night air, drifting down the silent streets. Upon approach of the market square, the clattering noise became more realized. The square’s everflame lanterns ignited, shining down upon the combined forces of the Imperial Order. Upon the center stage stood a young man with a strange gauntlet attached to his left arm. Little tendrils of electricity glowed through a small handful of clear piping along the side of the device.

“We will find this shadow.” His voice was stern, but Lillian thought she could catch a hint of doubt within the boy’s words.

“We haven’t yet!” A gruff voice hollered to the combined jeering of his comrades.

As Lillian watched the scene, she felt a morsel of pity for the young commander. It was obvious he had not wanted the command, but, through means outside of his control, here he now stood. It was clear he was green in the field, and was trying his best, but Lillian was making it hard for him to keep the morale of his troops in-line.

When she was still a prisoner she had learnt the troubles the Imperial forces faced. No reinforcements. No word from their leader. Nothing. They were stranded in their enemy’s land without a course of action. This boy-leader had not helped things when he refused to send a telegram to their main force. Lillian did not doubt the boy had his reasons, and was certain he thought them to be just.

Lillian slid into another alley, leaving the disgruntled forces behind. This would be the best chance she would have to inspect her family home. As the light of the market square faded around the bend of the alley, the night air broke into the thundering spat of electrical energy. Fearful she had been discovered, Lillian froze.

“Does anyone else have an issue?” Seyblanc’s voice echoed through the now quiet square. “Unlike many of you I will do
what is necessary
to ensure the success of our glorious leader’s great plan. Even if it means killing you sots.”

Lillian was glad to know she was still an obscurity. Fearing this town meeting would soon be come to an end Lillian broke into a run. She hoped to reach her old home before the boy commander’s return. Lillian rounded corners and twists in the tight alley, while adverting the dangerous uneven cobbles and stones of the road with a delicate grace. Having lived in Le Clos Noire since she was a young child, Lillian had come to know many of the side streets of the town. This familiarity served her well during her hunts. She was able to strike from the shadows, but, more importantly, she was able to reach her family’s house ahead of the Imperial leader.

The house was dark and quiet. Lillian approached the front door with pistol in hand. Even though she was confident every soldier was in the square, she did not want to leave anything to chance. With a deep breath to calm her nerves, Lillian reached for the handle of her front door.

A rush of thick, hot air poured out as she pushed the heavy door inward. The smell of parchment and gunpowder, wax and sweat greeted her like an intrusion of her senses. Taking quick, small steps, Lillian crossed the front entrance and entered her dining room. The table was littered with scrolls and maps, some pinned to the walls and others on her beautiful table. It was too dark for her to examine the details, so she made for the head of the table.

Lifting the lip of the thick rug, Lillian found the edges of the little door that led to the panic room she had forced her husband to build. Dalar had protested, always citing the continued peace the people of Wynne lived in, but he relented to keep her happy. The space was never used, just as he predicted. The extra cellar had, instead, become one of her dear toddler’s favourite hiding spots. More often than not if Lillian’s darling little boy couldn’t be found, he was hiding in this secret hiding place.

Lillian fought the flood of memories as she opened the creaky hatch. It was hard for her to fight through the wave of nauseating emotions as she stepped down into the secret hide-a-way she had fought so hard to put Jakob into the night he had been taken from her. Lillian’s stomach reeled as her eyes fell upon the amount of weaponry the Imperial troops had stuffed into the small space her son used to hide in. Rifles, muskets and strange looking multi-barreled guns lined the floor; pistols, blades and swords rose in piles of dangerous treasure while dozens of crates marked as ammunition filled the remainder of the space. Having seen what she needed to, Lillian fled back into the house. She closed the hatch behind her and fled through the house.