Sparks

by McCoy, RS

  SPARKS

  RS McCoy

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by RS McCoy

  www.rsmccoyauthor.com

  Cover Art by Cristina McAllister

  Copyright 2013 * www.gypsymystery.com

  Edited by Joshua Allen Mercier

  www.thebeardedscribe.blogspot.com

  Fantasy Maps by NS Mangion

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted by the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database, retrieval system, or torrent web service, without the prior written permission of the author.

  For my boys

  Table of Contents

  Rhorken

  Micha

  Myxini

  Combat

  Threads

  Obsidian

  Away

  Father

  Affinity

  Breakthrough

  The Turtle

  Chimalma

  Xiuhpilli

  The Hawk

  The Majestic

  The Future

  About RS McCoy

  Connect with RS McCoy

  Rhorken

  The goose fell instantly, my homemade arrow sunk perfectly through its speckled neck. It was a good-sized bird for this side of the Creekmont and I could already taste the savory meat on my lips. It would be my first bird in weeks. As I took off towards home, I leaned down to scoop up the carcass where it fell. I pulled the arrow, wiped it on the knife rag that hung from my pocket, and slid it back into my quiver. Never waste.

  The morning air was cool for that early in autumn, but the mists hadn’t started to creep in from over the water. We would have a few weeks left before the snows came. My boots sank into the muddy streets of Lagodon, and I had to dodge a cart of fresh catch as I made my way to the dilapidated hovel we called home. Lagodon was a fishing village off the Western Coast, with only a hundred occupants, all poor, and all reliant on access to the Westes Sea.

  Without the ships in the harbor, we had no hope of surviving. The rock-hard ground provided scarcely any crops and the Creekmont was nearly picked clean. I wasn’t the only one who tracked game in those empty woods, with hopes to stay alive just a little longer. Even my skills weren’t enough to guarantee a kill every time.

  The lessons my father had taught me on how to hunt, in addition to the bow I’d crafted, helped to feed us–if only a little. The occasional goose or rabbit would taste like heaven after weeks of only fish. Despite our proximity to the sea, I felt no particular affinity to it compared to the forest. I spent as little time fishing as possible and much preferred hunting in the trees that bordered the eastern side of the village.

  As I moved through the village, I thought of how the pebbles beneath my feet, the bow at my back, and the catch in my hand made the world seem less grim than it had been lately. It was the first time I had gone out hunting in weeks, and I hadn’t exactly asked permission. Since my mother fell ill, my father had become consumed with despair and refused to let me out of the house for fear I, too, would fall ill.

  It was the only home I’d ever known, with weeds grown around haphazardly through the depressed boards of the porch. The moisture caused the wood to rot, pulling each step closer towards the ground and providing a plentiful mildew odor to the air. After weeks of living inside, I simply needed to get out and feel the crunch of the leaves under my feet again.

  I finally decided I‘d had enough and left early that morning with nothing but my bow and quiver and a light jacket. As I made my way home, I questioned what Father’s reaction would be and hoped the goose in my hands would be enough to make him forget his anger.

  “Lark Davies.” My father’s deep, strained voice called out as I turned onto our street. He stood in the doorway with his shoulders drooped, his grey eyes aching. A dark beard covered most of what I knew would be his stern-set mouth, and I noticed for the first time how old he looked. The hairs around his mouth had begun to lighten with age and his cheeks were sunken with hunger. He had never been large–really no one in the village had–but never had he looked so frail.

  “I’m sorry father. I wanted–”

  “I know.” He was angry; I could sense it. Anger was one of the easier ones, and so, more than his facial features, or his tone of voice, I sensed how he felt, heard his thoughts in my head. As far as I knew, I was the only one.

  Beside his anger was fear and what felt like guilt. What would make him feel guilty? Father’s thoughts were easier to sense than others. Maybe it was because we spent so much time together. But at the moment, they weren’t clear enough for me to grasp, so I walked through the door and began to clean the speckled feathers from the bird, placing them in a pile so I could make new arrows that afternoon. Never waste.

  “How is she today?” I asked, hoping Mother was well enough to relieve some of his grief. Forced to watch her slow death, he had started to wear down. Dark rings had formed beneath his eyes, and he had lost a good bit of weight in the last few weeks.

  “She’s better. The fever is down some, so there’s hope.” He’s lying. He wanted to protect me from her inevitable fate, the same fate that felled dozens of villagers in the last few weeks. When the Sails of Madurai arrived at port over a month ago, they carried a sickness that spread through Lagodon–like fire to straw. Some caught it, while others had not. I knew her condition must be bad if he would go to such lengths to hide it from me.

  Mother was a kind woman and quiet like Father. In fact, we were all quiet, and had been for as long as I could remember. Mother worked as a seamstress, and she‘d made every piece of clothing I owned out of spare bits of fabric. I thought of the few times I’d ever seen her with her hair down and how she preferred to keep it in a bun. She was one of the most intuitive people I had ever known, always aware of my feelings before I had a chance to voice them. I loved her unendingly.

  It was hard to think that I would never see her again. Her body was still there, lying in bed, but her face had twisted as her muscles became locked from sickness. She refused to eat–or maybe she couldn’t–and Father barely been able to get her to even drink water. It won’t be much longer. I would never see her bake bread or sew clothes or hear any of the few stories she had. All I could do was try to hold onto the details. My mother was gone; all that remained was empty.

  Of course, there was a cure: a tea made from the exotic Lightfish flower from the Nakbe Islands far to the North. Too many had become ill, though, and it was rarer and more expensive than it had ever been before. Father and I could do nothing to earn the money we needed for the medication. As of yet, no one had survived without it.

  “Lark, I want to give you something.” I set down the goose and wiped my hands, unsure what had caused his thoughts to turn to his ring. A strange mixture of emotions was attached to the ring and I couldn’t isolate why he wanted to give it to me. I had only observed the thoughts of others for about a year, and it seemed like there was still so much I didn’t know.

  He pulled the copper ring from his shirt pocket and laid it in my palm. It had been his father’s, and his father’s before him, and all the way back through the generations. The metal was carved with an intricate design, and the image of a hawk stamped onto the top: the symbol of our family. It was worth less than a loaf of bread despite being so personally valuable to him. He’d never worn it as long as I could remember. Copper was so easy to come by; it was iron that was the real precious metal.

  “You know what this is?” Fat
her asked, but I only nodded, still unsure of the situation. His lips quivered and his eyes stayed on the ring–though he seemed to look through it rather than at it.

  Again, the strange emotions welled up within him and I wondered what had changed. Had he drowned so long in his grief over my mother that he’d begun to truly lose his mind? The prospect of losing him, even in part, was one that brought tears to my eyes and I struggled to blink them away.

  “You keep it with you–always. Don’t ever forget who you are.” It was the type of thing I imagined fathers would say to their sons before they went off to war, but we hadn’t had one of those in more than forty years.

  “Come on. We’re going to the square,” he said and stood suddenly. I had been so distracted by the ring in my hand and what it could mean that I didn’t paid attention to his thoughts until he spoke aloud.

  “But father, you said–”

  “I know what I said. Get your things.” I didn’t know what things he meant or where we were going. All I could do was put the ring in my pocket and follow him out the door. He wasn’t going to tell me what was happening, and his thoughts were too confusing to give me a good idea. I was just going to have to wait. My bow, quiver, and the knife at my hip kept me company while we walked down the muddy streets.

  To my knowledge there weren’t any festivals at that time of year, but a large amount of people had flooded into the village square; flashes of their thoughts burst into my head and I suddenly remembered why I hated going there. Fisherman huddled around, the air smelling like halibut and menhaden. A baker tried to sell bread, though we all knew it was rough and flat; yeast was hard to come by on our side of the world. Skinny children with muddied faces and tattered clothing darted through the crowd amidst shouts from the shop-owners.

  My father placed his hand at my shoulder as we approached, and I was reminded of how little I had grown in the last few years. Technically, I could find a girl and get married next season; the law allowed a man and woman with fifteen summers each to be married. But I hadn’t had much time for girls, and I certainly didn’t need the stress of another mouth to feed.

  As we pressed farther into the square, the thoughts of the villagers began to blur together until I struggled to concentrate on anything else. They were clear enough individually, yet impossible to identify when they were all so close.

  You think that’s really him? I wonder if he’ll take anyone. Can he really do what they say? I am so sorry son.

  It was only a moment before I realized the last thought radiated loudly from my father. Just then, a gap between villagers revealed a glimpse of a man I had never seen before.

  Stopping short, my father pulled me directly in front of him and rested his hands on my shoulders. I searched his mind for the identity of the strange man, but his thoughts still spiraled out of control.

  He was taller than the average Lagodonian man, and he wore traveler’s clothes–though that didn’t hide their fine quality. The skin of his face was rough beneath his dark beard, and a low-brimmed hat shadowed his eyes as he scanned the crowd. In an instant, his gaze caught mine and he began to slowly draw closer. What does he want?

  As if they saw a ghost, the villagers parted a wide circle around him until he stood in front of me and just stared. For the first time in ages, I couldn’t get a glimpse–not a thought or emotion. Nothing.

  Finally, the man spoke, his voice kinder than I would have thought. “Do you know who I am, boy?”

  “I’m not a boy.” A squeeze on my shoulder reminded me of the manners my mother had insisted upon. “I mean–No, sir. I don’t know you.”

  “My name is Rhorken. I’m a Tracer from Hubli. Do you know where that is?” As he spoke, he leaned over so his eyes were level with mine; I felt even more like a child. Why can’t I hear his thoughts?

  “Of course. It used to be the capital.”

  Since the wars, Hubli had been demoted from true capital of Madurai to its center of commerce and culture, now considered just another region of Takla Maya.

  “How many summers do you have?” As he asked the question, a violet pendant on a thin chain swung loose from his shirt and dangled just in front of me. It shimmered a mystic hue, the image of a sun made of white stone inlayed within. I had never seen anything like it and struggled to keep from reaching out.

  “F–Fourteen, sir.”

  Rhorken stood and exchanged a knowing look with Father. I didn’t have to see their faces to understand what had happened.

  I was leaving. I was leaving with Rhorken. I could stay if I wanted–no one would force me to go. But if I left, my mother could be saved. The last thought was the strangest. The strong emotion that tied him to my mother was enough to submerge any thoughts of trying to convince me to stay. He truly loved her; to him, my mother’s life was worth more than anything else.

  This is my chance. I would get out of Lagodon. I would hunt in woods with real game. I would live a life beyond mere survival.

  In that moment, I hated myself. I was a monster, more focused on my growling stomach than my dying mother. What is wrong with me?

  “Would you like to leave this village, then?” The thoughts of the surrounding villagers clashed and clanged together, a chorus of cheers and questions, but they wouldn’t distract me. If my father wanted me to leave to save my mother, then I would do it. My heart beat loudly in my chest, but I managed to answer him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rhorken’s eyes widened and a thin smile crept across his face. For the last few months, I’d spent each day with other people’s thoughts and feelings in my head. I was unaccustomed to having to use their body language and facial features to tell what they were thinking. It unnerved me that this was the one time it seemed to fail.

  I turned to face Father. He sank to his knees in front of me, his face fighting against the wave of sorrow he felt. He was grateful; it flooded out of him in droves and, though I felt a conflicting guilt that perhaps it hadn’t been for the right reason, I knew I’d made the right choice.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be alright.” I knew as I said it that it was true. Something called for me to go out into the world, to explore places my family had never dreamed of. It was just unfortunate that it had to happen under those circumstances.

  “I love you Lark. Don’t forget what I told you.” I nodded and let him give me a strong, enduring hug that I was sure I would be able to feel for the rest of my life. I was grateful I didn’t have to face him, just so he wouldn’t see the drops at the corners of my eyes yet again.

  As my father stood, I turned towards the man who called himself Rhorken. He didn’t say anything but just watched the exchange between us.

  A long moment passed in silence. “Is there something wrong, sir?” I asked when he didn’t speak.

  “No. Not at all. Come along.” Rhorken reached behind his back, unhooked a small leather bag from his belt, and handed it to my father. I knew it was full of coppers even before it reached Father’s hands.

  I am so, so sorry. The thought rang from my father’s head forcefully as he gazed at the money in his hand, and I wondered–for a moment–if the rest of the village could hear it. It was enough coin to buy food for years, but I knew he wouldn’t spend it on a single meal.

  My father turned on his heel without saying goodbye, though I knew it wasn’t from lack of emotion. In fact, I knew it to be just the opposite. My parents both loved me greatly–of that I had no doubt–but their love for each other outweighed theirs for me. Their bond had always been that strong.

  I had no choice but to follow behind the Tracer. Am I a slave? Am I to be his charge? It was strange to think that I had just been purchased from my parents.

  An odd thought filled my head as we walked through the streets under the watchful gaze of the villagers: You know things are bad when a father sells his son for coin to buy a bag of tea. A moment later, another thought filled my head: I’ll never see them again. I don’t know why
I’d thought it–or why I was so certain–but it threatened my resolve to leave and forced out the tears I’d held back.

  I remembered feeling hopeless when we realized she’d caught the sickness–hopeless because we couldn’t get the medicine. But with the coins, he could, and I was the cost. I would miss them, but leaving meant saving Mother and my chance to see the world.

  I felt a strange mixture of excitement for where that new course would lead me and a conflicted longing to run back home to my parents. They were the only life I had ever known, and I had no way to know what it would be like without them. But it was too late; I’d made my choice.

  Micha

  Nearly an hour later, Rhorken and I emerged near the river on the north side of the village.

  In a clearing stood a sturdy cart, nearly empty aside from a few boxes of supplies in the corner, and two large horses tied in the shade of a tree. They were tall and fine; one was grey with a white mane while the other was a deep, woody brown. Rhorken was smart to keep them hidden from sight; just one of them would have sold for enough coin to feed us for a lifetime in Lagodon.

  “Go on and get in. We’ll be on our way once I’m finished with the horses,” Rhorken said with a wave to the back of the cart. I walked around and stopped dead in my tracks when I noticed a girl huddled into one corner. A tiny, dirty, skinny thing–though I probably didn’t look much better. The soil seemed engrained into her skin, and her gauntness made it clear that she hadn’t been taken care of for a while. Children in Lagodon were often small and weak; barely half survived to adulthood, many being denied food from their starving parents.

  I had seen her around the village, though I couldn’t recall her name or anything else about her. She had tangled blonde hair in a bird’s nest around her head. Her simple dress was worn and tattered, and her feet were bare. She sat with bony arms wrapped around sharp knees pulled tight to her chest as if she was afraid she might lose them. She looked worse than many I’d seen.