The Spark

by Howell, H. G.

  “So, ye’ve decided t’ stay after all scholar.” The Stonefinger said as Dalar approached the party.

  “I said so much before you departed my home.” Dalar replied.

  “An’ so ye did!” The Stonefinger chuckled. “With that attitude we may make a soldier outta ye before th’ end.”

  “Yes, perhaps you will.” Dalar shared in the light laughter of the party at the idea. He turned his eyes to the tall building beside the troupe. “What do you say we meet the bastard?”

  “I like th’ sound o’ that.” Nog said as the rest of the men echoed agreement.

  “Then let us get this over with.”

  “Aye,” Nog said. The small, burly man withdrew a pistol from his belt.

  “What is that for?” Dalar asked, eying the weapon with a raised eyebrow.

  “Jus’ in case.” The Stonefinger winked.

  With a deep breath, Dalar led the group around to the front of the building. They passed through the large double-set doors as a singular body. Dalar entered as the head of the party as the rest piled into the townhall entranceway.

  It was a wide space, with narrow slit windows along the walls that let sharp streams of sunlight into the entranceway. Dust settled over the half-dozen waiting benches. A large, oversized tapestry hung against the far wall. Its hooks were hidden above in the rafters while its base flirted with the floorboards. The image of the tapestry was that of the Valvian flag; the design was divided diagonally, from corner to corner. The top half was white whilst the bottom green. The central image was the golden triad of gears representative of Wynne; an icon shared across all provincial colours.

  As the party entered the hall Jeremiah Finkle, the keeper of records, greeted them. He was a burly man with a linen bandage tied tight across the left side of his face. The man leaned against a red pine lectern that sat central in the entryway. He let his weight rest on the fine wood as he inspected the troupe. Without saying a word he revealed a solid, weighted key.

  Dalar accepted the item with a thankful smile, though he dreaded the task ahead.

  Taking the troupe around the far side of the plinth, Dalar found the door he was looking for. It was a plain door of darkly stained maple. With a nervous, but steady hand, Dalar inserted the intricate, heavy little key into the waiting lock. Unlike conventional locks, a man from the long defunct kinetic school of orekinetics had imbued the lock to this door. As the key slid into the hole it took on a life of its own, turning and unlocking the door. The air filled with the screeching of grinding metal as hidden gears and cogs sprang to life. The troupe looked on in awe, for few had seen use of kinetically imbued devices outside of military invention; being military men, the assembled group were often used to seeing imbued devices designed for war and not such conventional uses.

  The gears continued to clink and clank. Just as impatience began to set in, the door swung open on its own accord. Beyond the portal everflame lanterns flickered to life, one after another, leading the way down a flight of stairs. Without saying so much as a word, Dalar led the way.

  The way down was short, coming to rest in the bowels of the town hall. Down here the massive stone of the building seemed to weigh heavily on the group as they shuffled down the lengthy, wide space. At the far end stood a solitary, nude figure, illuminated by the dim glow of an everflame lantern.

  As Dalar led the troupe closer, it became clear the man did not stand of his own volition. Instead, the man was held a loft by several, heavy chains. Each strain of chain attached to the poor man’s body by way of thick iron collars. There were collars around one each of his arms and calves.

  In truth, Dalar pitied the man. Though man was a rather loose statement. The person before him seemed no more than a boy. The sight set Dalar’s stomach to churning and head to swooning. He knew this was the way war criminals had been imprisoned in the past. To read about it and to experience it first hand, ultimately, was two very different experiences.

  On the stone floor sat two flagons. The tallest was filled with water while the short, robust one was filled with a thick, murky substance.

  “He’s drugged.” Dalar said, indicating to the flagon on the floor. “In the past, war criminals would be given a serum to ensure they would not go mad from their confinement, while giving them enough nutrients to live a long while without food.”

  “Who’re you?” the youthful man asked through a strained, addled voice. “More martyrs for the cause?”

  “We are men of Valvius,” Dalar began. “I am High Scholar Dalar Rhume, who might you be?”

  “I am no one.” The prisoner lifted his head to look at the party. His eyes were glossed over and drool dangled from the corner of his mouth. Dalar noticed a singular, scorched, bullet wound in the young man’s stomach.

  “Oh come now, I am sure you are someone.” Dalar tried to be as comforting as he could, realizing this was the person that took his son’s life. “We are only here to talk.”

  “Yeah?” The thought of visitors seemed to lighten the young man’s attitude. Dalar simply nodded in agreement. “You can call me Gionni, that’s my name.”

  “Gionni,” Dalar started. “That is not a common name in this region, where do you hail from?”

  “Malefosse.” The blonde haired youth said, overtly proud.

  “Malefosse?” Dalar feigned surprise. “That is some distance from here. Mister Stonefinger?”

  “Aye?” Nog stepped forward.

  Dalar turned to face the shorter man.

  “How do you suppose a young lad from Malefosse has turned up here, chained like a war criminal?”

  “He musta been up t’ no good if ye ask me.” Nog replied, playing along.

  “I most certainly was not up to no good ser!” Gionni declared. “I’m just a poor salter who stowed way on an airship.”

  “Is that so lad? Then tell us, how did you come by that wound there?” Dalar indicated to the bullet hole.

  Gionni grew tense, knowing he could not feign innocence.

  “Well?” Dalar asked.

  “A stupid cunt shot me with an electrokinetic bullet.”

  Dalar smacked the boy with a force that even he did not know he possessed.

  “You shall refrain from calling any woman such a name.” Dalar declared, peering into Gionni’s frightened, blue eyes.

  “Well that’s what the bitch is!” Gionni spat out a glob of blood. “I only want to take her. I have to love my enemy, but she had a yelp already and we can’t have that. So I did what was necessary and the cunt shot me!”

  This time it was Nog who stuck the youth. Where Dalar backhanded the captive, the Stonefinger used the butt of his pistol, breaking the skin on the lad’s scalp. Dalar put a restraining hand on Nog’s thick shoulder. The short, burly man spat into Gionni’s face before stepping away. Dalar almost felt bad as tears welled in the younger man’s eyes.

  “We know you are not a salter from Malefosse.” Dalar said to Gionni. “We know you work for this Imperial Order of Wynne. We know, Gionni, so do not play games with us.” Dalar stepped closer to the boy. “Why did you attack this village?”

  “We…we were to capture the town and hold it until reinforcements arrived.” Gionni answered. “Please, ser, the serum.”

  The way the boy’s voice faltered made it abundantly clear the numbing properties of the poultice had begun to wear off.

  “No, not until we are finished.” Dalar said with a cool, calm voice. “Answer my questions truthfully, and I shall see to it that your misery will be washed away.”

  Dalar leaned in even closer, to the point where Gionni’s hot breath fell over Dalar’s face. “Why do you attack us?”

  “Valvius has shit on Syntar, on Wynne, for two hundred years. We seek to better this world by ridding it of the injust ways of Valvius.”

  “Then why do you steal our women?” Dalar asked. He had to wince back the first tendrils of an oncoming swoon. He looked deep into Gionni’s eyes to keep his focus on the moment on hand.
r />   “To learn to love our enemy.” The youthful man replied.

  “Where to you take them?” Dalar demanded. Gionni remained silent, fear and pain dancing in his eyes. “Gionni, where do you take our women?”

  “Our…we take them to the dark.” Gionni admitted.

  “What is the dark?” Dalar asked. “Where is it?”

  “On our isle, in…in Fascile Bay.”

  “Which isle?” Dalar said. “Gionni, which isle?”

  “The old airship port.” Gionni dropped his head, defeated. “Please, ser…the serum.”

  “Not yet.” Dalar said, ignoring the pain in the boy’s voice. “Where do you get funding from?”

  “The Order.” The boy’s voice was barely audible as the serum faded from his system.

  “Gionni, my patience is running thin.” Dalar said as the impending wave of disorientation plagued his mind. “Who funds your Order?”

  “The Order is a secret organization commissioned by the Syntaran parliament…” Gionni took a ragged breath before continuing. “ The Order is to bring down Syntar’s foes and bring about a systematic change to Wynne’s political systems.”

  “Who heads the Order Gionni?” Dalar asked, trying to maintain his composure.

  “Garius Syrah, a pyrokinetic of…of high repute.” For a moment, everything in Dalar’s world came to a sudden pause. All at once everything became clear.

  Garius was of an age with Dalar, but where Dalar was born into wealth and status, Garius had been born into the destitute world of Syntar’s salters. Dalar only recalled the wiry kinetic as the adopted servant of the Margoux family. As a boy Garius had a strange, and misplaced, infatuation with the lady Katherine. When Dalar and his father would visit the Margoux estate, Garius would often fetch the drink and food. Dalar could not believe such a meek child would be the leader of this radical organization.

  “Ser, the pain…please…the serum.” Gionni begged.

  “You have been very helpful Gionni,” Dalar stepped away from the youth, turning his back on the prisoner. “We did have an agreement.”

  Dalar looked to Nog Stonefinger, whose eyes were full of disgust and hate. Dalar noted how the brusque man’s finger stroked the polished barrel of his pistol. Catching His eye, Dalar gave a slight nod.

  Nog stepped forward, bring his weapon to a level position with Gionni’s forehead.

  “You said …” Gionni pleaded, eyes wide with fear. The chain that held him rattled as he struggled to get free.

  “I said I would wash away your pain if you co-operated.” Dalar said. “I want you to think of the little boy you killed in cold blood. I want you to think of my son as your pain flees from your body.”

  “No…” Gionni wept.

  Dalar gave the Stonefinger a curt nod. The chamber filled with a sudden, short clap of thunder. As Gionni’s body went limp with death, Dalar looked at the party of men behind him. They each looked at him with pride in their eyes.

  “Dalar, I said it afore an’ I will say it again,” Nog chuckled as he holstered his pistol. “With that attitude we’ll make a soldier o’ you yet. If this were any other time that bullet would land all o’ us in prison.”

  “I know.” Dalar said sadly. It was a strange feeling. Dalar had ordered the death of another. He was unsure of how we supposed to feel. The tentrils of the looming swoon were beginning to break the mental barrier Dalar had forced up. He distracted himself by looking back at the limp body just as the loins and bowels began to empty themselves. The smell of shit and piss began to fill the air, but still Dalar had the group linger a moment.

  “We know where we must go.” He said

  “Aye, the old port in Fascile Bay.” Nog said.

  “Why would they be there?” Issac asked.

  “Cause it is abandoned you fool,” one of the other men replied.

  “We must warn the Chancellor before we depart.” Dalar stated, rubbing his temples in an attempt to contain his mind. “The role Syntar plays in this is, above all else, the most damning thing learnt today. The other bit is about this pyrokinetic.”

  “Who is he?” Issac asked.

  “A man with a shrouded past.” Dalar said. “I wish we had more time so I could investigate further. But I fear for the safety of the lady Margoux.

  ‘I will get on the wire with the chancellor,” Dalar continued, “So he can prepare the province for the coming storm. Stonefinger, take Issac to get provisions for our journey. I suggest you all rest well tonight, for we leave at dawn.”

  The party quietly left the chamber, leaving the body of Gionni to the dim glow of the everflame lantern. Dalar brought up the rear of the group. He paused for a moment, steadying himself. The building swoon finally penetrated his mental defenses, sending his mind reeling. In his effort to contain the disorientating sensation, Dalar focused his attention on the limp body strung up by chains.

  To ward off the mental attack, Dalar pictured anything to keep his mind from reeling. His anger, and despair, at the loss of his son sent pictures of Gionni’s body being torn from its chain tethers and being flung against the surrounding walls. The thought felt real as he imagined the fluidness of the limp body bouncing from surface to surface. The scene was terrible to behold. For that, Dalar was glad it was merely an imaginary circumstance, conjured to fend off the wild swooning in his mind.

  Dalar turned away from his imagined scene as the sensation began to recede. He took the steps to the main floor slow, one at a time. His knees felt weak. Adrenalin fueled through his body, giving him the strength and speed of a man three times younger than he. The anguish in his heart, however, weighed him down like a stone three times his weight.

  He reached the top of the stair behind the party. The orekinetic door swung shut behind him, locking itself in the process.

  Katherine woke to the familiar pounding in the back of her head. Each morn it reminded her everything she was living through was indeed very real. Typically, Katherine would rise and douse her face in a basin of cool water to wash away the night’s filth; however, on this morning, she chose to remain in the large bed. With great effort, Katherine rolled to her side, letting her gaze fall over her compartment.

  It was a large space complete with a parchment-strewn writing desk, a thick bookshelf of wondrous design, a trestle table with varying drink and scented lotions. In the far corner sat the luxurious armoire that Garius Syrah ordered to be filled with dresses and skirts worthy of Katherine’s station. Facing the far side of centric bed was a marvelously large window that exited out to a balcony, which overlooked a deep valley that had once been littered with the hulks of antique steam powered airships.

  At first, it did in fact seem Garius saw Katherine as a guest rather than a prisoner. He was kind to her and waited on all her wants, but when her woman’s hair began to sprout, the crones would arrive to shear it off once more.

  “I do not mean to shame you.” He insisted. Despite her questions, Garius never explained the purpose of the trimmings. Katherine knew she should be thankful, at least in part. She no longer had to live in perpetual darkness in the bowels of the earth, nor did she have to suffer in the nude and the indignity of the bathing chamber.

  Katherine finally found the desire to rise from the bed as a slight breeze rustled the drapery that surrounded the balcony door. With slow, almost mindless determination, Katherine crossed the hard, cold floor to the imposing armoire. She drew open the lightly stained oak doors and examined the articles within. None of the garments were as exquisite as she was accustomed, yet they were not as drab and poor as she expected.

  Katherine sighed as she ran her fingers down the length of a simple black skirt with matching jacket. It was a dull, depressing colour, one Katherine often avoided in her daily attire. Today, however, the shade seemed just right.

  She had to admit despite the bleak palette Katherine was rather fond of the straight skirt. The bottom of the garment was trimmed with cloth of gold, while the skirts loosely defined her shapely legs.
Katherine tucked the ends of a white loose blouse into the waistline of the skirt before donning a simple, black bodice. Upon the breast of the garment was the shape of a rose, created by varying sized embroidered cogs and gears.

  As Katherine tightened the last lace of the bodice, a bent crone entered the room with a small platter of scrambled goose egg and several strips of crisp bacon. The old woman worked in silence as she placed the tray upon the desk. Katherine made note to thank the elderly servant as the crone poured a small glass of a sweet honeydew wine. The old woman never spoke, nor did she ever lay her eyes on Katherine. The elderly woman entered the room, did her duty, and departed.

  Katherine sighed. She should have known better. It was the same routine every morn. Resigning herself to her fate, Katherine took her tray of food and wine in hand. The light of the morning sun seemed warm and inviting, so she took her meal out onto the small balcony to enjoy the sights. The view was astounding.

  Off to the east, Katherine noted the new shipyard Garius had told her about. Early on his men ventured deep into the interior of the isle, where the bulks of the antique steam ships sat in disrepair. Garius had likened it as a graveyard for the majestic vessels. Months of refurbishments finally brought the vessels to working order. Garius had been most proud about the integration of the kinetic cortex creation – giving his new fleet a proper chance against the airfleets of his foes.

  To the south, and over the varying highland crags, Katherine could see the faintest hints of that old resting place of the ships. Now, however, instead of bulky vessels falling apart, dozens upon dozens of black clad soldiers marched to and fro like little ants. She could not quite make out what they did out there, for the uneven landscape obscured much of the details, but Garius informed her the old shipyard had been transformed into a proper training ground for his men. A firing range, obstacle course, and even a cross-country track had been built to provide the troops of the Imperial Order top-notch training.