The Spark

by Howell, H. G.

  Long minutes passed as Marcus stood on the threshold between the world and the realm the men of the Order called ‘the dark’. His breath came slow as he worked to bring his excitement down. The nervous shakes in his hands soon receded to nothing more than a slight tremor as he became more comfortable with the act he commited. Letting out a deep breath, Marcus descended into the dark depths below.

  The first trips Marcus had made into the dark unnerved him. There was much to fear descending ancient, moss-covered stones in the pitch black. The stonework was old and the mortar weak. Moisture and mildew often made the uneven, wavering steps slick and dangerous. After his first dozen trips, Marcus soon learned to accept and relish the winding stair, using the time to prepare for the excitement that lay in wait.

  Before long, his feet found the lower landing.

  “The Order needs strong men.” A rough, muffled voice called from the darkness.

  “With strong seed.” Marcus responded, reciting one of the Order’s many mottos.

  A loud groaning filled the void as an unseen door opened before him. Marcus had to cover his eyes as the bright glow of an everflame lantern illuminated the landing. Stepping out of the shadows came a short, bald-headed man with ghastly teeth. “What’re ye doin’ down here boy?” The gruffness of the man’s voice sent chills down Marcus’ spine. He had forgotten Orson’s voice was as vile as his appearance. “Get tired o’ Syrah’s whore?”

  “I’m afraid not, Master Orson.” Marcus forced a smile. “Just wanted to go diving before shipping out.”

  “That so?” Orson snorted. “Well me lot’s off limits t’night. They’s fer me lads t’night.” He gave a big grin, displaying his gnarled teeth in the dim light.

  “I don’t care for your lads,” Marcus said. Emboldened by his earlier confrontation with James, Marcus drew his pistol. Fear filled Orson’s eyes for a fleeting moment, sending a wave of tingling excitement up Marcus’ spine. The sense of power was growing into a sensation Marcus was coming to enjoy.

  “I have already used this today.” Now it was Marcus’ turn to smile. “I don’t mind using it again.”

  Orson spat at Marcus’ feet. “Ye’ve been ‘round Syrah too much. Ye’ve got th’ bastard’s temper boy.” The bald man pursed his lips together, staring down the barrel of the pistol and into Marcus’ eyes. “But ye’ve got th’ right attitude, I give ye that. I s’pose ye can dive wiv me girls.” Orson stretched his hand out. “But ye leave that gun ‘ere boy.”

  “I would rather not.” Marcus said, defiance building in him again. “I don’t trust you Orson.”

  “Clever lad,” the gaoler cackled. “I see why Syrah likes ye. But,” With a sudden movement, Orson darted his hand away and withdrew a pistol of his own. “Yer not clever enough.”

  Marcus’ cheeks burned in embarrassment. He felt foolish for pulling his weapon on the gaoler, perhaps even more so knowing his chamber was empty.

  “Keep yer wee lil’ gun if ye want.” Orson shrugged. “Jus’ cause yer a clever lad.” Orson returned his own gun in as quick a movement as when he retrieved it.

  Feeling defeated, Marcus followed suit.

  “Now, jus’ follow ol’ Orson.” The master turned his back to lead into the dungeons.

  “Wait.” Marcus said. “There is one I want in particular.”

  “That so boy?” Orson licked his lips.

  “Aye, she’s got dove skin, blue eyes and heavy breasts.” Marcus recalled the beauty. “She’s with child too, I think.”

  “Ah yes, that’s our dear Belle.” Orson nodded his head in approval. “Funny thing ye should want her boy.”

  “Why’s that?” Marcus asked as the gaoler led the way into the twisting tunnels.

  “Missy Belle was Syrah’s whore’s cellmate afore Syrah claimed her.” Orson’s laugh was soft, almost ghastly in the empty hallways of the dark dungeon.

  The pair said nothing else as they wound their way deeper into the dark. They passed cell after cell. Many were quite, but every now and then Marcus could hear the sad weeping of some woman on the other side of a passing door. The boy in him felt for these women, wanting to free them all from the dark; but the man in him longed for their sweet, dripping cunts. Just the thought of having any woman of his desire was enough to make his member stiffen.

  Finally, Orson stopped by a solemn looking door. He riffled through his pockets and withdrew a ring laden with several dozen bronze and iron keys. Taking a moment to find the correct one he said; “She’s a good ‘un boy, ye’ll enjoy her well.”

  Finding the right key, Orson unlocked the door. The light from the lantern revealed Belle’s legs first as Orson pushed the door open. “I’ll be right out here.” Orson said, letting his eyes feed on the sleeping beauty. “Jus’ holler when yer ready.”

  Marcus nodded his head and entered the cell.

  “Wait.” He said, as Orson was about to close the door. “Give me the lantern. I wish to look on her.”

  Master Orson grunted, but obliged all the same. Marcus closed the portal, letting the lantern’s light fill the small prison.

  Belle had sat up at the sound of the men’s approach. A strange placidness filled her eyes, as if she simply waited for the inevitable. Being so close to her, Marcus was able to see just how wonderful her body was.

  Her skin appeared soft, and subtle, despite the wears of her imprisonment and hard labour. She had heavy sitting breasts with perfectly shaped and proportioned nipples which stood stiff and hard in the cold dungeon air. The burden she carried in her womb gave her stomach a delicious, firm roundness that caused his member to ache. She parted her legs, revealing her lower lips as Marcus’ hungry eyes searched for them.

  There was a small part of him that felt bad for the girl, knowing she only offered herself from countless nights of fucking.

  Marcus placed the lantern on a pile of dirty rushes across from the beauty so aptly named Belle. When he turned back to face her, he loosened his belt and let his trousers fall to the floor. The cold air nipped his cock as it stood tall and firm in the dark cell. He approached the pregnant woman who went to guide him inside of her, but he stopped for a moment. Marcus had never been with a woman with child, and, even though the child was a bastard conceived from some member of the Order, he did not feel right being on top.

  “Turn over.” He said. Belle looked at him, confused. “I don’t want to harm the child.” Marcus said with a low voice so Orson would not hear.

  Belle’s eyes lit up, only slightly, at the gentle thought Marcus had shown her child. Without so much as a peep, she turned herself over, kneeling on her own rushes. She stuck her ass into the air, causing her slit to spread and revealing the hidden wonder to Marcus.

  Adjusting his approach, Marcus shoved his himself deep into her. He had never felt such a warm, wet hole like Belle’s before. He wondered if it was a side effect of the child within as he thrust in and out. Each penetration sent a new wave of euphoria through his body. His body ached from sensual over load. He grunted, gaining speed and intensity, pulling her closer for a deeper penetration. Marcus’ release came quick and sudden, numbing his body as he released his seed.

  He took a minute to just sit inside her, giving a final thrust or two before pulling his dripping member from her. Belle turned back around, sat on her rushes with the placid look back in her eyes.

  Marcus pulled his trousers back up before sitting down beside the lantern. He watched the woman as his seed oozed from her, soiling the straw she slept on. She did not seem to notice he was still there.

  Despite the lessons he learnt, Marcus’ heart went out to her, he could not fathom a life such as this. He felt that, given a different time and place, he might have loved her, wed her and given her many sons. But that was wishful thinking, the kind of wishful thinking the got men killed. Sighing, Marcus rose from the floor, gathered the lantern and headed for the door.

  “Ser?” A weak voice asked.

  Marcus turned to face Belle, surprised to hear h
er speak.

  “Yer not like ‘em, are ye?” She said, as if asking. “Yer not cruel.”

  “I can be.” He whispered, not wanting Orson to hear.

  “I don’t think so ser. Yer a kind lad. Ye didn’t hurt me, or me baby.”

  Marcus was at a loss for words. He had just killed a man, and this woman was calling him kind.

  “I can be.” He repeated. Marcus turned back to the door and banged the heavy wood three times.

  It didn’t take long for Orson to come and open the cell. Marcus looked one last time at Belle, the beautiful woman who thought him kind, before letting Orson lead him back to the entrance way. Marcus didn’t speak to Orson on the return trip, despite the gaoler’s probing questions. He didn’t speak of the experience with his regiment, or even his bunkmates. Marcus kept his trip to the dark to his memories.

  Later that day, the regiments that were to take part in the invasion had been called to attendance in the open fields below the Imperial tower. Marcus and his unit were first to the parade grounds, all dressed in their combat uniforms with rifles at their shoulders, blades at the hips, and clockwork pistols hidden beneath their black over coats. His unit led the progression, marching around the plateau in a wonderful display of military might. The call to halt sounded from the battalion general, who stood on a balcony beside their glorious leader, Garius Syrah.

  Silence fell over the assembly as they snapped to attention as one unified entity. A budding well of pride filled Marcrus’ heart as their glorious leader strode to the center of the balcony and looked out over those assembled.

  “Men of the Imperial Order of Wynne.” His voice rang out, loud and clear like a single trumpet fanfare. “Today is the day we have long waited for, despite coming upon us sooner than we would like. Today you will board your airships, sail across Fascile Bay, and take that thrice-damned town of Le Clos Noire. You are a brave group of individuals, for yours will be the first blow against our enemies in the coming war.

  ‘You will be alone,” he continued, “for several weeks as our sources informed us of a budding front against us. Once the threat is dealt with, I promise you, you will receive aid.” Syrah paused, looking over the masses. “You are all men of the Imperial Order of Wynne. You have been taught as much as we are able to teach. The time comes for you to go forward into Wynne and do what is necessary to bring about the future.”

  “Huzzah!” Marcus added his voice to the cheer of his comrades, his brothers in arms. The fear of death was evident, but the pride of their mission and the prosperity it promised far out weighed the fears of those around, Marcus included.

  “There is one final lesson to be taught.” Syrah said, quieting the troops with his hands. “It is one thing to kill a man who is vying for your life. It is quite another to take the life of an innocent.”

  Garius gave a curt nod to someone in the distance. Within minutes a new procession entered the parade grounds. Marcus furrowed his brows as a sizeable troupe of the Valvian women were marched onto the field.

  The women covered their eyes as the setting sun bathed their naked bodies in a blinding light. Marcus felt himself growing hard as he watched the nude woman herded across the field of the assembled men of the Order.

  Marcus licked his lips awkwardly, realizing there were enough women for each man assembled. That’s when he noticed her. Direct across the field from him was a dove-skinned beauty, with heavy-set breasts, big blue eyes and clearly with child. She found Marcus as quickly as he had found her. The placid look her eyes held earlier had been replaced with confusion and fear.

  In his heart, Marcus knew what was to come. He knew the order before his commanding officer called the regiment to arms.

  It was clear Belle knew her fate as she sought for some sign from Marcus. All he could muster was a weak, apologetic smile for the girl who called him kind as he lowered his rifle on command. The boy in him screamed to stop the injustice, for the woman across from him was with child and had done no wrong. But the boy in him was a small, fading voice, compared to the man he had become; a man who followed orders before reason.

  The order came, and was drowned immediately by the rising thunder of rifle fire. Marcus did his best to honour Belle by never taking his eyes from hers. He aimed for her head, to make it a quick, painless affair for the beauty. His stomach churned as she fell in a dizzying spray of blood and gore.

  As the wall of Valvian women, young and old, thin and fat, pregnant and not, fell to the onslaught of innumerable bullets, so too did the innocent boy Marcus used to be.

  Bright rays of a new morning greeted Lillian with sudden alarm. Her heart raced, hair drenched in sweat. Linen sheets were tightly wrapped about her legs, while her head rested firmly on the floorboards. Lillian kicked herself free from the twisted mess, shaking the last remnants of the dream from her mind.

  Every night since she lost her sweet Jakob, Lillian had the same dream of chasing his ghost through a twisting wood. Each morning she woke in a sweat, often entwined her bedding. Though, this was the first time she had fallen in her sleep. Rising from the floor, she smoothed the creases from her nightgown. Taking a few, quick steps, Lillian opened the shutters of the bedroom window, letting the early morning light bathe her lonely room.

  Rising over the forlorn brambles of the withering trees of Le Clos Noire, the town hall’s bell tower seemed like an ominous obelisk always watching the Rhume manse. The tower’s bells chimed a sweet, light song, greeting the first rays of the day. What few birds remained woke and added the gaiety of their song to the morning melody. At one time, Lillian would have found the beauty in the chorus.

  Warmth from the sun filled the room, forewarning the day would be terribly hot - deadly even. Lillian searched her armoire for something that would be fit for a lady of her stature, but would also be light enough to allow her body to breathe.

  She settled on a soft white blouse paired with a ruby skirt that flirted with the top of her feet. Lillian pulled her thick brown hair back and pinned it into position with a golden brooch laden with garnets and emeralds. Looking at the many brooches Dalar had bought her, Lillian decided against such lavish adornment for the day.

  Confident in her attire, Lillian descended the steps that led to her front landing, prepared to greet the day. She let her feet guide her from the safety of her family’s home, down the cobbled path that ran from her front door to the main village pathway.

  Lillian took her time as she followed the roadway into the centre of town, absorbing the scent of wood and earth. She enjoyed the way the evening dew brought the smells of the world to life in the soft rays of the morning heat. The signs of battle were still evident in little Le Clos Noire. Many of the stones along the pathway were still stained with men’s blood, despite the efforts of the militia to clean it away. Trees and houses bore holes left from stray gunshots.

  As she rounded the bend, a pair of militiamen approached from the opposite direction. Lillian stepped to the side to let the men pass. They wore rich green coats, lined with cloth-of-gold trim with the three-gear sigil of Valvius upon their lapels. Both men gave Lillian a nod in greeting, but she only had a cold, blank stare for them in reply.

  In the days that followed the attack, she cursed the militia. It was the militia’s job to protect the people of Le Clos Noire. In Lillian’s eyes, they failed in their duty when the blonde hair boy stole into her home, slaying Madam Fernley and her darling son. Dalar had not understood. He told her the militia had been busy routing the remainder of the foe when that boy entered their home. To Lillian, it was just another excuse Dalar offered for the inadequacy of the Valvian military complex.

  After the men passed, muttering about the thrice-damned heat, Lillian continued down the cobbled road into the main square of town. Truly, the square was not really square, but more elliptical in design. It was a small market, nothing like the multi-street bazaar in Brixon. It was a quaint hub that served its purpose well.

  Standing central amongst the clamou
r was a large wooden stage, currently bereft of any acts until the sun slipped into the western sky. Her son had enjoyed one of the many Grykan tumbling troupes that would find their way to the village. Lillian, on the other hand, much preferred the talent of the Valvian Theatre Player Co. Oh, how she adored their rendition of Grenzel the Faire, Leopold and the Maiden’s Kiss, and the raucous comedy Beauty of a Hibagon.

  Even though the sun had not fully risen, the vendors were already promoting their daily wares. Several stalls sported vibrant coloured tapestries and signage to garner the attention of the people, while others offered free samples of the day’s top item.

  Lillian’s favourite vendor was a squat, bald headed wine merchant from little Pozo by the name of Druxan. His vintages were the finest Wynne had to offer at unbeatable prices. She searched for him at his stall, but the Pozian was nowhere to be seen. So, she relented to call on him a little later in the day.

  Continuing past the market, Lillian found herself amidst the suffocating press of towering homes. It was a narrow, rising street, whose homes were as modest as the families whom resided within. Many of these folk worked in the lumber mills, mines and manufactorums of central Valvius. Most of the homes were of the same design; red brick, with high vaulting, angled walls in the style of the Valvian middle-class, and all with dusty grey shingling for their roofs.

  Beyond the rooftops, the tri-peaked towers of the temple of Del Morte watched the town as a silent warden.

  Lillian paused for moment, considering the distant spires. She had never been one of much faith, but in these dark days she found herself praying more and more to the benevolent Del Morte for answers; answers to know why he allowed her darling son to be taken from her. Lillian sought to know why he cursed her with such heartache. On the rare occasion, Lillian prayed for the demise of the men who caused her such pain.