The Spark (31 page)

T
he deck underfoot heaved to and fro with each gust of moaning wind. Snow lashed against the thick hull of
The
Flying Tesla
, an undersized air cog of simple antiquity. Little drifts of the crystalline powder collected on the outer rim of the porthole window frames, while a fine, thick frost weaved its way over the rattling panes of murky glass. Far below, the waters of Driftwood Bay churned like a wild beast in heat, yearning for the creaking wood of the Valvian convoy.

“Why are we here?” A thin man, whose skin was pale and milky, quailed as he held onto the rails of his bunk. Many of the men cramped into the compartment shared a similar look, all worn and weary from the tumultuous voyage. Some even grunted in agreement.

Gossimer was one of them, although he did his best to not let it show.

The depths of his stomach raged as fierce as the waters below; he was not used to the rocking sensations of the great airships during clear weather, let alone through a howling blizzard. He kept his eyes shut and head rested against the firm planks of the wall behind him. Combined, this kept him grounded and secure, at least that is what he told himself when his gut threatened to unleash his lunch.

“For Valvius!” A stern, familiar voice declared. Standing in the doorway, tall and proud, was the great Valvian general, Lucian Margoux. His olive drab uniform was crisp and pristine. His grey hair was slicked with wax, and a black-rimmed cap tucked under his arm. A thinly rolled cigarette hung limp from the side of his mouth, its blue smoke matching the rough stubble growing along his rigid jawline.

“General!” Gossimer added his voice as the room erupted into motion. Some men made to get up, but his former master indicated for the group to stay as is.

“No need for such pleasantry’s here.” Lucian said, his gruff voice unusually soft. “I wanted to come down here and thank-you men personally for answering the call of duty. The Chancellor thanks you as well, as do the people of Valvius.

‘Many of you come from homes in Gossac, or its outlying towns.” Lucian continued, looking over each man in turn. “You would have known peace and plenty on Driftwood Isle. Yet here you are to defend the homeland you, or your families, left so long ago. I could not be more proud to call you
true
men of Valvius.”

The compartment erupted into a clamour of clapping, whooping and hollering. Despite the bubbling pride in his heart, Gossimer did not add to the cacophony this time. He was not about the
The Flying Tesla
by choice. Had he been given one he would have opted for the comfort of Gossac and Elenor’s companionship; his choice was a life of peace and prosperity, not running off to war.

“Now, a bit of good news.” Gossimer’s ears pricked up as Lucian ushered for troupe to quiet down. The sudden stillness of the room was tense and thick as the men eagerly awaited for the announcement. After a prolonged voyage amongst unsavoury skies, any positive message was eagerly awaited. Gossimer leaned forward, forgetting about the discomfort of the swaying deck and bitterness of his current situation.

“The captain tells me we are nearing the end of this frozen hell; he has espied the gleaming sun over the sandy shores of Grubbenbrut.”

Once more the room burst into a cacophony of excitement. This time, Gossimer joined in the elation. The thought of still, smooth air currents once more sent a jubilant anticipation coursing through his veins.

“Thank-you all, again, gentlemen.” Lucian said as the room fell back into silence. “I shall see you when we make berth in Pozo.”

Lucian nodded his head in farewell, placing the rimmed hat atop his slick hair and retreated from the room.

The air in the small compartment was rife with excitement. Men were laughing, singing bawdy tavern jingles, or lying quietly with large grins plastered across their face. As the new atmosphere took residence amongst his companions, a strange level of discomfort began to wind its way through Gossimer. His heart beat against his chest like a bog man’s drum line. Sweat formed in thick beads upon his brow and a tremble was settling into his hands. A creeping dryness prickled its way along his tongue, making it difficult to breathe.

Shutting his eyes, Gossimer returned his head to the rough wood wall in the hopes of quelling the swelling anxiety.

It wasn’t working.

As he worked on maintaining his composure, a sad realization struck him with a jolt.
We’re almost there
.

Grubbenbrut was a large province, yes, but with smooth skies ahead, the flotilla of airships carrying the Valvian men would find the Pozian skies in quick order. Once in Pozo, the Valvian army would assemble and wait on the Pozian, Di Delgan, and Grubben detachments. If everything went according to plan, the wait would only be a few days. From there, the combined alliance would set sail for the former air docks located in the Hallogenic Sea to put an end to the so-called Imperial Order of Wynne.

The howling of the wind outside was something terrible, like a demon from the world of madness. Its song was angry, laced with deep melancholy as the airship pierced its way through the whipping gusts of snow. Gossimer lost all sense of elation as the dawning realization of his impending fate mixed with the violent reminder of the treacherous skies he sailed within.

The rocking of the ship and the soft vibrations of the cortex below must have rocked him to sleep for a short time, for a sudden burst of excitement brought Gossimer back to his senses.

A bright ray of sun filtered into the compartment, illuminating the pale men with a heavenly light. The collected snow on the porthole glistened wet in the warming rays. Where once the air filled with the groaning sound of wood and wind, only the sweet song of sea birds remained. Far below the turbulent surf was calmed as well, for the roar of the raging swells relented and were replaced with the softer murmur of peaceful waters.

Gossimer blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Placing a hand on the wall next to him, he brought himself to his feet.

“I can see the coast!” One of the men proclaimed. He pointed with a long, lanky finger at a destination beyond the circular window. “There, just there.”

A cry of joy filled the cabin again, deafening and ensnaring. Gossimer’s heart swelled with excitement, but there was something else he knew he would much rather do now the wintry mess was behind.

“I’m going up.” He said, though none heard. His compatriots were too busy staring at the far off shore. Gossimer stepped over the legs of a few men still sleeping as he made his way to the door.

Gossimer was not a tall man by any stretch of the imagination, but even still, he needed to duck his head in order to pass through the yawning frame. The hall without was clear of men, but littered with all manner of supplies. Long rifles, pistols, blades and repeaters, helmets, satchels and medicine bags all filled the narrow corridors of the vessel. Gossimer had to be careful to not step on the gear as he followed the way to the aft of the ship. It wasn’t a long journey, but it was one that took time due to the over flow of supplies.

He finally reached the point where two other corridors joined with his, creating a small t-junction. Across from him was a narrow flight of stairs running directly up. Gossimer patted his breast pocket, ensuring the tin can was still there before he crossed the intersection to begin his ascent. Every step he took set the thin planks of wood to groan in protest; it was as if the very fiber of the stair did not appreciate his weight upon its surface.

Upon reaching the summit of the steep stair, Gossimer threw open the door to the observation deck. He had waited too long in the cramped confines of the compartment to hesitate the chance for fresh air.

There was a light wind out on the deck, which seemed mild and complacent compared to what the ship had just come. The breeze brought warm tendrils of air that wrapped around Gossimer like a lovers embrace. It was soothing, comforting. In many ways it reminded Gossimer of his dearest Elenor, alone in frozen Gossac.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He could not let his emotions get in the way, not now so far from home. Master Lucian had said as much on the way to the air docks in Gossac.

“We are going to war now Gossimer.” He had said when the pair arrived at the base of the tower. High above the ships struggled to maintain berth in the whipping winter winds, while below long lines of Valvian men destined for the front shivered as they waited their chance to board. “Any feelings you have for that girl must be buried. Love will make you scared and eager to flee when the fighting erupts. I need you to be strong.
Valvius
needs you to be strong.”

Gossimer agreed, though, now, above the crystal blue waters off the western coast of Grubbenbrut, feeling the forgotten sensation of warmth, Gossimer found it difficult to push the memory of Elenor away. She was sweet, charming and witty; beautiful, smart and daring. Her tenacious spirit was infectious. In many ways, it was what he missed most about her.

He stepped over a melting pile of snow, carefully though so as not to slip on the slick deck. A small flock of sea birds sat upon the gangway that ran beneath the giant bladder full of air. They squawked and cawed at one another, as if they told some secret jest. It was a welcome sound, despite how grating their calls were on the ears.

Gossimer found a relatively dry spot along the starboard side of the ship. He rested his elbows upon the guardrail, letting his face bask in the sunlight. After being under clouds of snow for so long, Gossimer had forgotten how wonderful the suns kiss felt upon the cheeks.

He couldn’t help but smile.

Reaching into the breast pocket of his olive uniform, Gossimer retrieved his tin of tobacco. Taking a thin paper he set about fixing himself an overstuffed cigarette. The scent of the fresh leaf was intoxicating; it was a smell he had yearned for throughout the worst of journey. He took several weighty pinches of the finely chopped leaf, placing it carefully down the length of the paper. With practiced ease Gossimer closed the tin with one hand before sealing the paper with a quick lick.

Replacing the tin back into his pocket, Gossimer dug out a box of matches from his trousers. He slid the fat cigarette between his parted lips as he struck a match against the rough wood of the guardrail. It took three, deep drags for him to get the smoke lit properly. His mouth filled with the sweet, aromatic smoke of the Valvian weed. His body relaxed as he took another drag from the long awaited cigarette.

Out beyond the curling blue smoke from his lips was the coastline of the southern province of Grubbenbrut. The shore was lively with white sand that shone like crystals in the sun. Beyond the beach tall, twisting trees similar to those found on Driftwood Isle rose like a fortified wall. Somewhere past all the trees, Gossimer knew the marshes began, as did the famous marsh towns of the bog men.

Gossimer had never seen these towns in person and he hoped one day he would get the chance to traverse the rickety boardwalks that served as sidewalks and thoroughfares for the denizens of these towns. He wanted to hear the croaking frogs, hissing alligators, and paddle the murky bayous in a long boat. Taking a deep drag from his cigarette Gossimer decided he would visit the marshy province with Elenor once the war was won.

But what if I don’t come back?

Gossimer had never prepared himself for the reality the he might not make it back from the front. He never considered the very real risk of death. Somehow, staring out across the crystalline waters below to the far off land to the east, the realization struck him. It was a terrible thought, worrisome and suffocating. Panic clutched his heart once more. s His world teetered and tottered as a wild swoon overtook his senses. Gossimer tossed his unfinished cigarette over the edge of the rail and bowled his way through a group of men coming out on deck.

He nearly lost his footing as he descended the rickety stair, for his panic was enveloping him with its deadly, bladed hooks. Gossimer bumped into the shoulder of a thin man as he bullied his way through the narrow corridors of
The Flying Tesla
. He needed to escape. He couldn’t stay here amongst a ship of doomed men. Gossimer wanted to live, not die on some foreign soil for a cause that never really concerned him.

Men were hollering after him, upset with his crass behaviour. Gossimer sped past the compartment he had been assigned. He stumbled over a pile of standard issue rifles to the jeering of his bunkmates. In his haste he knocked over a crate of ammunition, spilling golden bullets over the deck. Onward he pushed, shrugging off hands that tried to stop him. He searched for the one place he could be left alone, and, oddly enough, it was the one place he never thought he would want to be.

The cargo hold was huge, yawning, and black. The only light came from the soft blue glow of a dozen humming cortexes. Gossimer steadied himself as the sightless eyes of a dozen eight foot tall machines turned their golden masked heads towards him. Amongst the assembled, there was one faceplate he recognized and it was that one Gossimer sought.

“Greetings Ser Gossimer.” The electric voice said as Gossimer approached.

Gossimer looked up into the glowing sockets of Nine’s warrior mask. Somehow he found comfort in the orbless eyes of this towering contraption.

“The one called Nine senses something is amiss.” The machine said.