The Spark (35 page)

“Fine.” The younger boy relented. “But you have to help me. Bitch is heavy.”

“Fine.” Wide, rough hands grabbed Lillian by her ankles, pulling them outwards. Lillian hung limp in the small space of air between the two men as they shuffled onwards again.

As she hung between them, Lillian could not believe her fortunate luck; a drunkard to check her pulse, a missing commander to confirm the death, and a pair of horny men in need of a fix before returning to duty. It was almost too good to be true. It was as if Del Morte finally heard Lillian’s prayers.

She had some time to let her mind devise her next course of action once she was dumped in the woods, yet Lillian was finding it difficult to concentrate under the beating rays of the setting sun. Thankfully, she did not have to endure the searing pain for long. For as soon as the sensations were starting to finally grow unbearable, the sweet reprieve of broken shade fell upon her; sooner than she knew it, the direct sunlight on her shut eyes gave way to the cool, sparse shade of tree branches devoid of foliage.

At first, the heavy air smelled much the same as any wood. It pleased Lillian to have such familiar scents of maple and oak, brush and decaying leaves greet her. There was a sweet, pungent odor lingering on the fringes of the typical forest smells – a scent that grew stronger the deeper they went. In her heart, Lillian knew what the terrible aroma was.

Bodies. Long dead, decaying bodies of the friends and neighbours that did not survive the assault on Le Clos Noire. Lillian had to fight every natural reflex in her body as it screamed in agony as the wretched odors filled her nostrils. This was the final stage of Lillian’s simple plan, and the one she feared most. This was the part of her plan she feared would break her newfound resolve.

“Del Morte be damned.” The young man cursed. His voice was nasally as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Let’s just drop the bitch and get out of here.”

“Don’t ‘ave to go an ask me twice.” The gruff man let go of Lillian’s ankles, letting them drop onto the hard ground below.

Lillian had to bite her tongue from yelping as the younger man let her head and arms drop to the parched earth below.

It did not take long for the sound of the men to fade away. A deep stillness fell over the wood as Lillian lay there, as if the forest held its breath waiting for her to spring to life. She did not wait long. The putrid stench finally became too much for the lady. Lillian rolled to the side, and let her body wretch. It was such a wonderful feeling. When there was nothing left in her, Lillian sat up, and opened her eyes.

It was a grisly scene, though not as terrible as she had imagined. There were dozens upon dozens of corpses in various states of decay strewn about the forest floor; men and women, children and elderly, militia and foreign soldiers – all lay as equals in this realm of death. Yet, there were obvious signs of many missing bodies. There was no carrion either. Each body lay as whole as it had in its final moments alive.

Lillian noticed a building, which looked rather new, sitting on the furthest western fringes of the wood. Smoke rose from its singular chimney, and strange metallic rods and coils sat tall and proud on the cabin’s roof. She traveled most of this wood in her early days, and she had never seen such a building in the forest. It was an oddity to be sure, and she decided it best to investigate.

Not wanting to be caught off guard, Lillian examined the area around her. She found several pistols of varying designs, all without ammunition. There were no blades to be found either. She crawled her way over body after body in search of anything that could serve as a makeshift weapon, but it seemed the Order was indeed intelligent and had taken the weapons for themselves.

“Del Morte, please,” she whispered as she searched a young militiaman. “Something, please.”

With shaking hands Lillian opened the fallen soldier’s jacket, and was about to give up her search when she found a small, three-inch long knife in a hidden pocket. “Yes! Thank-you lord. Thank-you!” She hugged the little blade, not caring if its small reach would be effective or not. Lillian turned her gaze back to the cabin, now surprisingly close.

In her haste of finding a weapon, Lillian had forgotten to pay mind to her proximity to the building. She lowered herself to the ground, hoping against hope she had not been seen. She lingered by the young soldier’s body for several minutes, watching the cabin for sign of activity, yet, aside from the slow crawling smoke from the chimney, it appeared to be devoid of life.

Taking her time, Lillian once more slid from corpse-to-corpse. In order to save Le Clos Noire, Lillian would have to master stealth, patience and cunning. Yet the fearful girl she had been her whole life screamed in protestation, begging for Lillian to simply flee into the woods and never look back. The woman she had become could not run, not while the last two remaining people she cherished most in this living world were prisoners in their own town.

Lillian reached the back of the building after what seemed an eternity of slow slinking and sliding. Taking a few steadying breaths, she rose to her feet and placed her back square against the wooden walls of the building. Through the cracks of molding, Lillian could hear a man muttering to himself over the din of machinery. Even though she could not make out his words, it was obvious to his accent was of the north.

Never having listened much to Dalar ramble on about strategies and the like, Lillian was faced with an interesting dilemma. How in Del Morte’s great wisdom would she confront her foe? The first thing she decided was ensuring the man was indeed a member of this Order and not some traveler making trouble. With a tender step, Lillian rounded the far western corner of the cabin, rounding around to the front of the building. She had to squat to avoid being seen through a simple four-pane window. A soft blue glow emanated from the space within, reminding Lillian of Dalar’s mechanical steed. It was curious to see such a bold representation of the azure light in this remote outpost, so Lillian decided she had best peer into the window itself.

Inside, the space was dark except for the bright glowing prongs and coils of some scientific nature. Even though there was smoke rising from the chimney round back, Lillian could see no traces of a fire or hearth. Every so often a shadow of a man would block out the blue light, illuminating the tell tale sign of a single, gold cog upon his jacket’s breast. Content with her discovery, Lillian lowered herself back to a squat to better prepare for her next move.

She would need to create a distraction in order to draw the man out of the building. With no easily obtainable stones or twigs, Lillian’s only course was to knock on the door itself. Not knowing whether or not the door would swing inwards or outwards proved another challenge, yet there was no way Lillian could figure, or risk, to draw the man further into the woods. She would have to take him the moment he revealed himself.

Taking her small, three-inched blade, Lillian pressed her back against the doorframe, still squatting to avoid being seen prematurely. She took a deep breath, readying herself. Reaching out with her left hand, Lillian gave a hard rap on the door.

The man inside paused for a moment. A long silence filled the wood as nothing happened. Suddenly, the soft click of a releasing bolt-latch shattered the quiet. Lillian tightened her grip on the hilt of her small weapon as the heavy door pulled open. A man wearing a suit of wiring and metals under the black uniform of the Imperial Order stepped into the wood. He had a hand raised over his eyes to block the glare of the sun as he orientated himself to the sudden brightness.

Lillian acted on instinct, knowing this momentary disorientation would be her best chance of taking him down. Without making so much as a peep, Lillian lunged at the man with all of her fury. The force of her sudden weight sent both the kinetic and her tumbling into the confines of the cabin. The fall did not stop her though. She plunged the blade into the unsuspecting victim time and again, letting months of rage, loss and fury power every strike. So great was Lillian’s resolve in taking out her foe, she did not feel the sparks of electrical energy feed into her blade from the kinetic’s body, burning her hand.

When Lillian could no longer lift her arms, she slid off the man’s long deceased body. Her hands slick with his blood; blisters bubbled and popped from the electrical shocks she had received. As she sat in this lonely cabin in the middle of the corpse-strewn wood on the outskirts of town, she finally felt a purpose. It felt good to have taken a man whom wished harm on innocent men and women. It felt good to be in command of people’s destinies. There was a power filling her – a power she knew that would lead her to the great things Anna declared.

Lillian took her time in leaving the cabin, letting her handiwork stand as a warning to those who would come find him. She found a steel shut hearth, where, indeed, a fire was burning, albeit low. With great effort she slid the steel plating down, letting the orange glow of the fire mingle with the glowing blue of the man’s devices. She continued to examine the space, and found nothing of interest. Although, Lillian did find it curious that he had a body strapped to a table near his mechanical devices.

Just as Lillian was about to leave the cabin, she did find something of interest. A top a small chest was a gauntlet made of copper and iron. Wires ran up the length of the forearm plating, leading from a meter of some kind and down into the palm of the gloved hand. It looked to be a kinetic device of some sort, but Lillian couldn’t tell. She had never been one to pay attention to Dalar speak about the kinetic people.

Lillian found a lonely pistol with four rounds of ammunition next to the odd device. She snatched the gun up in wonder. It was not as powerful as her husband’s clockwork pistol, but it would serve her needs just fine. If she were to become a ghost, Lillian had to learn how to work with what she had on hand.

F
lies buzzed like a dense cloud over the body. The first hints of decay were beginning to set in, sped up by the deadly heat of the Valvian sun. Marcus Seyblanc stood over the dead man with a handful of officers, looking for any sign of evidence to suggest what happened. This was becoming a growing issue in occupied Le Clos Noire.

It started with the chief electrokinetic, Vladimir, who had been stabbed over and over again in his lab in the dead wood. Since then, the murders had been as varied and curious as the first.

“This isn’t going to help morale,” a young sergeant said. “You’ve got to put a stop to this Seyblanc.”

“I know.” Marcus replied. Del Morte only knew how much he needed to. With the morale of his troops already low, each new death only served to dampen their spirits even more.

“Graham, Gibson, take this man to the dead wood.” Marcus ordered before turning his back on the scene. The remaining officers fell in behind him as he led the way to the command post.

The troupe marched through the market square, following the north running street to the more spacious properties and dwellings of the more well to do citizenry of the village. Rubble from blasted buildings had been piled along the side of the path, while wooden planks closed off large openings in the walls and windows from the kinetic blasts. Blood stained many places along the roadways, marking where men had fallen in the fierce fight for the village.

The cobbled path took a winding course into the upper echelons of the village. Every so often, the path was interrupted by cast iron gates, many which led to the sizable manses of the rich. Marcus ignored many of the upscale homes. He was a salter born and such luxury was lost on him.

Before long the path came to a final bend. A small gate led to the modest property and cabin that housed the Imperial command post. Upon entering the cozy home, Marcus headed into the dining room. Now, no meals came from the kitchenette to the square table; this room was no longer a place for family gatherings, it was a command hub laden with maps Wynne and its provinces.

A large, black cog marked the location of Le Clos Noire on the Valvian map, as well as the Imperial Isle located in Fascile Bay. These were the only two locations Marcus and his officers knew of Imperial positions. Marcus planted a green marker over the Valvian capital, Brixon, as he figured that would be where his foe was gathering, despite the high flying rumours of Valvian airships flying to the south-westerly province, Pozo.

All Marcus could do was sit and ponder his next move. He motioned for his officers to gather around the table. Coming around to the head of the table, Marcus kicked shut a small trap door that had strangely been left open. It had been a magnificent find for it led to a hidden cellar beneath the whole dinning room. Marcus decided to use it as a store for the extra weapons and ammunition the Order had brought over. No one was to go into it without his leave. Why it was left open was a question he would have to ask later, for the moment required answers to a more pressing matter.

“What’re we going to do?” Marcus asked, leaning on the table.

“I think we should burn the village and take the next one,” a low ranking officer suggested.

“Not an option.” Marcus stated. “Syrah
wants
this town as a staging base for his war.”

“Then where is he?” the man asked. “Where is our great leader?”

“It matters not where he is.” A sergeant said from across the table. “He will come when he is ready.”

“Bah,” the man spat. “We should leave this place. It is cursed. It is why men are dying on their watch.”

“You speak of deserting our post?” Marcus asked.

“Aye.” The lowly officer jutted his jaw in defiance. “Syrah ain’t coming and I am not waiting here to be shot, stabbed or gutted in my sleep.”

“Well then,” Marcus reached behind his back, gripping the familiar, smooth wood grip of his pistol. “We will not make you wait. We will do
what is necessary
to ensure that won’t happen.” With surprising ease, Marcus drew his weapon and released three rounds. The bullets implanted themselves into office before the man could even realize what was happening.

“Simon,” Marcus said, turning to the man to his left. “Take this coward’s body and nail it to the stage in the market square. I want it known what happens to deserters.”

“Yessir.” The officer walked to where the still form of his comrade lay, scooped the corpse over his shoulder, and departed the house.

It was strange, killing a man in cold blood. Marcus had done it once before, following the teachings of the Order, and even then it felt strange. He found killing a foe that is after your blood easy, even desirable, because the bloodshed is more justifiable. It was doing
what was necessary
to ensure loyalty and strength that still managed to bother Marcus. But, he knew, that was only because there were still traces of the boy he once was lingering in his soul.

Marcus hardly slept at night. The shocked, betrayed look James had given as Marcus shot him in cold blood managed to filter into Marcus’ nightly dreams. As did the sad blue eyes of Belle, the pregnant beauty Marcus had taken before departing for war. Deep down, the boy Marcus was prayed to be down with the cold blooded killing; yet here, Marcus the man, stood, gunning down those whom showed signs of being weak.

“You did well,” another officer declared.

“No,” Marcus stated, cold and flat. “I did
what was necessary
. Now, what are we to do?”

The room fell silent as each man looked at the map. It was an image they all knew by memory, yet it seemed the appropriate thing to do.

“Anyone?” Marcus asked. The men remained silent. “Then here is my suggestion. We cannot stay here blind to the world. Yet, with these murders, I am fearful to send out scouting parties.”

“And don’t forget the risk of desertion, ser.” A man to his right added.

“Of course.” Marcus agreed. “What I propose is the construction of watch towers along the furthest borders of the village here,” he pointed to a spot on the map, just east of Le Clos Noire. “Here and here.” He did the same for locations to the south and the north.

“What about the west?” another officer asked.

“We have Vladimir’s lab.” Marcus replied. “We will use it as our western watch.”

“But…the corpses,” the officer across the table stated.

“The corpses should keep most trouble away. The smell alone will keep all but carrion at bay.” Marcus said.

“That didn’t help Vladimir.” The man to his right said.

“True.” Marcus admitted. “But he was alone. We will have two men at all times at every watch post. We will also double the evening’s patrols.”

“I like the plan,” another chimed in. “What about Syrah? Will you send a telegram?”

“No.” Marcus sighed. Sending communication to Syrah had been a long, heated argument – one that was brought up at every chance it seemed. In truth, it had nothing to do with Marcus refusing to communicate with their leader, as was said amongst the troops, it had everything to do with the machinery itself.

“I have not told anyone, for fear dampening morale.” Marcus started. “But these murders have already done that.” He sighed again. “The use of the electrokinetics in the invasion short circuited the machinery and damaged its functions beyond any reasonable repair. Vladimir was working on repairs when his own experiments permitted him time. We are cut off from the rest of the Order.”

“It makes no matter,” the man to his right said. “We
are not
weak Valvians. We are men of the Order. We are strong, brave, and proud. We will do
what is necessary
to survive until our glorious leader comes for us.”

“Here, here!” The other’s proclaimed, empowered by the man’s words.

After an hour or so of planning the appropriate means of constructing the watchtowers, Marcus saw the officers off for the night. He knew half of them would venture to the town hall to have one or two of the Valvian women. Marcus had half a mind to join them, but, as always, he chose to remain in the command post.

It was a spacious home, built with typical Valvian flair. The main floor was built with high vaulting ceilings, green and gold wall coverings. There was a large bay window in the dining room, which he had repaired not long after his promotion. Marcus spent most of his time not pouring over the maps of Wynne, but rather sitting in the adjoining sitting room. There was a lovely sofa sitting across from a small fireplace with an oversized mantle. When he had first taken residence in this cabin, there had been a portrait of a family – a man, woman, and a young child that looked no more than three years old.

As he spent his nights sitting in front of the fire, his thoughts often turned to that family. He wondered what happened to them; had they died in one of the assaults on the village? Did they flee to Brixon? Or were they away to the south on some family get away? It was clear by the objects and decorum of the home the family had been of moderate wealth, so, really, any of his questions may have been just as likely.

Tonight he sat, staring into the low burning embers. He mulled over a glass of Valvian wine, not really enjoying it, but it served its purpose. Marcus’ thoughts wandered to his past, retracing the steps he took that led him to where he now sat. It was a curious journey he never imagined he would ever take. All his young life, Marcus Seyblanc figured he would grow to be a salter, like his father and his father before him; despite all his young hopes, he had always known his destiny.

But life never quite goes the way one expects it to.

Now Marcus sat on the sofa of a defeated family, in a defeated village, in command of a regiment of trained soldiers. It was a strange feeling, and one Marcus was growing to enjoy.

A sudden chill ran down Marcus’ spine, as if his senses were telling him he was being watched. Marcus turned to check behind him, and was surprised to see Simon standing in the threshold between the sitting room and the front landing.

“Simon?” Marcus asked, stunned to not have heard the officer enter the cabin.

Turning his head, the officer faced Marcus. The man did not blink. He simply bore his gaze into Marcus’ soul.

“What is it?” Marcus shifted uncomfortably under the unrelenting eyes. “Speak to me damn it!”

Without word, or sound, Simon turned his head forward, and walked through the house to the back entrance near the kitchen. Marcus furrowed his brow, not understanding what was happening. He looked at the small clock that hung on the wall. The time read nine-thirty. Setting his drink down and retrieving his pistol, Marcus followed his officer out through the back door.

When he reached the entrance, he noted the door wasn’t open. Neither was the cellar door. Goose pimples fluttered over Marcus’ skin, for he was certain he had not heard the door open or close.

A wave of dense, hot air greeted him as he opened the heavy door. The crickets were singing loud, joined by two or three cicadas. The stars shone bright above, and the moon gave a wonderful, soft, luminescent glow to the world outside.

“Simon?” Marcus called, hoping the other man was simply out of view. When he didn’t get an answer, he decided it best to leave well enough alone and go to bed.

The familiar, insistent pounding on the front door woke Marcus the following morning. He pulled on his linen shirt, donned his black trousers, and slid his feet into his leather boots. He did not hurry to greet those who called on him, for he already knew what message they brought – there had been another body discovered.

“Take me to it,” he said without so much as a pause as he opened the front door. And so, with his small array of officers, Marcus headed into town.

It did not take long for him to realize where the body had been found, for a crowd was gathering at the center stage in the market square. Although he could not hear what his troops were saying, Marcus could sense the men murmuring amongst themselves. In truth he did not need to know what they were saying, for he had a good idea what they said.

The mob of Imperial soldiers parted for the officers, each man staring at Marcus as he made his way to the stage. He did not return their looks, for he knew to do so would make him seem weak, or intimidated by them.

His feet finally brought Marcus to the stage, and, for a moment, he wished he had not gotten out of bed.

The scene was perhaps the worst yet. Nailed to a stage post was Simon, only, he had been nailed to the wood with a large spike through his mouth. A pocket watch hung limp and broken from his waist coast, glittering gold in the morning sun. Marcus approached the body, and held the tangling object in his hand. It was a beautiful design, laden with twisting vines and cogs. An ornate, flourishing ‘S” had been engraved in the center of the faceplate. Marcus pressed the latch release, causing the object to spring open. His heart froze for a minute as he noted the position of the hands. Nine-thirty.

“Simon,” Marcus whispered, realizing he had seen the specter of the man at the exact moment he had been slain. Marcus turned his back on the corpse, not wanting to face the unwavering eyes of his one time officer.

“Where was the watch?” Marcus asked. No one answered. “Where was the watch last night? This man was slain at nine-thirty. How did no one see this, or hear it?”