The Spark (25 page)

Marcus waited, patient and calm.

The door burst open, the four men poured into the entry hall. Marcus did not miss a beat.

He felled the first man with a calculated shot to the head. The man fell lifeless in a crumbled heap, causing the man behind him to stumble. Marcus fired two rounds into the man’s stomach, and a third between the eyes. Another assailant dove into the living room, hiding behind a wall, whilst the other rushed into the dinning room.

He was an easy target.

Marcus took the man’s legs out first, before focusing a small barrage across the entry hall with the hopes of pinning the other man. Marcus’ aim was better than he anticipated, for his rounds burst through the thin wall, slaying the intruder in the hail of bullets. The man in the dining room did not try to fight, for his weapon fell out of reach when he fell to Marcus’ gunfire.

Confident there was no further risk, Marcus rose from his corner and approached the wounded man.

“Who are you?” He demanded over the man’s groans of agony. Marcus kicked the man in the ribs. “I said
who are you
?”

“Matters not.” The man coughed in defiance.

Marcus shot him in the shoulder for the arrogance.

“Who are you?” He demanded, again, as the man howled in pain. “How many are you?”

“Only four.” The man grunted. “We were seven but the others refused to join us.”

“Where are they now?” Marcus asked.

“Long gone into the wilds.” The man’s laugh was intended to be mocking, Marcus did not doubt, but it came coarse and laced in pain.

Marcus doubted this man would be of any use, so he ended the man’s suffering with a final bullet to the head.

“Marcus!” A man’s voice called.

Marcus turned to face the new speaker. It was the soldier from earlier, the one he had dismissed for the day. The trooper was at the head of a large troupe of Imperial soldiers, all ready for action.

“The commander’s dead.” Marcus said, turning his back on the dead Valvian. “One of these four did the deed.”

“Who will lead us now?” The soldier murmured, to himself more than anyone.

“Marcus can!” A man in the back declared.

“No,” Marcus raised his hands in protest. “No I can’t.”

“Sure you can.” Another agreed. “No secret you worked close with Syrah. Who better to lead us than someone who worked more closely with our glorious leader than most of our officers?”

“Here, here!” The others voiced their agreement.

“But…” Marcus tried again to protest, though his voice was lost to the cheers and excitement of the men pouring into the wooden cabin to congratulate him.

Marcus feigned a smile. It was an honour to be leader, but he was not prepared to be one. His whole life had been under the guidance and service of others; be it mining supervisors like James, his parents, or even his time under Syrah. Marcus had been born a salter, a servant to the nobilities of Wynne. How these men hoped for him to lead, Marcus knew not.

“What’s the word ser?” The soldier from earlier asked, with a grin as large as sin.

The troops fell silent. Marcus looked at each in turn, surprised by how hungry they were for orders. It was a strange feeling to be in charge.

“Well,” he began as he gathered his wits. “Add these men, and the commander, to the pile.”

“Yes ser.” A small handful of men ushered past Marcus to gather the lifeless bodies of the assailants.

Marcus met the eyes of the soldier from earlier. The blue of the man’s eyes were glossed over, indicating he had been well into his drink when the attack occurred. There was something else in his eyes, something hidden under the layers of drink.

Looking into the man’s eyes, a thought occurred to Marcus.

“Is there any word from Vladimir?” He asked. “How is his progress?”

“My progress is wonderful.” The deep, accented voice of the sole remaining kinetic said as the man stepped through the assembled men. “Though the former commander’s stock pile has…hindered me greatly.”

“Then perhaps we should remedy that.” Marcus said, never letting his gaze leave the soldier’s eyes. “If we move the corpses to the location of your lab in the woods, would you be able to progress more efficiently?”

“Aye.” Vladimir’s smile was electrifying.

“Make it happen.” Marcus ordered his men. “I am tired of smelling those bodies. If you can relocate the corpses by sundown, you all will have the night to yourselves.”

Marcus didn’t know what felt better; giving the order, or seeing the relief, and gratitude, of his fellow soldiers for a reprieve from the wretched smell of decay.

“W
e should have gone back.” Issac Pennygild protested, not for the first time. Of the men that set out from Le Clos Noire in pursuit of Katherine Margoux, Isaac and the Stonefinger were the only two who remained.

Dalar had known the men would question his decision, call him craven in the night and mark him as a foe to Valvius. None of that mattered to the high scholar though. He had known, simply by the size of the invading fleet, that Le Clos Noire was a lost cause; from the first glimpse of the airships, it was painfully obvious that his dearest wife, Lillian, would be lost to him.

The same night the flotilla sailed overhead saw the four men desert to try and save the village. Their desertion came as no surprise to Dalar. How could he expect a group of strangers to stick to their quest when a much larger, more real, threat was evident?

Dalar was never surprised to see the Stonefinger remaining every morning. Nog was a proud man, regardless of his rough-around-the-edge demeanor, and would never turn his back on an assigned duty. If the late, great scholar Benjamin Riley was renowned for his exhaustive studies of Wynne and its people, than Nog Stonefinger was renowned for his ability to face any task head on, regardless of how the odds were stacked against him. For that much, Dalar was thankful to have the Stonefinger with him, for their odds of success was no exponentially less than when the party initially set out from Brixon.

Issac Pennygild, on the other hand, was an interesting enigma. He was a lanky man, of a height and age with Dalar. Issac remained bound to the companionship of Nog and Dalar, yet it was plain he desired to join the fray in Le Clos Noire. Dalar spent many hours of his watch dedicated to trying to understand the squirrelly man. Yet, no easy answer or just cause explained Issac’s conflicting predicament. The only logical answer Dalar could deduce was Issac Pennygild was truly a craven, feigning himself a man of action to look brave in the eyes of Dalar and the Stonefinger.

“We could have helped.” Issac stated to no one in particular, and not for the first time today.

“Aye. An’ we could’ve been shot up just like the rest o’ them.” Stonefinger said, wiping sweat from his brow. It was the same conversation the two held when silence and boredom set in.

Dalar was often thankful for the brief interchange between the two, for it broke the monotony of the long days under the sun. The only time their banter irked him was when the dialogue became heated and out of control. It was those moments when Dalar Rhume only wished to enjoy the silence and what little time of peace was left to them, for their destined course grew nearer each passing minute of each passing day.

Despite discussing battle tactics, strategies, and the budding companionship between the three men, Dalar still did not feel prepared for the trials he soon would face.

When the troupe first set out from Le Clos Noire the scholar felt secure, knowing he was protected by a group of trained and talented militia. Before the desertions, all Dalar’s task had been was to lead the party to their destination and, once there, hang back while the fighting men went to work. Now, however, Dalar was left with a renowned strategist and a suspected craven. His role in the rescue mission now became more active.

Dalar did not fear death, that much he knew. If he were to die in the rescue attempt, Dalar would be reunited with his loving wife and son in the hallowed halls of Del Morte. What Dalar truly feared was the act of taking another’s life. At one point, he confessed as much to Nog.

“Ye stupid scholar,” the burly man had laughed. “Ye got it all wrong. If yer goin’ to be afraid – and ye shouldn’t – ye
should
be afraid o’ getting yer head full o’ bullets. Not killin’ some bloke who is goin’ to be tryin’ to kill ye.”

Dalar led the small party north and west through the wilderness. There were no roadways or game trails where they went, just harsh, dry earth of the once lush plateaus of Valvius. Hugging their journey along the western horizon was the Narn Wood – a dismal, enchanted forest in the best of times. In truth, the woods were the only place in Wynne where aspen and willow, birch and maple, oak and pine grew in wanton abundance. The wood was renowned for its safe trails for travelers; however, the scholar intended to keep the party away from its canopy for as long as he could.

Like all woodland realms of the world, the Narn Wood was home to all manner of carnivorous scavengers like wolves and coyotes. Dalar did not fear these creatures, for they were skittish animals at the best of times. He did not for fear being waylaid by the troops of the enemy, or losing time beneath the shaded brambles of the wood. What Dalar feared was something far worse.

In the deep depths of the Narn lived beasts of wonder and brutish strength. Animals of legend and myth made the wooded realm its home. They were northern the hibagons. The creature itself, like its kin found in the marshlands of Grubbenbrut, were often gentle, sluggish animals whose imposing and frightening visage earned them a reputation of otherworldly monstrosities.

In days gone by, Dalar had come across a small tribe of the animals. He was surprised to find a strange tenderness and grace in their movements; the creatures displayed a surprisingly peaceful awareness Dalar had never encountered in any animal species before. The hibagons did not harm him, nor did they flee from him. The creatures noted his presence, but otherwise let him move about their small encampment.

When he returned to Brixon, Dalar wrote the first known conclusive study on the northern hibagon, earning himself a mild amount of praise amongst the scholarhood. No one in the recorded history of Wynne had been able to compile such detailed information about the large creatures.

But, those were the days when the fields were lush and green, the forest vibrant and alive. Food was abundant and no creature was left without. Now, however, in these days of drought, Dalar feared the gentle animals would be mad with starvation and go after anything that might fill their stomachs.

And so the party trod its way through the barren fields of Valvius’ northwest, safety of the forest always so near, with death and destruction behind.

“How’re we going to cross the bay?” Issac asked, unsettled by the silence.

“We will make for the hamlet of Stovise and charter ourselves a small naval vessel.” Dalar had known from the beginning Stovise would be his destination. It was the only logical course of action.

Stovise itself was small, out of the way with no real tactical value to it. It was also home to two hundred dedicated fishermen and women who utilized the ancient art of commanding wooden vessels on the churning waters of Fascile Bay and the Halogenic Sea.

“But…I can’t swim.” Issac complained, wiping sweat from his brow.

“It is the only way to cross without gaining any unwanted attention.” Dalar said, also taking the moment to clear his forehead of condensation.

“Aye.” The Stonefinger agreed, kicking a chunk of broken earth that had become dislodged from the parched ground. “It’s the best way lad.”

Issac fell into silence as he, once again, was defeated in his protestations. With the heat sapping most of their energy, Dalar and Nog let the silence continue as well.

As the party made its way through the dry wilderness, Dalar often wondered if the heat of the drought was, in fact, getting worse; or if he was just victim of its dire effects for far too long.

When the troupe first left the village, it had not taken long for both Dalar and Nog to squirrel away their travel jackets. The heat was simply too much to suffer under added layers. Issac, on the other hand, refused such notions.

“You never know who you will meet on the road.” He had proclaimed as Dalar and Nog shed their jackets.

Even now, dressed down to his linen shirt, Dalar still found the heat unbearable. He could not understand how Issac could handle the suffocating temperature under the weight of his blue jacket; which was now pale from the constant barrage of the sun. It seemed to the scholar his companion grew thinner every day, as if Issac was quite literally wasting away in the heat.

The triad of men passed over the hills and valleys of Valvius, in sudden bursts of conversation, to be followed by long moments of silence. Gold, brittle grass rose to their thighs, hiding the parched earth underfoot. The incessant drone of crickets and cicadas accompanied the party every step of the way, driving them forward. Every now and then a lone field bird would take flight from some hidden hollow.

Dalar’s feet ached and his skin tight from over exposure of the elements. It took all his might to not give in to his desire to rest. There was an unwritten rule amongst the party, drafted from their combined exhaustion; to rest meant the end of a days trek. With time being paramount, Dalar pushed the discomforts from his mind and pushed onward.

Dalar paused for a moment, looking back to the south and to the west. He eyed the far north horizon line, looking for land markers to gage where the party was in relation to Stovise. Nog and Issac stopped as well, just as the he closed his eyes. In his mind Dalar looked upon a map of Valvius, plotting the journey he had led the two others. Based off the surrounding features, and their placement on the long ago memorized map, Dalar concluded it was now time to cut through the Narn Wood.

“Alright,” he said opening his eyes. “We make for the forest.”

“Now?” Issac scrunched his nose.

“Yes, Issac, now.” Dalar said. “The Narn Wood is the most narrow here, which will allow us to cross under its canopy in under a day. Anywhere else we risk losing time.”

“Then lead on scholar!” The Stonefinger slapped Dalar on the shoulder.

And lead on Dalar did. Despite his desire for the shade of the trees, Dalar retained the same trudging pace the party kept all along. He knew any waste of their energy would only deter the party as the heat would prevent them getting too far. Based on the sun’s position, Dalar suspected they would reach the fringes of the wood by nightfall.

His estimates were about right. The men reached the forest’s edge as the final fingers of dusk faded from the sky. Each man gave a heavy sigh of relief, thankful for the onset of night to save them from any more exposure from the sweltering sun.

“We will make camp here for the night.” Dalar said, scanning the forest for any sign of trouble. “The Narn Wood is a maze in the best light of day. I would not risk traversing her paths at night unless we had no other choice.”

For the first time since they left Le Clos Noire, both Nog and Issac were in agreement.

Each man set about finding a decent enough resting spot against a tree. As odd as it was to Dalar, he was quite glad for the luxury comforts of the tree he chose would provide.

It was a robust oak that towered over the other trees along the forest’s edge. Large, gnarled roots broke the surface of the earth, creating the most perfect little nook to lie upon. After the nights upon the dry, packed earth of the Valvian fields, the roots felt as soft and welcoming as plush, down filled mattress.

The scholar unslung his travel pack and set it into the folds of a gnarled root. Before laying his head down, he retrieved his water skin to clear away the dust of the road. He had never known water to taste so sweet and pure. It was strange how he had grown to take the liquid for granted living in luxury.

“I’ll take the first watch.” Nog said, wiping away a drizzle of water from his chin.

“Let me,” Issac protested. “You take first watch every night.”

“That’s cause I’m a proper fighter.” Nog smiled with a wink.

“I can fight!” Issac stamped his foot on the ground, trying to seem fierce.

“Sure ye can lad. We all can fight when we needs to.” Nog sat upon a swirling root from the tree he had claimed. “Jus’ lay yer pretty lil’ head down an’ dream ‘bout saving the village.”

“Would you two stop it,” Dalar interrupted with a harsh whisper. There was something within the wood that caught his attention. “This is not the time, nor the place, to be bickering like this.”

He scanned the forest again, searching for a shadow amongst the trees.

“There are worse things in this wood then you’re petty squabbles.” Dalar kept his voice low, but firm to make his point known. “Issac, the Stonefinger will take first watch and if you must prove yourself, you may take the second.”

“Why? So you can get the most sleep?” Issac complained.

Dalar went to interject, but just as he was about to speak, a low grumble issued from within the wood. It was a sound he was happily familiar with, yet he feared the underlying notes of hostility.

Dalar did not need light to see the blanched look on Issac’s face, nor the readiness in the Stonefinger’s. Dalar licked his lips anxiously, waiting to see what would happen next; as he stood by his belongings, Dalar moved his hand to his side where his clockwork pistol waited patiently within its leather holster.

His heart raced. Sweat formed upon his brow, as the grumbling grew nearer. The creature was close, that much was certain. Dalar may not have been able to see it, but he could certainly hear it rummaging in the bush.

“What is it?” Issac whispered, eyes wide with fear.

“You might want to ready your weapons,” Dalar said with an equally hushed voice.

Then he saw it. Just beyond the fringes of the low hanging foliage, Dalar caught the familiar, hunched shoulders of the beast shouldering its way towards the forest’s edge.