The Spark (26 page)

With slow, direct movement, the scholar drew his pistol. He was glad to see the Stonefinger ready his great, double bladed axe, and even Issac with his two pistols in hand.

“Scholar,” Nog’s whisper was harsh through his accent, “I must ask ye as well, what draws near?”

“A hibagon.” Dalar replied, his tone begging forgiveness.

“Del Morte be damned.” Issac cursed as the large creature entered the party’s small encampment.

It was brutish, just as Dalar remembered. Thin, but even in the low light Dalar could see the thickness of the muscles in its arms. The hibagon towered over all three of the men, its fur rough, shaggy and matted. Its snout came to a pointed nose with two, large, nostrils that glimmered wet with mucus. Nestled beside the long nose wre small, beady eyes that could hardly be seen in the low light of dusk. With quick, jerking movements, the creature looked at each man in turn. It made a weird, harsh, snuffling sound that reminded Dalar of the heavy sniffing sound of the long trunked Ollies from the Far East; it was evident the hibagon was sniffing out the party by the thick, heavy sucking sound it made with its nose.

Dalar and Nog remained still, weapons relaxed, but ready. Issac, on the other hand, was visibly nervous. He kept his pistols aimed at the animal, despite the shaking fear in his arms.

But nothing happened. The hibagon simply explored their small camp, looking every so often at the three men. The scholar began to doubt his fears about the potential hostility of the creatures in these trying times, for it seemed more curious than anything. That is, until it approached Issac Pennygild.

“Dalar.” Issac’s voice trembled as his nerves got the better of him.

“Stay calm Issac.” Dalar whispered, trying to keep his voice from betraying his own nervousness.

“I can’t…I can’t.” Terror filled Issac’s voice as the hibagon sniffed his feet. “Get it away from me.”

“Easy lad,” the Stonefinger said, tightening his grip on his axe.

“No. Get it away from me!” Issac protested. The hibagon began to grumble, clearly agitated by Issac’s anger. “Get away from me!” He shouted at the beast.

Sensing the hostility, the creature rose on its stunted hind legs and bellowed long and loud in the man’s face.

From where he stood, Dalar could not figure what happened first.

Either Issac, in his fright, fired his pistols at the animal, causing the beast to send the man hurdling through the night air with a strong back hand; or, if the hibagon struck Issac first, causing the gun shots to ring in defense. Regardless of the order of events, one thing was painfully obvious; Issac had been sent sprawling into the night, leaving both Dalar and Nog alone with a very agitated, hostile beast.

It swung its large, oversized arms at Nog, who innately ducked out of the way. Dalar was impressed to see how deftly the man moved as the Stonefinger dodged another viscous strike. Dalar whooped for joy when Nog buried the blade of his axe in the creature’s thigh. The howl it gave was terrible. It began to move faster, and fiercer than even Dalar knew was capable in the species. The scholar didn’t even see the strike the beast moved so fast; all he noticed was the Nog’s sprawling body fly past into the fields beyond.

Now the creature turned its beady, angry eyes on Dalar. Even with an axe embedded in its thigh, the animal moved with such speed and grace the scholar feared he would not be able to react in time.

He stood his ground, lowered his clockwork pistol, and released three rounds of electrically imbued rounds into the beast. Each bullet found its mark, sending an array of dancing electrical currents over the hibagon’s body. Despite the yowls of pain, the animal still lumbered towards him.

He saw the uppercut coming, but had no time to react. The pain was surreal as the brute force of the beast’s strike sent Dalar upwards. Hard ground met him almost as fast as the blow had hit him. His mind swam, causing an all too familiar swoon to fill and disorient his mind.

Dalar groaned as he picked himself off the ground. Straining his eyes to see through the dazzling, spinning world. Dalar took note of the Stonefinger on his feet, backing away from the hibagon.

“No.” Dalar’s voice was weak, as if laced with fire rum. With all his effort he walked towards the animal, hand outstretched. He focused his mind on the beast as it raised both fists for a killing blow. The creature hesitated its attack for a moment, turning its gaze to consider Dalar..

“No.” Dalar repeated. Channeling his desire to save the Stonefinger with the swirling swoon in his mind, Dalar finally realized what his mind had been trying to tell him these past weeks; in the heat of this attack, Dalar realized Edwin spoke truth in Brixon. Now Dalar knew what he could do to save Nog and Issac from this raging beast.

It was a terrific sensation that raced through his body and out his outstretched hand. It was a euphoric release, numbing his body as he sent the hibagon high into the air with nothing more than a mere thought. The surprise in the beast’s eyes matched the shock etched upon Nog’s face.

Not to be distracted by what he had just accomplished, Dalar brought the wild beast back down to the earth with disturbing speed, breaking the animal’s neck on impact.

Dalar’s legs went limp, collapsing Dalar to the ground as if all his energy had been sapped. Nog shuffled towards him. Even Issac Pennygild made his way to Dalar, though he kept his distance of the dead animal.

“You,” Issac stammered. “How did you?”

“I don’t know.” Dalar admitted, still reeling from the blow he received. “Before now, I thought it was simply my mind playing tricks on me; too much drink and emotionally stressed. But this attack, for some reason, triggered a realization of what I can do.”

“I knew it!” Nog said with a laugh, patting Dalar on the shoulder.

“Knew what?” Issac asked.

“Oh m’dear Pennygild.” Nog sighed. “Ain’t it clear to ye? Our dear scholar ‘ere is a kinetic.”

“A kinetic?” Issac’s tone shared the same disblieve Dalar had shown when Edwin made the suggestion in the streets of Brixon all those days ago. “I’ve never heard of any kinetic like this.”

“Ye probably wouldn’t have.” Nog agreed. “It’s rare. So rare kinetics an’ scholars don’t believe it exists. In fact,” Nog rose, walking over to the dead creature to retrieve his axe. “Most people in Wynne think it nothin’ but myth.” He laughed. “But it seems our dear scholar has proven away that thought!”

“Bollocks.” Issac stated. “You mean to tell me Dalar is…
a telekinetic
?”

“Don’t need too lad.” Nog said, wiping the blade of his axe on a patch of grass. “Ye saw it fer yerself.”

Dalar sat on the ground. His mind still swirled from the hit he took. Now, it seemed congested with the addition of this life changing revelation. Yet, it didn’t seem so strange the harder he thought about it. The disaster of Edwin’s study showed signs of a kinetic attunement dream, but none ever recorded before. The boy prisoner Nog had shot in Le Clos, everything was beginning to make sense.

The realization had done more, however. As Dalar sat upon the parched earth, a floodgate of repressed memories filled his mind, as if waiting for this moment to reveal their existence to Dalar. Was this the affliction telekinetics suffered? Repressed memory?

“Now that you mention it,” Dalar said as memories of his childhood continued to pour into his mind. “I think I have had this ability my whole life, only it was repressed?”

It seemed strange to think, for he knew it was nigh on impossible for a kinetic born to suppress their attunement. But, then again, if the world did not believe in a telekinetic, which seemed to be tied to the mind, then how would anyone know what was possible?

“I remember as a child,” he began, letting his memories tell themselves even if the other two didn’t care to hear it. “I was taking an airship from Malefosse to Brixon with my father. It was still steampowered then. I had been up on deck, watching the men on the upper gangplank working the tethers and the general maintenance. We were over the Narn Wood, a little further south from here I suppose. I recall thinking about what would happen if the tethers snapped, and, as quick as I thought it, they snapped – not all, just a few. The crew panicked, and so did the passengers, but I just watched, fascinated.

“They repaired the ropes quickly. And that’s when I noticed some young pyrokinetic, about my age, staring at me from behind his lenses, as if he knew. I turned to face him, and he came towards me. I didn’t like it, so I used my mind to push him away. Then my father came and took me below deck.”

“Please,” Issac snorted, “how can you have forgotten such power if you have had it your whole life?”

“My father.” Dalar admitted, voice distant as the repressed memories brought the sordid truth bubbling back. “He was loath to have a kinetic as a son. He felt it would tarnish his business and name. Now that I think about it, he spent much time hitting me, trying to ‘beat the kinetic out of me’. It must have worked, because by the time I was ten I could not control things with my mind anymore, and I must have repressed the thought of it for all these years.”

“It still sounds fishy.” Issac said.

“I’m not pretending to understand this Issac.” Dalar admitted. “You must understand, I have just discovered a latent power in me – a power so rare, there are no known records of it or its side effects.”

“What if this was just a fluke?” Issac suggested, pointing at the crumbled body of the great beast. “What if you can’t do it again?”

Nog seemed to be more understanding of the situation. He caught Dalar’s gaze, and gave a silent nod, signaling he knew what would shut Issac up. Dalar turned his attention back to the squirrelly man, who was still ranting and raving about the unlikelihood of telekinetics. Dalar concentrated his mind upon Issac and let the thought surge through his veins and out the tips of his fingers.

“What are you doing?” Issac squealed as he began to lift off the ground. “Put me down! Dalar! Put me down! I believe you!”

Nog burst out laughing, seeing their scrawny companion kicking and hollering as he floated upwards. Dalar allowed himself a small smile, as he was too afraid of breaking his concentration. Taking his time, the newly discovered telekinetic moved the squirming man overtop of the hibagon corpse, and let him drop the whole three feet.

“Not funny!” Issac shouted as he kicked himself free of the beast. He picked up his pistols and returned to the tree he had chosen as a bed.

“Ye should get rest too scholar.” Nog said. “Let me worry ‘bout the watch.”

“Yes. Good idea.” Dalar rose from the hard earth and, like Issac, returned to the tree of his choice. Taking a deep, calming breath, the high scholar lowered himself down into his makeshift, luxurious bed and let sleep take him.

The night passed with no more fanfare. Each man took his turn at watch. When morning came they entered the great Narn Wood, with a heading of due west for Stovise. Dalar was calm, poised, and ready for the challenges that lay ahead of the troupe. His new gift was exciting, and terrible all at once. It was a gift he would need to train and control further before they made their move to rescue Katherine Margoux.

G
ossimer accepted his drink with a light smile. The serving woman returned the gesture and continued on to the next table. The
Talking Goose Alehouse
was crowded tonight, making the low-ceilinged pub more claustrophobic than usual. A heavy scent of burning wax candles, spilled drink and filthy patrons filled the air of tavern. Normally such a concoction of smells offered sense of nausea, but, after the long days of bitter cold, the scent reminded Gossimer of better days.

“I’m sorry yer stuck here Gossy,” Elenor said as the serving wench brought their drink.

“Don’t be.” Gossimer turned his smile to her.

The lovely Di Delgan across from him had chosen a meaty red wine from the southern reaches of Driftwood Isle. Its heavy nose drifted across the ancient table between the pair, joining the sweet spices of Gossimer’s mulled wine.

“Surely ye looked forward t’ the warmth.” Elenor twirled the contents of her glass, gauging the body within.

“No.” Gossimer cupped his hands around the warm bowl of his own drink. “Not quite.”

In truth, Gossimer had been quite relieved when the violent winds of the continual blizzard harassed the airdocks the day was set to leave Driftwood Isle; he was to have joined a search party in Le Clos Noire, despite not being a man versed in combat. Unlike other men his age, Gossimer was not prone to the wild ambitions of grand adventure and intrigue. He was a steward born and raised, leaving no time for exciting quests.

When he was a boy of eight, his mother sent him off to the far southern city of Gossac. She had not offered him much in way of explanation or reasoning; his mother simply passed him off to the Valvian councilor on Driftwood Isle.

In those early years, Gossimer served as an underling to the former councilman’s steward. During his time in the employ of this representative, Gossimer never set eyes on the man himself. When the councilor was not at parliament, he squirreled away in his study mumbling to no one and everyone all at once. Instead, Gossimer reported to the leading steward when it came to the running of errands and messages.

When the old man abdicated his office a year and a half ago, Gossimer received promotion to steward proper. The man he served under had returned to Valvius with the former councilor, vacating the esteemed position. Gossimer’s new office became even more exciting when he learnt the new Valvian dignitary was the esteemed provincial icon, General Lucian Margoux.

When Lucian came into office, the first thing the General did was to sell the former councilor’s manse and relocated to the northern district of Gossac. Gossimer learned early on his new master was a hard man, but not an unfair one.

Lucian proceeded to release the staff of the former councilor. Through the readings of numerous telegrams, Gossimer learnt the late representative had gone quite mad and Lucian feared the influence of those whom waited on his predecessor. Gossimer inquired to who this man was, and was surprised to learn he had been indirectly serving the most revered scholar of his time; the one and only Benjamin R. Riley.

Sitting there in the
Talking Goose,
with his lovely Di Delgan friend and confidante, surrounded by ancient wax candles, jovial music and laughter; Gossimer found himself thinking back on his life in a way he had never done before. He looked across the table into Elenor’s dazzling blue eyes, trying to hide the budding nostalgia he was sure was evident in his own eyes.

“What is it Gossimer?” She asked, reaching for his hand.

The glow of the thick, beeswax candle illuminated her face with a gentle orange glow. Elenor’s cheekbones sat high and proud, bathing in the iridescent glow of the tavern’s antique lighting. Having smooth skin to begin with, the light only served to give her an angelic grace.

Elenor rested her delicate chin in a cupped hand, letting her lengthy, thin fingers frame the beauty of her face.

“’It’s nothing, Elenor.” He took a sip of his warm drink, trying to hide his emotion with the bowl of the cup. “I was just thinking about days long gone.”

“Don’t go thinkin’ ‘bout them to much.” She gave his hand a squeeze, smiling through her sapphire eyes. With her free hand, Elenor took a sip of her wine. “I’m sure the nonce is more excitin’ an’ deservin’ of yer attention.”

Gossimer chuckled as a burning embarrassment filled his cheeks as he caught the soft flirtation in Elenor’s voice.

Gossimer and Elenor had only known each other the better part of three months, having first met the day the snows began to fall on fair Gossac. She had been frozen and bundled in furs, while he had been warm and four hours into boredom. It had been a brief introduction, but Gossimer had taken the time to warm a small pot of wine for her. Afterwards, the two joined Lucian Margoux and the lady Allison Schernoff of Di Delgi for an auto ride where the plans of dissension and change were first set to motion.

The Lady Schernoff proposed to aid Valvius with its woes, in secret, if the Valvian Chancellor so chose to accept her offer. Schernoff’s plan had been daring, for it required armed groups of men to trespass into the surrounding provinces in search of Valvius’ missing women and the hidden aggressors that plagued the fair province. It came as a surprise to Gossimer of how accepting of the notion Lucian Margoux had been. He knew his master was a man of quick action, but the man likened the idea with a feverish glee, which worried Gossimer.

Between that time and now, Gossimer tried to maintain contact with the lovely Elenor. She was a hard one to keep a formal relationship with, for her duties involved long periods in the streets, watching and learning about the goings on of the world. This was the first time Gossimer had been able to see her since Lucian dismissed him from his steward’s duties.

Gossimer sighed, taking a sip of his mulled wine, enjoying the long warm fingers of the spiced drink running down his throat.

“There’s no fear of that.” He smiled, putting his cup down. Gossimer reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew his tin of tobacco and supply of rolling papers.

“What kind ye got?” Elenor asked, leaning over the table as Gossimer pinched a healthy amount of the finely diced leaf, placing it down the center of the square paper.

“Nothing fancy,” he replied. Taking his time, Gossimer rolled his cigarette tight, ensuring for a good smoke. “Just standard Valvian fare from the eastern fringes.” He shrugged. “We stewards don’t make much gold, so our tastes tend to be quite simple.”

He licked the paper to seal his smoke. Keeping the small item between two fingers, Gossimer reached over the table and offered it to Elenor.

“Thank ye ser.” She smiled, accepting the offering. Gossimer rolled another smoke for himself. With gentle grace, he returned his tin of tobacco and papers back into his pocket and withdrew a small matchbook.

Striking a match against the rough surface of the table, Gossimer leaned across the table, offering the flame to his lovely guest. Elenor met him in the middle, sticking her cigarette into the open flame. She took three deep drags to light the tobacco. All the while, Gossimer absorbed the contours of her firm breasts, hidden beneath a form-fitting blouse. As Elenor pulled away, Gossimer adverted his eyes and awkwardly lit his own cigarette. He was glad of the poor lighting of the alehouse, for his cheeks burned bright in embarrassment from the stirring between his legs.

“This is lovely,” Elenor leaned back into her chair and released a cloud of heavy blue-grey smoke into the tavern air.

Gossimer took a slow drag as he, too, leaned into the wood backing of his own seat. He had to awkwardly reposition his legs to make sitting through his arousal bearable. The way Elenor’s bosom raised and fell as she enjoyed her cigarette didn’t help his cause either. Every time she inhaled a sudden rush of lust filled Gossimer’s loins; the buttons of the pale blouse stressed from the rise and fall of her breasts. It was as if her body threatened to burst from the confines of the cloth prison.

“What’s wrong Gossy?” She asked, playfully smiling as if she knew the discomfort between his legs.

“Noth…” Gossimer cleared his throat. “Nothing. Just a weak chair.” He forced the chair to rock to support his claim.

“I’m sure.” She winked. Elenor took another drag of her smoke, letting the dense clouds roll out of her mouth in a way that reminded Gossimer of a heavy morning mist. “Mayhaps I’ll get ye a sachet o’ the famed Di Delgan leaf. It’s light an’ sweet.”

“Sounds, delightful.” Gossimer said, retrieving his drink. He took a deep swallow, trying to take as much as he could to regain his composure. “I wonder, though, does your Di Delgan tobacco satisfy the same way as the Valvian leaf?”

“Aye,” Elenor sat forward in her chair again, eyes full of excitement. “They say it does more than jus’ a cravin’ for tobacco.”

Her words were soft, dripping with sensuality. Gossimer jumped as her foot found his leg, rubbing up and down in a teasing, playful manner; new waves of panicked euphoria raced to Gossimer’s loins as the lovely woman teased him.

“That so?” His voice squeaked.

“Mhm,” Elenor smiled, clearly enjoying the torment she caused Gossimer. “They say one puff o’ me Di Delgan tobacco sets a fire in one. A fire that needs a good
quenchin
’.” Laughter burst from her lips, a gay sound as light as a dove’s coo. “Ye should see yer face Gossy, ‘tis priceless!”

Gossimer’s cheeks flushed, hot and bright. He did not know what was more embarrassing, being toyed with to the point of losing sexual control, or being laughed at for falling for such sensations. Gossimer wasn’t sure how to handle the mixing emotions in his chest. He decided to do the only reasonable thing one could do in a situation like this, and that was to drown the embarrassment with his drink.

“I’m sorry Gossy.” Elenor said, still smiling. “I’m jus’ tryin’ t’ lighten the mood s’all.” She sniffed, reaching for her drink. “The world is getting’ dark these days. Not even children laugh any more it seems.”

Elenor’s smile waned as she lifted her glass and finished her drink.

Gossimer downed the rest of his own, matching Elenor’s now somber mood. He rolled what was left of his cigarette between his fingers, watching its blue smoke crawl to the rafters above. Gossimer didn’t know what to tell this beauty, for she, of all people, knew the true state of Wynne.

“The common folk are scared.” She said, breaking the silence that had fallen over the pair. “They fear war. There is tension in the streets, Gossy. Ye can feel it. ‘Tis like the world waits for it all to fall apart.”

“That won’t happen Elenor.” Gossimer smiled, gutting his smoke in a clay tray. “Master Lucian won’t let it come to that.”

“An’ hows he gonna do that? He took himself off o’ council.” She stated, her tone flat and unimpressed.

After the disastrous council session Gossimer took part in, he learned the whole plan had been a ploy to try and draw out the so-called Imperial Order; the logic had been if Valvius abdicated its place on the council, it would give the appearance of the province being stranded and alone – a prime target with no fear of retaliation from the combined might of the council.

As of yet, however, the bait had not been taken. In three days time, Valvius would officially be removed from the Grand Council of Wynne, and master Lucian still hung on to the hope of this Imperial Order to make its move.

“He just…wouldn’t.” Gossimer knew how hopeless the words sounded, for if one person were to bring war to Wynne, it would be Lucian Margoux.

“I’m fearful too.” Elenor lowered her eyes. “I fear war like the rest o’ them.” Her soft voice was barely audible as she confessed her fear. “Ye don’t hear what’s said on the streets Gossy. The tension’s been buildin’ o’er the months. Valvius’ troubles, an’ mister Lucian’s pushin’ in the council is causin’ trouble with the provinces.”

Elenor shifted in her seat, leaning even closer as her voice became no more than a whisper. “Lines are bein’ drawn, Gossy. If mister Lucian goes to war with this Order…I think more then them two will get to fighting, the common folk know this too.”

“Del Morte be good.” Gossimer cursed. “This is bigger than Valvius isn’t it?”

“Aye.” Elenor leaned back into her chair; gutting her cigarette in the same manner Gossimer had moments before. “If war comes to Wynne, the whole realm will bleed.”

“Does the council know this?” Gossimer asked.

Elenor laughed that sweet laugh again. “Who d’ye think is drawin’ the lines Gossy?”

Gossimer’s cheeks burned hot as the lovely creature across from him managed to embarrass him once more.

“Oh Gossy,” she said through a heart melting smile. “Yer too much fun.” Elenor reached across the table and took his hand in hers. “Let’s get outta here.”

Gossimer raised an eyebrow. In all the time they had known one another, and after all the visits to the
Talking Goose
, she had never suggested leaving together. “And where shall we go?”

“Ye could walk me home?” A flutter of arosal fed Gossimer’s veins once more as Elenor bit her lip in a deeply suggestive way.

It made his knees numb and heart weak. For the first time in all his life, someone genuinely wanted his companionship. Elenor had no obligations of needing Gossimer by her side the way master Lucian had; nor did she send him away like his mother. Here was a person who
wanted
to spend time with him. It was an odd feeling, but a good one nonetheless.