The Spark (37 page)

Once the count was finished, which Gossimer figured would take the better part of an hour; he had to select five golems from every regiment to remain functioning while the rest powered down. Abe went on to say that this served two purposes. The first, and probably most important, was to ensure the cortexes did not drain all their power. The Alliance would need the golems in top working order and having near depleted power sources in the field of battle would only serve to benefit the enemy.

The second reason, and perhaps just as important, was security. With Pozo being near the shores of Fascile Bay, the risk of Imperial Order spies, or insurgents, was high. The Alliance could not risk any sabotage of any sort against the golems – or airships - and by keeping so many of the constructs active, they had an unrelenting security force.

Beyond that, Gossimer’s duties would be basic cleaning, buffing and polishing of the machines. It would also fall on Gossimer to ensure the golems would be well versed in the battle plans once the fighting began.

Once the war was in full swing and the constructs were in the field, Gossimer’s duties would change. He would need to run repairs with the maintenance crews, keep watch with the golems, and, more than likely, aid in the fighting. If a call for retreat were to be sounded, Gossimer would have to rally the machines to him and create an avenue of escape for the Alliance forces.

If that call ever went out, Gossimer feared it would mean his death, for the last to board any of the airships would be the construct legions and their crews. But, that was a thought he did not wish to think about for the nonce. Right now he needed to worry about the present and ensuring he could do what he could to make sure the machines were ready for war.

After the tour, Abe took Gossimer to a small alcove on the second floor of the building. This was to be Gossimer’s new living space until the Alliance forayed into the field. It wasn’t much. The alcove was more or less a nook in the walls of the building with a steel bench about two-and-a-half feet from the grated floor. Gossimer could tell it would not offer him much comfort in the night, and he found himself wondering if the Alliance cared more about the upkeep of the constructs than their crews.

“The rest of the day is yours,” Abraham said as he turned to leave Gossimer to his alcove. “We’ll start you on your duties at dawn.”

“Yessir.” Gossimer said, more from habit than anything. His new commanding officer shook his head as he continued back the way he came, clearly enjoying Gossimer’s inability of using his name.

With a sigh the lad sat upon the hard surface of the bench that now served as his bed. He turned his eyes to the ceiling as the soft clinking of metal caught his attention. High above, several long links of steel chain links hung from the ceiling of the warehouse, each ending with large brass hooks. He noticed a large hole near the back of the building where the day’s gentle rain trickled through. It was evident the space was there by design, for it’s shape was far to perfect a square to have been an outside force. What purpose the hole served he could only guess, but it did give an eerie feel to the warehouse; the soft patter of rain against the steel cat walks and the clinking of the chain links melded together in a wonderful, ominous chorus in the silent building.

Feeling the need to discover, Gossimer tucked his bedroll underneath the bench and headed for the exit.

He spent several hours in the light rain, exploring the various buildings in west block. The immediate one across from A3 – so conveniently tagged A4 – was nothing more than a mechanic’s shop. The men had been busy fine-tuning the conduits of three golems and paid Gossimer no mind. He didn’t linger long, not wanting to be nosey, so he proceeded deeper into the manufactorum complex.

There were many warehouses not in use, but the ones that were had been stuffed full of machinery. Perhaps the most common commodity Gossimer found were long barreled canons of varying design. The latest style the artillery crews were excited for were the new rotating, multi-barrel, long-range canons. To hear them speak, these devices functioned through the aid of winches and gears. In the field, the crews would have to load all seven of the barrels with their deadly payload, then tighten the rotary winch, take aim, and release the safety. Once the safety was removed, the rotary would spin into action, letting a spark release in the upper most barrel before rotating clockwise for the next loaded canon to repeat the process. It was hard for Gossimer not to share in their excitement, for these new artillery pieces had the promise of being a real devastation in the fields.

Near the far end of the complex was a large refinery that, at one time, must have mined for precious ores hidden within the earth. Or, at least he suspected. Now the large building served as a dry port for the massive airship fleet that sat anchored on the moist ground. There were dozens of the ships, more then Gossimer expected to exist within Wynne.

Each ship was as different as the one next to it, each one being large or small, wide of girth or narrow for speed. The sight of the grounded ships sent chills up Gossimer’s spine; he never thought a sight such as this would be so inspiring. Gossimer feared war. He feared death. But the wooden ships propped atop the sodden earth filled him with a strange pride, eager and emboldened to face the foes of Valvius and Wynne.

Perhaps it wasn’t just the sight of the ships that drew this spirit forth. Perhaps it was seeing how strong the Alliance forces were, before the addition of Grubbenbrut’s and Di Delgi’s forces. There seemed to be an endless stream of soldiers waiting to head to battle, the regiments of mechanical golems sat in silence, numbering in a frightful amount of steel and iron, gold and bronze bodies; the amount of artillery was astounding, giving Gossimer faith the foe would be well bombarded before the main weight of Alliance forces fell upon their lines.

There seemed no feasible way for this so-called Imperial Order of Wynne to stand against the might of justice.

Later that night, as he lay upon the tough surface of his new bed thinking of his dear Elenor, Gossimer sudden noise from below caught his attention. It was not so much as a commotion or racket as it was a shuffling of heavy feet. The first thought to race through his mind was a rogue construct, but as he made his way to the stairwell, it became evident the foot falls were coming further into the warehouse, not receding out.

Gossimer passed under the gaping hole in the ceiling, fat drops of rain hitting his head, but he did not care, there was a disturbance that needed his attention. He came to the base of the stair and peered into the open warehouse without. Standing in the center of the space was sole construct, whose fierce warrior mask screamed of familiarity.

“Nine?” He asked, stepping into the dim light of the everflame lanterns.

“Ser Gossimer.” The soft, electronic voice of the construct stated in greeting.

“What are you doing here?” Gossimer asked walking towards the golem. “Why aren’t you with Mister Lucian?”

“The one called Nine has been assigned to Ser Gossimer’s care.” Nine replied.

“My care?” Gossimer furrowed his brow. “You mean one of these regiments?”

“No.” Nine stated. “Master Lucian has assigned me to Ser Gossimer and no one else. The one called Nine is tasked to protect and watch Ser Gossimer in battle.”

Gossimer didn’t know what to say. He had thought his reassignment to the construct regiments had been the kindest act the hard-edged Valvian general had ever shown, but sending his own personal golem to watch after Gossimer in the heat of battle now took that title.

“Well, I welcome the help.” Gossimer smiled, though he doubted the machine could read his expression. The lad walked over to the lumbering machine, and patted its broad shoulder plate. “Thank-you.”

“Do not thank the one called Nine.” The construct said. “Thank Master Lucian.”

“I will.” Gossimer let a soft chuckle release from his lips. “Come, we will put you here for the night.” He began to lead the golem to an opening in a nearby regiment when a heavy, hand touched his shoulder. Gossimer turned and faced the construct.

“There is more.” The machine said. “Master Lucian wants the one called Nine to inform Ser Gossimer the Grubbenbrut detachment shall be here on the morrow and to prepare space for a hundred and fifty more constructs.”

“Del Morte be good,” Gossimer swore, looking at the already tightly packed warehouse. “Where we will we put them all?”

“Ser Gossimer will find space.” Nine replied.

“What about the Di Delgans?” Gossimer rubbed the back of his neck, trying to figure out where the new constructs would go.

“No word.” Nine said. “Master Lucian says they will be along soon.”

“Of course.” Gossimer smiled. “Come on, let’s figure where we will put these blighters.”

R
ough, slanted roofs peaked over distant dunes, each with misaligned metal pipes twisting for the sky. Soft grey smoke churned from the shanty chimneys, filling the air with the delightful scent of burning wood and roasting fish.

“Stovice.” Dalar said, more of a relief for himself than anything. It had been a long, tiresome trek across the northern reaches of the Valvian province, compounded by severe isolation in the Narn Wood.

“Don’t look like much from ‘ere.” Nog Stonefinger said between gulps of water from his canteen.

“It isn’t, really.” Dalar admitted. “Stovice is nothing more than a fishing hub for the northern cities. Not many modern maps even bother to note its existence. There is an inn, however, where we will find a soft bed for the night and a good hearty meal.”

“Then what’re we waiting for?” There was eagerness in Issac’s tone Dalar could not help but smile at. “Let’s get to it lads!”

Issac, perhaps for the first time, took charge and began the march over the rolling dunes for Stovice. Dalar had to chuckle when, in his zealousness, Issac slipped upon a flat rock hidden in a nearby tidal pool. Dalar couldn’t decide which was funnier; the expression of shock on the man’s face as he lost his footing, or the manner in which Issac’s body contorted as he tried to maintain his composure.

“Lad’s a fish out o’ water.” Nog chuckled as he and Dalar kept pace with one another.

“Aye.” Dalar agreed.

“Ye know scholar, there’s no shame in what happened the oth’r night.” There was a genuine softness in the man’s voice. “Exhaustion’ll do it to ye.”

“I’d rather not talk about it.” Dalar said, twitching his nose.

“Fine by me.” Nog adjusted the weight of his bag as he walked away from Dalar.

Dalar hadn’t meant to be as rude as he had been, but the specter from the night before haunted him. The strange man, and his giant bear, had been there. At the same time, how could he have been there? When the ember burnt the tip of Dalar’s nose the husky, bearded transient vanished, leaving no sign of his or his pet’s existence. What worried Dalar most about the scenario was the man’s ominous threat of Madness and what the situation implied about Dalar’s own mental health.

The fear was tangible, or so Dalar thought, as he followed his two companions along the sandy beach. If his apparent gift of telekinetics brought on a quickening towards Madness than how was Dalar to take the evening’s event? A man and great beast were there in the flesh and suddenly gone in the blink of an eye. Dalar wondered if the whole scenario played from his mind, like some sort of mental projection. But that couldn’t quite solve the riddle that plagued him, for he knew nothing of the history, or side effects, of a telekinetic attunement.

Dalar turned his gaze back to the distant line of forest, marking the edge of the Narn Wood. Amongst the parched brambles and dead shrubbery a lone figure stood, silent as the trees around him. His robe was long, littered with all manner of leaves. A heavy crown of wood and berry adorned his wizened head. The man raised an arm, offering a farewell wave with an open palm of his hand while the other rested upon the back of an oversized brown bear.

“Scholar?” Nog called. “What’re ye doin’?”

“Pardon?” Dalar gave a start by the Stonefinger’s sudden voice. Most shocking was the realization that Dalar, too, held a hand aloft. “Nothing.”

“Don’t be goin’ heat mad on us now, Dalar.” Nog shook his head, turning his back to Dalar.

“Right,” Dalar returned his gaze back to the forest, but where the man once stood only a twisted maple tree remained. “Sorry.”

The bay itself was rather large, to the point that there were some in the scholarhood looking to rename the body of water from Fascile Bay to the Hallogenic Sea. In the days long gone, the bay had been a major naval route, which had been replaced by aeronautic lanes. Even those had seen a mighty decrease in numbers since the advent of cortex technology.

Dalar let his eyes travel across the murky grey-green water. Soft white ripples surged towards the shoreline with a slow, heaving momentum. Somewhere near the horizon line was their final destination, or so he hoped. In the days before cortexes, the steam powered airships required depots where they could acquire more coal in order to keep their bladders full of air. Dozens of air docks littered the countryside of Wynne. One of the most prominent depots sat somewhere out in the bay. It had been the largest way station for traveling airships. There had been a grand inn, air and dry dock, refinery and coal stores deep in the earth. Now, however, this abandoned port now reportedly housed the Imperial Order.

It didn’t take long for the three companions to traverse the arching beach along the coastline. By the time they reached the town’s edge, the evening sun had turned the sky a vibrant red. Skiffs and small vessels floated in from the water, making berth along a half dozen precarious wooden docks. Men hauled in the days catch, picking up their pay in weight by the overseeing fish dealers. The smell of salt water filled the air as Dalar led the way past the docks. The streets, if they could be called that, were made of slick stones. At one time the heavy rock would have been like any other cobbled street in Valvius, but time and weather shifted the stones greatly.

“There’s the inn there.” Dalar pointed to an obtuse building made of bowing grey wood. Its roof poked high into the sky. It was evident the caretakers did not spend much time in maintaining the structure, for dozens of shingles were missing from the rafters and the odd window was cracked.

“Don’t look like much.” Nog sniffed.

“It’s not.” Dalar admitted, stepping around a loose running fowl. “But it will be like a luxury hotel in Brixon after these past days in the wild.”

Dalar looked about the town as the party wound its way towards the haphazard building. There was something amiss, that much Dalar knew. His eyes followed a pair of fishermen heading towards the docks, then to a group of young boys beginning to gut the day’s catch. On the deck of the homes, and loitering around the few shops of Stovice were men of ancient age. Men were everywhere, each one looking as dour and rough as the waters they worked.

“Where are all the women?” Issac asked.

“I don’t know.” Dalar admitted as he, too, realized the startling truth. He now understood what was so troubling about this usually bustling town. The women were missing.

“They’re gone.” A passing fisherman spat, clearly annoyed by Issac’s blunt questioning.

“Where’d they go?” Dalar asked, but the man continued on his way.

“Maybe we’ll get some answers at the inn.” Nog suggested.

Dalar led the way up the rickety front stair and into the common area. It was a spacious room, dark and dingy in the failing light of day. The floor was grey and dreary, seemingly made from an eclectic mix of driftwood. Many of the round dining tables were stacked to the side, as were their accompanying chairs.

“We’re closed.” A ravenously fat man said from behind the bar.

“Closed?” Dalar asked, though it was more of a protestation than question.

“Aye.” The man stated, cold and flat. “You boys best be on your way now. We don’t take kindly to strangers anymore.”

“Now hold on for just a moment.” Dalar said. “What’s happened here? This is not the Stovice I remember.”

“The women were taken.” The man replied. “We lost them all from the raids. Our lads did what they could but what they did was not enough. Now we don’t want strangers.”

“We know where your women are.” Dalar kept his voice calm and steady, hoping to get through to the innkeep. “We are men tasked by the Chancellor of Valvius to find all of Valvius’ missing women and to put an end to those that harry us.”

“That so?” The man raised an eyebrow.

“Aye.” Nog replied.

“You have papers or somethin’ to back up your claim?” The man asked.

“No.” Dalar admitted. Dalar reached into the folds of his bedroll and retrieved a purse full of coin. He held the bag up, gave a jingle and said; “We would ask you to take us on our word and let us bunk here for the night.”

“You think you can bribe ol’ Barleby?” The man huffed.

“This is no bribery ser.” Dalar said, keeping the frustration out of his voice the best he could. “I figured this would be enough for three warm beds and equal amount of hot food and drink.”

Barleby eyed the bag in Dalar’s hand. Dalar knew the man needed the money; it was why he hadn’t protested again.

“But if you’re closed,” Dalar started to return the purse back into the bedroll.

“Now don’t you go an’ be hasty like that.” Barleby blurted. “I think I can make an exemption tonight.”

“Excellent.” Dalar smiled, tossing the purse across the lacquered bar.

“Just to warn you boys,” Barleby said, inspecting his loot. “With me wife bein' gone, the food’ll be lacking in flavour.”

“I’m sure it will be better than salted meat and stale bread.” Issac proclaimed.

Barleby didn’t lie about the quality of the meal. The drink was watered down ale, tasting more of a warm piss than the hearty brews Dalar was accustomed too. Even the food managed to be nothing spectacular; Barleby roasted a fresh cod with potatoes. The meal was missing the sweet touch of seasoning, but it served its purpose in filling Dalar’s stomach.

After dinner, Dalar and his companions sat out on the patio, looking out over the bay. A few ships floated close to the shore.

“We need to procure a ship.” Dalar stated. “Preferably something small.”

“And sturdy.” Nog said, taking a gulp of the ale.

“Will we find one here?” Issac asked. “Look how much it took to get us a room here.”

“Certainly.” Dalar smiled. “The town may be in shambles, but the bay is their life. Their earnings go into those ships down there. A little extra coin will go a long way. We will find a solid ship to take us out there. In fact, why don’t you go do that Issac? Go find us a ship, we plan to leave before dawn.”

“Sure thing.” Now it was Issac who smiled. Dalar did not doubt the man was eager to do something more than following the lead of a scholar, even if it were a simple task as procuring a vessel.

Issac skipped down the slattern steps to the misshapen cobbles below and made his way to the docks.

“He has a lot of choices, I am sure.” Dalar turned to Nog.

“Aye.” The Stonefinger agreed. “Hope he chooses well.”

“Oh of that I don’t worry.” Dalar said.

Silence fell over the two men as they sat upon the deck, looking out over the water. Dalar often wondered what the gruff little man thought about, what drove him. The Stonefinger was not like most soldiers. In many ways the robust little man was more of a hired gun by the Valvian army. At least that’s the impression he gave off.

“Did ye see that scholar?” Nog asked, a hint of shock and wonder in his tone.

“See what?” Dalar raised an eyebrow.

“Watch there.” The Stonefinger pointed to a location out along the horizon.

Dalar followed the direction of Nog’s finger. From the distance of the inn, Dalar couldn’t see anything. At first he saw nothing but soft churning water and a darkening sky. Then he saw it. There on the horizon line the sky lit up bright and blue. It seemed like a lightning strike, but the longer Dalar watched, the more he realized the luminosity occurred in regular intervals at the same location.

“Them lights been ragin’ for months.” Barleby said as he joined Dalar and Nog on the small patio. “None of us can quiet understand it, less of us brave enough to go investigate it.”

“Did you ever report the lights?” Dalar asked.

“Never.” Barleby admitted. “We figured no one would care what the fisher folk of poor little Stovice would have to say.”

Dalar and Nog shared a momentary glance of sad agreement. It wasn’t Stovice’s fault, nor their own, it was just how the world worked. Some hamlets, towns and cities required far more attention to manage. As a result dozens of equally important locations fell by the way side, not for lack of care, but more of an over sight during the political process.

“I’m sorry,” Dalar said, placing a hand on the innkeeper’s wide shoulder.

“Don’t be lad.” Barleby smiled. “We’re hearty men here. We know how things work in the big cities.”

The horizon erupted once more in the azure light. It was a beautiful sight, arcane and mysterious. A growing fear bubbled in Dalar’s gut as he realized the light source was more than likely where he led his fellow companions.

“I can’t promise we’ll find your women Barleby.” Dalar looked into the man’s small, blue eyes. “But I do promise to find answers for you.”

“That’s all I ask, lad.” The inn keep smiled away a loose rolling tear. “That’s all any of us here ask.”