Spark City Read online

  SPARK CITY

  Book One of the Spark City Cycle

  By Robert J Power

  COPYRIGHT

  SPARK CITY

  First published in Ireland by DePaor Press in 2018.

  ISBM 978-1-9999994-0-7

  Text copyright © Robert J Power 2018

  The right of Robert J Power to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright and Related Rights Act, 2000.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Available on eBook, Paperback and Large Print Paperback

  https://www.robertjpower.com/

  For permissions contact: [email protected]

  https://depaorpress.com/

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to Poll for praising and challenging me and somehow getting through the first draft with your sanity intact.

  Thank you Jill for finding all the good in the mess of the draft after that.

  Thank you to my editor Richard, who took the tenth draft and told me to start all over again. I think that helped.

  Thank you Nine Arrow for the incredible artwork.

  Thank you Cathbar for reminding me to take a breath an appreciate what I’d done when it all got too much.

  Thank you Bren for building the world with me with a few epic beats. Don’t tell anybody how it all turns out.

  And for the kindness of Jim who was the first warrior to fall in battle. I hope someday I become half the writer you were.

  Dedication

  For Jan.

  Without you I could never have written a line and without you I never would have wanted to.

  You are my muse, you always have been.

  Erroh

  “My friends call me Erroh.” He grinned.

  “I’m not your friend,” Wrek shouted, pointing his sword menacingly in the smoky air. This was going wonderfully.

  Cards were always a weakness for Erroh. He loved the slow tantalising progression of a great hand played out perfectly, the unknown outcome of the game as the first card was dealt and the mystery of players and their participation. What they brought to the table and what absence was felt when they left the game. Accomplished card players never revealed any obvious details until the game reached its epic conclusion. Sometimes it was not about winning the hand. Sometimes it was about the journey itself.

  Erroh’s head was spinning from the smoke billowing out from a scorched fireplace in the corner of the dimly lit tavern. He could smell the matured odour of a thousand former clients and the sweetness of fresh sawdust concealing unwelcome wastes under his feet, but mostly he could smell the liquor that stood at attention in a clear goblet in front of him. He knew he must be on his fifth glass already, or maybe his ninth. His heart was beating out of rhythm and he was feeling right at home.

  “You dealt from the bottom and I’ve had enough,” cried the behemoth with the sword whose tip remained steady, lingering menacingly close to his forehead. The world had slowed down and Erroh’s stronger arm began to itch. His sword lay snugly in its scabbard, hanging on his chair behind him. It may as well have been a mile from his reach. He liked when the world slowed down. It gave him a few moments to formulate plans, simple plans, which never worked.

  Across from the gambling table, the outburst had disturbed the innkeeper Sigi from his stirring.

  “Don’t deny it or I’ll have your pelt,” snarled Wrek. “Maybe I’ll have it anyway,” he added thoughtfully. Blood was in the air.

  Far off in the distance thunder began to rumble through the forest-covered valleys. The last of the sun’s rays disappeared under the horizon and the final flickers of natural light escaped through the one grubby, cracked window of “The Rats Nest Tavern”. Broken picture frames adorned the walls, the art they once held lost a lifetime ago. Perhaps several lifetimes. Who was counting?

  Erroh hated thunder. He had discovered that loud noises brought very bad things. He hated bad things. In truth, he hated a great many things, such as drunken wretches, swords in his face and accusations of cheating. Most of all he hated being caught cheating.

  “A mere misunderstanding between comrades of the road,” Erroh offered with a smile, raising both his hands in the most neutral gesture he could muster. He wondered if his opponent wandered the wastes like himself, or was the tall warrior weighed down by a mate and a life of boredom. Erroh didn’t want a mate. He reminded himself of this almost every day. He was far too young, having been born in the last year of the “Faction Wars,” almost two decades ago. To many he had just come of age. To some he still had a great deal to learn. The weapon’s tip came a little closer and grabbed his attention.

  Two farmers dressed in their finest work clothes sat at the table in stony silence watching the events unfold. They were not part of this fight. They held their cards close to their chests, eager to live through the oncoming storm. The volatile atmosphere was about to explode and they wanted little part in the fireworks.

  Besides, it wasn’t their bet.

  “I suppose I owe you an apology,” offered Erroh, slowly lowering his trembling hands and letting them lie on the dark brown table.

  “You owe me more than that,” Wrek roared. The weapon shifted menacingly with every word.

  “Let me buy you a drink and we’ll be square,” he countered, smiling his best “don’t stab me” smile. Many females would swoon at his disarming charms (sharp, attractive features with eyes that dazzled). Wrek was unmoved.

  A flash lit up the night sky and for a moment, the room was illuminated.

  “My apologies, I offer a drink in reparation,” Erroh said slowly, as if speaking with a dear friend, while reaching under the table and flipping open his trouser pocket in one fluid motion.

  “What are you doing?” snarled Wrek.

  Erroh was scared, but that offered advantages according to his father. Adrenaline could gift a warrior further speed or strength. Not a great deal but sometimes enough to be the difference in battle. His father was always willing to offer advice on such matters. Adrenaline also helped when running away. Erroh had learned that trick all by himself. Unfortunately, Wrek stood between him and the door.

  “I’ll plead with no man for my life,” begged Erroh. With his free hand, he rolled a coin across the old cracked playing table.

  “Have a drink,” he whispered smoothly, disguising the fear in his voice. This was just another way to play a hand. When he played cards, he gave very little away. When faced with a sharp blade, he gave even less away. This moment was taking an eternity. It was all in the lap of the gods. Erroh wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the gods. He wondered if they played cards.

  The moment ended.

  The large figure of Wrek suddenly struck downwards. It sounded like thunder. Cards flew, mugs spilled and goblets shattered. Wonderfully cheated coins took flight as the sword struck the old wooden table leaving a fresh scar upon its surface. One solitary coin spun its last and came to a stop and then silence.

  “I will have a drink,” boomed Wrek magnificently.

  Erroh breathed a sigh of relief. The night wasn’t a complete ruin after all. His glass was lost to him forever but that was a small matter.

  Wrek reached across the table “For my troubles,” he happily announced, grabbing what remained of the little pot of pieces in front of Erroh. They chinked beautifully as he dragged them back through the carnage into his loving embrace where they belonged.

  Finally sitting down Wrek adjusted his seat with little grace and stretched out his arm. With one grubby hand he lift
ed his chalice and motioned to the barman for his volatile sine. He was a rich man again.

  “Don’t splash the pot,” quipped one of the farmers, testing the waters and shuffling a fresh hand. Wrek picked up the sword from the centre of the table and sheathed it.

  Erroh relaxed. He inhaled softly and calmed himself but his hand remained under the table. He leaned back and stared into the eyes of the big man. Was he wise enough to learn from this? He certainly hoped not. How rewarding could life be if he took the same steps as his father Magnus? His father’s steps had been great strides, while his own were far less impressive. He pulled an object from his pocket and threw it violently at the richest man at the table. It flew gracefully like a dagger in the harsh light. Wrek had just enough time to close his eyes before the projectile struck him.

  It was no dagger. It was something else entirely.

  It was the ace of Queens, the primary card of the deck and it ruled above all others. A card that could guarantee victory if used shrewdly, but catastrophic if lost in a fool’s gambit, and a fine card to call upon when all other attacks have failed.

  “Will we play again?” asked Erroh, grinning as he returned a second hidden card to the deck. For now, he would play fairly.

  “Aye, we will Erroh.” Wrek laughed, taking delight in the younger man’s boldness.

  This was living on the road. Everything was different out on the road.

  Erroh opened the doorway and stepped through, into the night. The glorious fresh air brushed up against his face, he took a deep long breath and closed his throbbing, blood shot eyes. After a few seconds, he started to feel human again. He braved a few tentative steps away from the sounds of merriment. His body struggled with simple orders and his mouth was dry, abused from the evening’s festivities of beverages and conversations and narrow escapes. He looked around the yard. It was nothing more than a dilapidated wall doing its best to hold off the thick growth of wilderness that spread across all corners of the Four Factions. At the far end of the enclosure, there was a sign that hung from an old wooden post. “Welcome to the Rat’s Nest,” it said. A welcoming place indeed.

  He reached down to his pack and took out a battered metal hipflask. It had been a few days since he had last come upon a stream but he opened the lid and drank deeply. Immediate relief poured its way down. Draining the contents, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the breeze against his clean-shaven face.

  “Where you headed, friend?” Sigi said as he stepped through the doorway carrying a bucket of sawdust. He tossed the waste casually over the wall nearest.

  “A little further up the road,” Erroh replied. The shattered moon’s light caught the leaves of the one tree hanging over the perimeter wall. It swayed in the breeze sending eerie, skulking shadows across the courtyard like giant roving fingers. At least the rain had cleared. Erroh never liked sharing sleeping quarters with anyone else. He preferred his solitude out on the silent peaceful road where it was safer.

  “Count the stars in the sky, they say,” said Sigi, tossing the bucket back through the doorway before walking to an outhouse beside the tavern. With a grunt, he pulled the rusty bolt and the door creaked open.

  “Aye, they do,” Erroh replied, glancing above and absently counting the little bright dots. It was a habit most wanderers were afflicted with when sleeping out under their gaze. He needed to bathe. He needed to sooth away the aches of the last few day’s miles and despite his misgivings, it might be a fine idea not to appear a complete wretch once he reached the city of light.

  Erroh began stretching for the walk ahead, a daily routine that he had followed for two lonely years. No longer could he find ways to delay his last march and the dreadful fate about to befall him. Soon he would reach journeys end. Spark City was calling.

  Sigi was busy sorting through his treasures. He lit a candle and shined it over the shelves that hung across the wall. He loved the art of trade. His little brewery afforded him the luxury of accepting over-inflated offers. Hidden a half mile from his tavern, only he knew of its existence, a secret he kept wisely. He loved his place in the world. Many people loved his place in the world also, until the following morning.

  Sigi was very generous with his sine in dealings. Alcohol was the blood of this world and brewing great yielding alcohol was a fine way to make money. Making money was all he had learned, it was all he had ever needed to learn.

  “Are you going to the city?” Sigi asked as he wiped the dust from the bottle. Breathing over the glass and wiping it a second time, he held it up above his head and looked at it in the moonlight. Satisfied that the fluid was clear and at its most enticing, he walked under the old oak and waited for the opportunity to engage in some trade. He watched patiently as Erroh limbered up.

  “I’m headed to The Spark all right,” Erroh muttered, touching his toes.

  “It’s a long way to the city.”

  “I’ve come a long way.”

  “Where have you come from?” Sigi asked, readying himself for the pitch.

  “East,” muttered the young man noncommittally.

  This transaction is going splendidly, thought the tavern owner. Low murmurs from within the Nest interrupted the quiet as the clients dispersed for the night. One of the two farmers stumbled out the door and staggered towards the faded grey stables alongside the tavern, uttering only a muffled profanity after stepping on something unsavoury behind the wall nearest. Nothing more was heard save for the familiar thump sound of a drunken body falling into a mound of hay. That will be an extra few pieces for lodging and some breakfast, thought Sigi cheerfully. He would make eggs.

  Wrek would take his usual bed in the sawdust, or behind a wall, anywhere he felt like falling unconscious really. For now, the sound of Wrek singing to one of the picture frames filled the night.

  “Bit of a walk to go,” affirmed Sigi, folding his arms. “A good sleep will help you on your way. Better to travel in the light as well,” he suggested.

  “If it’s all the same, the road calls,” Erroh replied and bent down to his rucksack, flipped the top button then untied a knot that held the contents. “I suppose I could use some salt,” Erroh admitted. Salt was a staple ingredient in even the blandest meals while walking the road. It also had many other qualities, to those in the know, and it was very expensive.

  Sigi produced the small cloth pouch. He handed it to Erroh and allowed him inspect it for rocks.

  “What else are you willing to part with?” Erroh asked as he dug into his bag. He pulled out a small purse and unbuttoned the seal.

  He presented a small capsule to the innkeeper. A light metal case, two fingers in length, a smooth surface that, when twisted and opened, revealed the most precious commodity in the world.

  They were ancient words from before.

  Sigi stared at the little slip of paper inside. His fingers trembled slightly. He had never seen a lost capsule before, let alone been this close to any scroll of history. Most people hadn’t; though they spoke of the great mysteries that each one revealed.

  “What else are you willing to part with?” enquired Erroh again.

  “I have sine. Plenty of sine,” uttered Sigi excitedly. The little sheet of paper had only a few sentences, some words smudged from age and wear but it did not matter. The beautiful letters would likely find a caring home in the Nest.

  “I have a map too, a reliable one.” Counter-offer made.

  Erroh raised an eyebrow. It was amazing the improved quality in merchandise offered when a capsule was involved. His last map had ceased to bear any relevance to his path at least a hundred miles back. The last few weeks he had simply followed the sun, but this close to the end, a map would serve him well. Knowing his luck, he could miss the city by a handful of miles and keep walking north. Would that really be so bad?

  “Have you any soaps?” he said, knowing he still had a fair amount of credit to spend.

  “I do,” Sigi placed the piece back in its case. With an inane smile on his face, he rushed t
owards the doorway and disappeared inside. It was a generous trade but Erroh was satisfied enough. From experience, a map was only as good as its locality.

  The eager barman returned after a few moments leaving the door swinging behind him. In his hand were some finely bartered goods. Erroh accepted the soaps, the bottle of sine, and the map. His eyes scanned the creased parchment and tried to decipher the crudely drawn lines and oddly marked points. It would suffice, though barely.

  “It’ll serve you well, as accurate as you’ll ever get out here, I made it myself,” Sigi whispered knowingly.

  “Going to the city, going to get me a family,” sang Wrek from inside the tavern. Erroh knew that song; it was not one of his favourites.

  He donned his leather vest and tied the buckles tightly. He hated this armour. The weight was restricting and his movement was never as fluid. There was also a flaw along the shoulder. An interior strip of thin metal had fallen away, leaving a fine chink for any wandering arrow to devastate. At the city it would cost a fortune to repair, he would need to hone his skills at cards. He buckled his sword around his waist and picked his pack up.

  “At least don’t gamble with an Alpha when you reach the gates. Most are bigger and meaner than Wrek,” warned Sigi, in the most concerned voice he could muster. “More beast than man when angered,” he added.

  Ah yes, the old glorified fear of Alphalines. Bigger? They were exactly the same size as anyone else. Erroh wasn’t going to delay his departure by sharing his thoughts on the matter. Better to agree and perhaps throw in a jest at their expense.

  “I’ve heard they practise on horses before they mate with their own kind,” he said grinning and walked from the tavern, his feet silent upon a threadbare muddy path. Somewhere a little further it led to hollow darkness and an almost endless forest.