The Shepherd of Fire (The Soul Stone Trilogy Book 2)

by Matt Moss

  Torin thought of Clara, Arkin’s aunt… she was to the south. Would Arkin have gone to Hayfork to see her? Why?

  “He will be trained, Torin. It is his destiny.” Moses stood and stated.

  It struck a sudden chord with Torin, and he couldn’t take anymore. He’d had his fill with prophecies and the talk of destiny. All of it had been lies.

  “You talk of destiny, now? What of the destiny that Paul spoke of? How the Order would be the light among the darkness? It was all lies! And the cost of believing in those lies is too much to bear!”

  “I understand you are hurting…” Moses began, but Torin interrupted him.

  “Moses, I believe you’ve stayed long enough.” Torin stood, throwing his chair back to slam against the floor. “Time for you to be on your way. Again.”

  Moses dropped his head. “I had my reasons for leaving back then. I don’t expect for you to understand.”

  “I don’t care about your reasons!” Torin spat and sent the bowls to dash against the wall. He breathed deep, afraid that his temper might get the best of him if the old man didn’t leave. “Get out.”

  Moses began to leave. As he did, he placed a hand on Torin’s shoulder. “You’re right, I haven’t been here. I abandoned you all long ago. But I am still family.”

  Torin just stood there as Moses walked away. His anger quickly faded, but before Torin could turn around and apologize, the old man was gone. Given the chance, Torin would have asked him about the past — about the Rebellion and why he left. He wanted to know more about Paul, before he became the Prophet. Torin would have asked Moses about the time he left the Order in pursuit of his own soul’s calling and what he had once referred to as being a “warrior of the light.”

  Given the chance to do over, he would have asked Moses many things.

  He would have asked him to stay.

  TEN

  Down below the king’s palace, the cells became the permanent home to murderers, rapists, and thieves. Many minds had been lost to the void in the dark, stone laden tomb. Even the strong eventually gave into realizing their fate there; only the executioner could set them free. There had been those who tried to dash their heads upon the stone cell in attempt to end it all, but for most, that only made their stay that much worse.

  The cells weren’t the worst of it, though. Somewhere deeper in the earth lie the chamber — the room of the forgotten. Those who entered, and survived, left as something else. They became a hollow shell. Emotionless. Thoughtless. Obedient.

  Cain raised his bruised and swollen head from the table. His nightmare wasn’t just a dream; it was real. The family that he once had in the Order was gone. He watched them die.

  Sitting in a chair, he felt the shackles around his hands and feet. He might be able to break them if he could soul tap, but he was starving, his energy was gone, and his spirit was broken.

  Through blurry vision, he noticed a handful of candles lit the small room. He was alone, and he knew where he was. He’d been there for days now. He thought it was part of the nightmare. It wasn’t.

  He was in the chamber.

  Cain’s eyes were drawn to the heavy wooden door as the sound of feet shuffling closer drew his attention. The lock turned, and his torturer returned, a smile playing across the thin man’s face. His large eyes sat sunken behind his sharp cheekbones and grotesquely long nose. With keys rattling with excitement, he turned and locked the door behind him.

  The torturer unfolded a wrap of cloth along the table, revealing an assortment of knives, hammers, saws, and vices. There were other tools as well, some that Cain didn’t know the use for and didn’t want to know.

  “We’ve got big plans for you, Cain,” the torturer said with both hands on the table. “Big plans. There’s something special about you.” He smirked at Cain. “But first you must accept your fate. Make no mistake about it, you will bend. Or you will break. Whichever, makes no difference to me,” he said, running a hand over his tools. “The life you knew is gone. Your life will now be in service of the Religion.”

  Cain looked around the room, his vision becoming more clear now as his eyes began to adjust to the candlelight of the room. For the first time, he noticed the splatters of blood that decorated the upper parts of the walls and the ceiling. A sense of dread gripped him and he wondered how long he would be able to last.

  “And since we’re becoming more familiar with each other,” the torturer said, positioning his tools in front of him with precise movements, “I thought I might ask you a question.”

  Cain stared blankly at the man in reply.

  The torturer met his gaze. “What do I look like to you? I mean, what comes to mind when you look at me.” The torturer breathed deep and turned his head to the side to give Cain a profile view. “Nothing?” he asked. “Then you’re a fool. I know what you’re thinking. You think I look like a rat, don’t you!” He picked up a razor-thin blade and jumped across the table towards Cain.

  The cold steel suddenly felt hot as it slowly ran across Cain’s cheek. He felt the blood run down his face and drip to the floor. With the torturer drawn close to him, he noticed the man’s breath bore an overwhelming smell of garlic.

  “You’re so pretty,” the torturer mocked. “I bet you could bed any maiden in the kingdom.” He pulled the knife away and stepped back to examine the cut. “And fearless too, I see. You never even flinched!”

  He wiped the blood on a rag and placed the blade back on the table. “I must say, I am impressed. Your reputation as being a member of the Order proceeds you. You may be able to handle physical pain, but let me offer you a piece of advice; speak your mind instead of cowering like a dog. The next time I ask you a question, grow some balls and answer the damn question.” He leaned in close to whisper in Cain’s ear. “Nobody likes a coward.”

  Cain hawked and spat in the man’s face. The torturer jumped back stunned and appalled, but calmly wiped away the insult as if it had been done many times before. He looked down, ashamed.

  “You’re the coward,” Cain finally spoke. “I can see it in you. You’ve been a coward your whole life.”

  “You’d be wise to keep your mouth shut,” Rat hissed between his teeth.

  Cain pressed on, sensing weakness, though he knew he would probably pay for it, he didn’t care. “You’ve been crushed by the fist of your master. You’re a piece to be moved. A tool. An expendable nuisance that will live out the remains of its short life in servitude… like a cowering whore.”

  “I SAID SHUT UP!” Rat screamed and put a dagger to Cain’s throat. A trickle of blood appeared and ran down his neck.

  “DO IT!” Cain yelled to the man’s face as he strained against the chains.

  The torturer’s hand trembled as he seethed with hatred.

  “You coward, do it!”

  Rat pulled away, shaking as if he was about to do something wrong and would be punished for it.

  “You can’t even kill an unarmed man,” Cain said and laughed.

  Rat spat in Cain’s face. “Your not gonna get it that easy. There’s a long road to hell that lies ahead of you,” he said as if it were a promise.

  “Are you done?” Cain asked and glared at the man. “Good. Because I’ve got better things to do.” He threw his gaze back to the table and ignored the man, hoping that he would leave.

  Rat snarled and stood up straight, narrowing his eyes on Cain. He nodded slowly, pursed his lips, then smiled. “Don’t go anywhere.” He stormed from the room and locked the door behind him.

  Cain dropped his head, thankful to be alone once more. He eyed the knives that lay spread on the table and desperately reached for the closest one, his fingers straining for purchase. The chains held him in place and he quickly gave up the hope of stealing one of the weapons. He passed the time by watching the flames from the candles dance. He pressed all memories to the back of his mind; he didn’t want to relive them. Not yet. Not here.

  God, preserve me from this, he prayed. Save me from this da
rkness. Surely this isn’t what you have in store for me. Time passed and with exhaustion came sleep. It didn’t last long. He jerked awake as the rusty lock turned, echoing its shrill cry through the room. It wasn’t the torturer that entered the room. It was the one person who Cain hoped he would never see again — the one who took everything away from him.

  “Hello, my son,” Victor said.

  ELEVEN

  Arkin woke early and left Hayfork the morning after he arrived, the rising sun to his back. He didn’t say goodbye to his aunt Clara, figuring that it would be best that way. He never was much for goodbyes anyways. He felt surprisingly good for the first time since leaving the Grand Highlands, compliments of a good night’s sleep. Seeing his aunt and having the comforts of a warm inn rejuvenated his spirit, and he was thankful for that — the small comforts are often taken for granted when one is without them. Further along the road, a half smile crept onto his face as he thought of his cousin Malik, and Arkin longed to see him again. Arkin knew he would be alive and well in Kingsport, despite Clara’s worry.

  He patted the horse’s neck that his aunt loaned him, casting a small amount of dust and hair into the morning rays. It was an older mare, but had a smooth gait and a mild temperament. That suited Arkin fine as he was in no hurry.

  Over the recent months, everything happened so fast that he could barely recall how it all unfolded. But one thing he couldn’t forget was how it all began in his father’s shop, before the stranger came and murdered his father. He wanted to forget the bad, so he tried to focus on the good. Arkin closed his eyes and pictured himself in the Whistlestop, idly watching as his old man meticulously went over his books. He loved watching his father work and admired the man’s focus and attention to detail, especially with his library.

  The books! Arkin thought. I need to dig into them more when I return to the camp. Those, along with The Path of Man, were the first things that Arkin made sure were secure before they were forced to leave the Grand Highlands.

  Thoughts then turned to the Garden of Stones and it passed the time as the horse carried him along the winding trail that led from Hayfork to the Crossing. He wanted to believe it was out there, like his father did. But there was something about Paul’s letter that kept troubling him, despite Lyla’s attempt to convince him otherwise.

  “The Garden does not exist… I tell you this because I know you would leave no stone unturned,” Paul had wrote to Arkin personally.

  The time passed as Arkin pondered it all; more time than he thought. He looked up to find the sun sat high in the sky now, then he eyed a bend in the road ahead that was shaded with trees. Reigning off into the shade, he jumped from the horse and both drank from a small creek that he had frequented before in his travels with his father. After grabbing a bite of bread that Clara packed, he reclined on the grass as the horse grazed nearby.

  The warm sun broke through the green forest canopy and kissed his face. He closed his eyes in a blissful state of relaxation and soon began to drift off.

  Suddenly, he found himself lying in a field of wildflowers with Lyla. The evening light made her slender face look more beautiful than ever and her hair glow radiantly. He gazed upon her, lost in those blue eyes that seemed so calm, yet so alive. She smiled and kissed his forehead, leaving her moist lips there for a moment. He ran his fingers through her golden hair and treasured the moment, never wanting it to end.

  “Arkin,” she whispered in his ear. “Get up.”

  “I don’t want to,” he replied, caressing her cheek.

  “Get up. Now!” she warned, suddenly pulling away from him.

  He looked at her, troubled. “What’s the matter, Ly…”

  His eyes snapped open as he heard sound coming from the road. He rose to find three men and a woman, all on horseback, and all wearing battle leathers and carrying steel coming right towards him.

  He scrambled to his feet as they approached, aware of the short sword that was strapped to his back. It was in that moment that he wished for the bow that was strapped to the horse’s back. Glancing around, the beast was nowhere to be found, and Arkin cursed himself for carelessly falling asleep.

  They reined up close to Arkin and stopped.

  Arkin eyed each one of them and wondered if these were the bandits that his aunt Clara told him about. If they were, then he would see justice served for her. And to be honest, he was rather upset that they woke him up from the nice dream he was having.

  They stared at Arkin, each wearing a sly grin. One man, he could see, was filled with ultimate confidence, the leader more than likely. All wore the grin except for one; the man with a grotesquely scarred face and thin, braided hair that had been dyed black. This man regarded Arkin with a snarl and savage eyes that clearly held cruel intentions.

  Seeing that none of them seemed much for introductions, Arkin shrugged and pulled the sword from behind his back.

  The big man of the group laughed. “Come now, boy. Don’t be stupid.”

  “Yeah,” the supposed leader said, “No need for such brutality. We mean you no harm.”

  The woman spoke. “What’s your name?”

  Arkin glared at her, trying not to be captivated by her beauty. His attraction to her was strong despite the situation that he was in. He looked away, finding his feelings to be odd, but couldn’t shake the strange desire he felt for her.

  She sighed. “We just want to talk. No need to be un-cordial about the whole thing.”

  Her words made him glance back and he locked eyes once more. “Arkin,” he said. Idiot!

  “I like that name,” she said, her tone seductive. “How old are you?”

  “Like it’s ever mattered to you before, Ros,” the big man noted.

  “Piss off, Grom. Arkin and I are having a conversation.” Ros scolded back at him.

  He chuckled under his thick, red beard.

  “Don’t mind them, Arkin,” the man Arkin figured to be the leader said. “Grom’s just jealous that he’s never been in Ros’s pants.”

  “And never will,” she added.

  “Never say never,” Grom stated.

  Arkin clenched his jaw, tired of the show and irritated by the disturbance. He looked to the leader, annoyed.

  The man regarded Arkin with a bowed head. “Forgive my manners. My name is Tripp.” He gestured with a hand to his companion. “And this is Scarface.”

  “That’s original,” Arkin mocked.

  Scarface tensed in the saddle, looking as though everything in him wanted to rip Arkin apart.

  Tripp quickly grabbed the man’s arm, subduing him. “Easy. Easy,” Tripp consoled, attempting to calm his companion down. After Scarface relaxed to his normal brooding self, Tripp met Arkin’s eye. “Don’t do that again,” he warned.

  Arkin laughed out loud, hoping to entice them into attacking. He was sure of his training and wanted them dead or gone. But they had to make the first move. Master Coll had constantly drilled him about countering the enemy, especially when outnumbered. When Arkin finished laughing, he gave his craziest smile in hopes that one would make a move.

  The four regarded him with puzzled looks. “He’s missing a bit upstairs,” Grom noted.

  “Doesn’t matter as long as he’s in tact downstairs,” Ros japed, lustfully looking at Arkin.

  “She may look like a good time, boy, but she’s been many of men’s last good time.” Grom stated. “She likes it rough, and she likes blood. A lot of blood.”

  Ros put a finger to her mouth and bit down as she stared at Arkin.

  “She takes what’s left,” Tripp said, tilting his head slightly. “That’s the way we do things — we take. So let’s cut all the dramatics and have the sword for starters.”

  Arkin reached behind his head, slowly, and pulled the blade from behind his back. I don’t suppose I’ll be countering this time Master Coll.

  “You want my sword?”

  Tripp nodded.

  Arkin felt the weight of it and gripped the leather bound hilt.
“Alright,” Arkin said, then soul tapped. The sword whirred in his hands as his feet moved, preparing to strike. Just before launching into the attack, he suddenly stopped, noticing that all four had soul tapped as well — their eyes twinkling with different, strange colors.

  “I’ll… be… damned…” Grom choked out. “The boy can soul tap!”

  Everything in Arkin wanted to strike but something about these four was different. Now that he was tapped, he noticing a strong stench of rot and decay coming from each of them. And their eyes were unlike anything he’d ever seen — fragmented and saturated with an array of luminescent hues, though primarily black in the centers. His aunt was right about them. They were dangerous. He wasn’t even sure of what they were. He did know, though, that he couldn’t take them alone, sensing each of their powers.

  Wait, how am I able to sense their power? When did that happen?

  Tripp’s eyes were wide with excitement now. “We’ve never robbed a tapper before.”

  “Never even seen one, outside the Dark Society that is,” Ros added, her face alight with even more admiration.

  “You’re Dark Society?” Arkin asked, still poised to strike.

  Tripp laughed and let go of the tap, his eyes returning to their normal state. “No, Arkin, we hold ourselves to higher standards than that. We’re… how do you say, a special kind of mercenary.”

  Arkin let his tap go, knowing that he didn’t stand a chance four on one. Maybe they would let him live. “Special, huh? Like assassins?”

  Tripp jumped from his horse and arrogantly strolled up to Arkin. Arkin took a step back in reflex, not knowing what would happen next.

  “You could say that. But the title still doesn’t hit the mark,” Tripp said with a grin.

  “Go on and tell him,” Grom said. “Not like he’s gonna be around much longer.”

  Tripp put a hand on Arkin’s shoulder. Arkin pulled away and tensed at the man’s grip. He tried to hide the fear and hoped that his eyes didn’t give it away.

  Tripped leaned in close and whispered in Arkin’s ear. “We’re soul takers.” Tripp pulled his hand away and stood back to gauge Arkin’s reaction.