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

by Matt Moss

  Arkin took a deep breath. Maybe the docks was a bad idea. He looked around and found hard faces with even harder eyes. The only thing he might find here is a knife to the gut and someone looting him as he bled on the boardwalk. Even a man who looked poor always had something to take.

  He decided to venture to the outskirts of the inner city in search of someone who might know Malik — the outer city as the townsfolk called it.

  That was an even worse idea. The place smelled of piss and the folk smelled even worse. Guards didn’t come here. Here and there, a body lay in the street or off to the side in an alleyway. Arkin didn’t know if they were dead or just sleeping.

  Or drudged — that’s what he had heard the sailors call it on the docks. Some new drug that they’d been bringing up from a strange land far away to the south. “Makes you feel like a God,” one had said as he ran a finger around a tiny clay bowl. He rubbed it along his gums and closed his eyes. “Let me try it,” a man had said, eager to buy. The sailor had stuck his hand out for money to which the buyer greedily paid. “Not too much though!” the sailor warned. “Take it easy or you’ll be tits up, lying in a gutter somewhere. You’ll pray for death long before it comes.” The man had run his finger around the inside of his mouth and his eyes went wide. Arkin saw him run off in a fit of laughter, clutching the drudge to his chest.

  Arkin kept walking, and before he knew it, he was lost. Deeper into the inner city he went, desperately looking for anything familiar that would lead him back out. Suddenly, Arkin found himself pressed in by tightening streets, small packs of wild dogs, and savage looking children. Behind empty eyes, they gave devilish grins or cold stares as he passed. A large group of children, none of them older than seven or eight, blocked the narrow street ahead. Arkin quickly turned down an alley to avoid them. Halfway down, he turned back to see the group following him, each holding a make-shift shiv or bludgeon. His steps quickened towards the empty street ahead.

  Another gang of children piled into the alley ahead of him, blocking the street and trapping him between the other group. They closed in from both sides, giggling and hissing. He didn’t want to cause a scene, but he had no choice. He closed his eyes and knelt into a crouch. With a fist planted to the pavement, he soul tapped and left the ground. A rush of energy tore through the alley, the force of it sending out a shockwave, pushing the children back and piling them on top of each other.

  Arkin leapt onto the rooftops and dashed from one to the next. The Church in the distance caught his eye and he used it as a guide to get back to the inner city. He leaped over a street, noticing a couple of people gasp and point in astonishment. Onward he pressed, his shadow casting out in front of him.

  With boots scraping on clay roof tile, he skidded to a stop. Creeping to the edge, he looked around to see if anyone was nearby or had seen him. He found none and felt a rush of relief now that he was back in the inner city. Like a shadow, he fell into the alleyway below and began to walk. He pulled the hood over his head before stepping into the street.

  Damn. I have to be more careful here.

  He kept his head down as he moved through the crowd at the edge of the street, thankful that nobody save for those kids and a couple others had seen him. The ones who had seen him were in the outer city, and he was sure that if news of a man leaping over city streets would reach the inner city, it would make for a good laugh. Societies within societies — there would always be one over the other.

  A strong hand gripped his arm and pulled him into an alley. “Damn fool, boy. You trying to get yourself killed?”

  Arkin span around. “Rico! You’re alive!” he said and grabbed his friend by the shoulders, overcome with amazement. “How did you…”

  “Shhh,” he said, covering Arkin’s mouth and looking around nervously. “We need to talk somewhere safe. Follow me.” With heads turned down, Rico cautiously led Arkin through the bustling city streets.

  “You think nobody saw that show you put on earlier?” Rico chided as they cut through an empty alley.

  “I had no choice,” Arkin grumbled. “There were these kids… you shoulda seen the little bastards. Closed in on me from both sides, aiming to flay me to the bone.”

  Rico scowled. “You don’t go to the outer city unless you have an entourage.” He stopped at a door and looked down the alley both ways. “You’re lucky, though. The Lost Children are dangerous. Probably the most dangerous guild in Kingsport. It’s run by some excommunicated priest with a lust for blood and money.”

  “What the hell? A guild of children?” Arkin asked, appalled.

  “It’s how they make a living. They take care of each other — no one else would.”

  “You say they’re in a guild. How many guilds are there?” Arkin asked.

  “Five in total.” Rico said and pulled a key out of his pocket. “The Sea Dogs, the Knuckles, the Faceless, the Hammers, and the little bastards that you’ve already met. Each lay claim to sections of the docks and outer city. And each have more power and influence in the capital than what you would think.”

  “Damn. How do you know all of this?”

  Rico tapped him on the head. “Know your enemy.” He turned the lock and opened the door. “Jennie,” he said, entering. “It’s me.”

  Jennie stepped from behind a wall. She was wielding a butcher knife. She let her guard down after realizing who it was and sighed. “I’m sorry, I heard voices outside the door.”

  Rico waved her off. “It’s alright. This is Arkin. He’s the one I was telling you about.”

  “Pleasure,” she said, holding her hand out.

  “Ma’am,” Arkin greeted. He stole a glance around the large room and found it barren for the most part, a small table and a few chairs for furniture. Crates and boxes of various size were placed about the room. “Is this your home?”

  “It is,” she said, then paused. “Well, it’s my husband’s home, but he’s no longer with us.”

  Arkin frowned. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll tell you about him some other time. Please, come in. Sit. The children are staying with their aunt across town.” she said, ushering them into the main room. “I’ll make some tea.”

  Rico removed his cloak, along with an ample supply of blades. He removed each one and laid them on the table in front of him and Arkin.

  Arkin picked one up and tested the edge. “You always kept your blades honed.” He looked at Rico. Memories of the Grand Highlands flashed in his mind and he remembered Rico being crushed and buried. “I thought you were dead.”

  Rico sat straight in his chair and met Arkin’s gaze. He took a minute to gather his thoughts before he spoke, something unusual for him since he was known for his quick responses and sharp mind. “Somewhere in the darkness, buried under the stones, I felt at peace, Arkin. I had the most wonderful dream, filled with friends and family. I remember being warm from head to toe, a feeling of contentment that I’ve never known. I was happy.” Rico grinned recalling the memory. It quickly faded. “Then I opened my eyes and felt myself buried under the rocks and dirt. I lie there and remembered, those warm feelings suddenly replaced with pain and hate.”

  “But you’re alive,” Arkin noted in consolation.

  “Aye, I’m alive,” Rico stated and grabbed a knife. He rammed the blade into the table.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Arkin said, smiling.

  Rico gave him a faint grin. “What are you doing here?”

  Arkin didn’t want to tell him the truth. He was looking for Malik, but the allure of the capital and the proximity of the palace made him thirst for Victor’s blood. He had a high priest to kill. If he revealed his true intentions Rico would surely try to stop him.

  “Just looking for my cousin. My aunt’s worried about him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Malik.”

  Rico’s eyes widened. “Don’t suppose he’s in the King’s Guard, is he?”

  Arkin cocked his head. “He is. How’d you know?�
��

  Rico leaned forward and folded his arms across his knees. “He’s our inside man to Victor. He’s our informant.”

  “Tea’s ready,” Jennie said, setting the serving plate down on the table.

  The news of Malik excited Arkin beyond measure. He was alive, and he was on their side!

  “You never said what brought you to the capital. What are you doing here, Rico?” Arkin asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Rico’s expression turned ashen. “I’m here to do a job.” He grabbed his cup and took a sip. “I’m leading the Resistance.”

  “The Resistance?”

  “Aye.” He met Arkin’s eye. “We’re gonna kill the high priest.”

  FOURTEEN

  The Season finally drew to an end. The final event would showcase the deadliest gladiators that had survived the contest thus far. Only the strongest and most ruthless killers remained — the Season finale was the testament of a true warrior and the ultimate test of skill and bravery. The last man standing would receive the glory and would forever be praised for his accomplishment in the arena.

  The citizens of Greenehaven showed up in large on this day. It had become customary for anyone attending the Season finale to wear white, a sharp contrast to the red that would surely splay across the sandy floor below. The arena was packed to capacity, leaving many to stand among the stairs to get a glance at the glory below. This would be a day that would go down in history; one that would forever be told about the city of Greenehaven.

  Governor Hebron stood at his private balcony, anxiously rubbing his hands together, eyes narrowed, waiting for the event to commence. He would be the officiator, as usual, along with partaking in the feast of blood that the gladiators would surely deliver. He bit at his mouth in anticipation and shook off a chill.

  “Governor,” Mattias, his serving boy said, offered him a cup of strong wine. He knew it was Hebron’s choice of drink on a day like this. Hebron stole the cup from his hand and drank deeply. “What’s taking so long?” he growled as red traced down his jowls. “They should have started by now.”

  As Hebron finished the words, the horn blast sounded, echoing through the arena. The announcer, dressed in white, trotted onto the hallowed ground and stopped in the middle. He raised his hands. “Citizens of Greenehaven. Today, we gather for glory!”

  The crowd roared like beasts craving the blood of men.

  Atlas, the governor of Cartha, entered Hebron’s balcony with a cup of mead in hand. He caught Hebron’s eye.

  “Damnit, man, you’ve almost missed it! Come, share a cup with me.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Atlas replied with a grin and walked to stand next to his host. “And afterwards, we can discuss the matter of crowning the next king.”

  Hebron almost choked on his wine. “Right to business, eh?” Hebron nudged him with an elbow. “Relax governor, we can talk about your new position later. Now is the time to witness the glory of men.” He expressed the words with a waved hand about the arena. “There’s a celebration party at my estate afterwards with enough wine and women to slack the thirst of Greenehaven itself!” Hebron turned to survey the arena with greedy eyes. “Yes, we will talk about your succession tomorrow.”

  Atlas grabbed Hebron’s shoulder, the touch making Hebron snarl and turn around as if slighted. “The vote is split between myself and Maximus to take the throne. I need your support in this. I need it now.”

  Hebron’s snarl at Atlas’s disrespect faded away. He remembered the pact that Cartha would make with Greenehaven once Atlas became king. Hebron grinned before he spoke. “You have my support, I swear it. I’ll cast my vote three days from now and you will become king.” He drained his glass and spat. “I never cared for Maximus anyway, the self-righteous prick.”

  “I thought you owed him after what he did for you.”

  “I owe him nothing. He’s no brother of mine,” Hebron declared, sharply turning his head away.

  Atlas smiled. “I won’t forget this. When I rise to king, you rise with me. You have my word.”

  Hebron shook on it.

  The gladiators entered the arena to a thundering sound from the crowd.

  “It’s time!” Hebron said and sprang towards the balcony, his eyes widening with excitement.

  “I must leave now,” Atlas replied. “There is another I must speak with before nightfall.”

  “What about the…” Hebron turned to speak to his guest, but it didn’t matter. Atlas had already left.

  Hebron turned to his server and shook his head. “Odd fellow there. Our next king, you know.” He raised the cup to the boy in appreciation. “What do you say to that, Mattias?”

  “I’m sure he’ll make a fine king, sir,” the boy timidly replied.

  Hebron regarded him with a pitiful look, seeing no spark in the boy’s eyes. “For shit’s sake, man, why are you a servant? Don’t you want something more out of life? A life of your own instead of a life of slavery?”

  “I… don’t know,” the boy stammered, dropping his head. “I’ve never thought of it, sir. This is the life I was born into.”

  Hebron grabbed the boy’s chin, raising it. “The world isn’t gonna give you a damn thing. You gotta earn it for yourself. This life is what you make of it. Remember that.”

  The boy nodded, a bit shaken from the rare state of his master.

  “Or you can try your luck in there if you’d like,” Hebron added, pointing to the arena. “Either way is honorable. Death and life are one in the same to those who understand the turnings of the universe.” He turned back to the arena as the games began.

  Spread evenly in a circle around the edge of the arena, thirteen warriors stood at ready. Each was given a bastard sword, dagger, and an oaken small shield. As the announcer left the sand, a horn gave a short blast, signaling the gladiators to begin. Dust rose as they sprinted toward one another, their weapons held at the ready. Some gave a war cry as they charged that fell deaf amidst the thundering crowd.

  Fresh blood spilled on the sand as the first man fell victim; three swords simultaneously thrust into his gut and neck — apparent that alliances had been made beforehand. The group pulled their blades after the man fell and scanned for their next opponent. The rest of the warriors were engaged man to man, oblivious to the alliance. Steel echoed among the grunts and curses, the crowd now slightly subdued in anticipation of each strike. With every spill of blood that fell upon the hallowed ground, the people reacted with glorious praise.

  A gladiator held up a severed head to a deafening roar of the crowd. Their cheer turned to a wince as another warrior’s blade cut his midsection open, allowing entrails to spill to the dirt. The head fell from the man’s grip as he dropped to his knees, frantically trying to gather his guts in his hands so that he could push them back into his stomach.

  “Oh, shit!” Hebron reacted. He drained another cup of wine. “Where’s the big one, Mattias? The one from the other day that wrecked anyone that stood in front of him?”

  “You mean the giant who fought five on one?” the servant boy said.

  “Yes! I don’t see him,” he said, frowning.

  Mattias handed him another cup. “There may be another of note. Look!” he said, pointing.

  Hebron’s eyes locked onto the gladiator Mattias was referring to. The man moved like a shadow, effortlessly cutting down every opponent in front of him. He walked towards the men who had made a prior alliance. Four bodies already lie in his wake as he stalked the group. A shadow of death would be a fitting name for this man according to the way he moved, along with his attire — he wore black.

  “I’ll be damned. He’s going after the alliance!” Hebron noted in excitement. The governor paced along the balcony rail with peeled eyes. “Who is that, Mattias?”

  The man in black dodged a slash and spun with blade whirring, the strike lobbing the attacker’s leg off at the knee. In a flash, he brought the sword up to block a savage downward blow from a man much larger t
han him. A dagger deftly appeared from the shadow’s side and opened the man’s windpipe, leaving his neck yawning as blood began to pour. It splashed onto the ground and on the one-legged man’s face before the big man fell to the ground. After plunging the sword into the one-legged man’s chest, the shadow again stalked the alliance.

  Mattias spoke. “I’ve never seen him before. How was he able to enter the finale of the Season?”

  Hebron shrugged. “Maybe he took the giant’s place.” He waved off another cup from Mattias. “I don’t give a damn how he got in. He’s incredible!”

  As Hebron spoke the words, the man in black rammed the hilt of his sword into a face, causing his foe to fall, the man’s eyes rolling to the back of his head. He knelt and slowly slid the dagger up and into the man’s neck. He raised his head and stared at the alliance as he pulled the blade free — they were all that remained.

  “Twenty coppers says that man wins! What you say, Mattias?”

  “You know I don’t have a copper to my name, sir.”

  “Damnit man, curse me or something. Call me a son of a bitch for heaven’s sake.” Hebron chuckled. “I ought to be charging you for these life lessons.”

  “You’re too kind, governor,” Mattias replied.

  The three gladiators spread out, taking the shadow’s flank as he approached.

  The bastard sword suddenly appeared from the shadow’s side and flew, cutting through air and then flesh as it tore into the center man’s chest. The man launched backwards from the force and gave one last gurgling cry when he hit the ground. The flanks lurched forward with bloody swords, one with a piercing attack, one with a backhanded slash at the shadow’s neck.

  In a flash, the man in black bent backwards as if he were falling, but somehow remained on his feet. Both blades narrowly missed their target, leaving the two men staggering to regain their balance in their failed attempt.

  In the arena, eager men were often dead men.