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

by Matt Moss

  “Souls.” Victor eyed each one to gauge their reaction.

  The four stopped what they were doing and looked at one another before Tripp threw his gaze back to Victor. “Damn, boy, you see, now you’re speaking my language!” He smiled and noticing a bottle of wine by the bedside, walked to pour the two of them a cup. He handed one to Victor.

  Tripp drank deeply as he kept his eye on the priest. He placed the cup down, a bemused look on his face. “By the way, there’s a large army heading this way. You might want to make ready for that.”

  TWENTY SIX

  Maximus’s war camp filled the entire valley of the Crossing, outside of the small town. He made it a point for the men to keep away from town, respecting the folk who still lived there. More than fifty thousand men were at his command. He stood watch as most of them slept; the snuffed campfires giving away a trickling trail of smoke into the night sky, shown by the light of a full moon.

  He hadn’t slept much since Cain bursted through the door, interrupting the governors’ meeting at Stonebridge. Come to think of it, he hadn’t slept much before that either. The world was slowly going to hell, and he knew it. He could feel the minds and spirits of the people changing all around his city. He turned his gaze to the stars. The souls of his ancestors resided among them and, according to the Faith, so did the Almighty. They had been his guide throughout life and he prayed to them daily for guidance and favor.

  “I need your council now more than ever. I fear that someone will betray me before the sun sets tomorrow.” A tear fell from his eye as he spoke the words. He had tried his best to live an honest and just life. All he wanted in return was for the people that he served and commanded to do the same in their dealings with him. But he knew deep down that there was one, maybe two men in the camp, who had evil intentions.

  Hell, maybe more, he thought, but long ago he found that spending time on suspicious or jealous thoughts was a waste.

  I must deal with what is in front of me, and I regret doing so, but I feel that there is no other choice. If I am false in this, still my hand before it is too late.

  He turned his head down and sealed the decision with a nod. He trusted his instincts and learned to place much worth upon them over the years. Approaching his guards, Maximus gave them the signal to execute the plan that he devised earlier in the day.

  The nagging itch that a traitor was among them had bothered him for some time now, but he remained patient, knowing that everything had a time and a place. And this was it. He marched through the camp with twelve guards armed with sword and spear at his side.

  A gentle rain began to fall as he approached one of the war camps. Maximus signaled the troop to halt.

  “Atlas!” he shouted into the wet, night air. When no answer came, he called again.

  The governor of Cartha emerged from the tent, his armor clinking as he stepped onto the wet ground.

  Maybe you’re not quite the fool I thought you were, Maximus thought after seeing him battle-dressed.

  “Interesting choice of garment to sleep in, governor,” Maximus noted.

  Atlas smiled coyly and placed a hand on his hilt. “A good soldier is always ready for war, governor Maximus.” After he spoke the words, thirty of Atlas’s guards fell into formation at his flanks and made ready to strike with spear and shield. “Might I ask what brings you to Cartha’s war camp on a dreary night such as this? And with such an entourage at that.” His smile faded to a rueful frown.

  Storm clouds filled the sky. Heavy rain beat the ground and made a tinging sound on Maximus’s helm that steadily rang his ears.

  “You know why I’m here.”

  Atlas shrugged. “Afraid I don’t, sir. Are you wanting to discuss tomorrow’s war plans?” Lightning flashed and lit his face as he spoke the words.

  As a slow rolling thunder crashed through the valley, Maximus calculated the odds in his head. He was outnumbered more than two-to-one. But his men were the better trained and that alone evened the odds in any fight. He knew each and every one of his men on a personal level and knew what they were worth. Each of them fought with something that was more valuable than gold. They fought with honor and, unlike the young zealot or unseasoned soldier, had something to lose.

  A man who fights for something other than himself is a dangerous force, indeed.

  Maximus chose his next words carefully. “You seek to betray me, Atlas. That is why I am here.”

  Surprised by the accusation, Atlas dropped his jaw and looked to his men, stunned by the insult. He glared back at his accuser. “Maximus, I would never betray you.”

  “Then why do you sleep dressed in armor, with thirty men by your side,” Maximus stated, pointing to Atlas and his men. “Do not take me for a fool. I have heard of your intentions from reliable sources.”

  Atlas stepped towards Maximus, boots splashing in the gathering puddles that formed on the ground. Maximus held his hand up, halting his men who were ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

  Atlas surveyed the men, eyeing each one with pity. “Think of your men, Maximus. Don’t do something that you’ll regret in the afterlife.”

  Maximus drew his sword and held it to the side with his right hand. “This need not go further than you and me.” He looked to his men. “My men will remain unmoved, no matter the outcome. I expect yours to do the same.”

  Atlas nodded to his men to respect the agreement. He drew his sword. “Seems there’s no talking with you. That always was your problem, Maximus. You can’t hear the people around you because you’re blinded by pride.”

  “I can hear just fine,” Maximus said, stepping forward to meet Atlas in the middle.

  “Did you hear your brother scream as his city fell?” Atlas jeered, stepping back into a fighting stance. “It’s your fault he’s dead, you know. You did know, right? I heard they pulled his body from the rubble just the other day.”

  Maximus had heard the same and already grieved the loss. He took his stance — relaxed, sword held low and in front, knees slightly bent. It was unorthodox, but it felt natural to him and had proved lethal countless times. “Hebron and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but his fate was his own. It had nothing to do with me.”

  “You left him long ago when he needed you the most,” Atlas said. “He never got over it. He told me this just days before his death. He hated you.”

  I know what you’re doing and it isn’t going to work.

  Maximus pulled a lungful of air and stilled his mind. His grip would be less than desired and the footing would be treacherous due to the rain. The weather would work in his favor as long as he didn’t play the aggressor. He kept a mind on his peripherals, wary of Atlas’s men to his left breaking the agreement.

  Lightning flashed.

  Maximus dropped his sword, allowing it to fall to the muddy ground with a splash, and stepped towards Atlas. The move caught Atlas by surprise, and he reacted in turn by rearing back and unleashing a clumsy side slash. Maximus lunged before the blade struck and rolled off of Atlas’s body, spinning away from the slash. With a smooth motion, he dropped down and buried a dagger behind the unarmored knee of Atlas.

  Atlas cried and fell to a knee before spilling an array of curses. His guards flinched, wanting to assist him. “No!” he commanded. “Stay back. This is between us.”

  Maximus regarded his men, giving them the same command with a nod. Atlas slowly stood, keeping pressure off of the injured leg. In anger, he threw the sword at Maximus with no lethal intention. It flew beside Maximus and slid into the mud at one of the soldier’s feet. Atlas sneered and pulled a pair of curved daggers. “Come then, Maximus, do what you came here to do.”

  Maximus knew that Atlas was no swordsman. But knives were another matter. Atlas’s renown with them was something of legend throughout the entire kingdom. Every barkeep, trader, and sailor knew of the governor’s skills. Some had even wagered upon testing them, but quickly realized that to be a grievous mistake. The one’s who were fortunate enough
to live, and the others who had witnessed the show, spread the word of Atlas’s mastery far and wide. This led to more competitors traveling long distances in search of the title, but all it did was pad Atlas’s pockets. Nobody could beat him and, before long, people quit testing him.

  But Maximus was the commander for a reason. His victories in battle were that of legend too; his wit and calculating mind, unmatched. Prior to his position as commander and governor, he was a general. And prior to that he was a soldier — one that excelled on the field of battle and conquered any a foe that stood before him.

  Sometimes he wondered if people had forgotten that part about him. It made no matter because there was one person who hadn’t forgotten — himself. He tossed the dagger to his right hand, then back to his left, drawing the eye of Atlas as the blade moved. Again, he tossed the blade to the ground, never taking his eyes off of Atlas or his men.

  The act made Atlas cringe. “You arrogant fool!” he spat, infuriated. “I knew that I would be doing everyone a favor by killing you now and putting a stop to this war! We must side with Victor or we will all die!”

  Maximus suppressed a grin, knowing that he had him now. He needed a confession of treason to keep Atlas’s men on his side once Atlas was gone.

  “Your intentions shine through, governor. Tell me, have you already made a deal with Victor?” He eyed Atlas, seeing that the man had already lost. “You cannot stop the war, Atlas. One way or another, Victor seeks to control us all.”

  Atlas cringed through the pain as he took a fighting stance. “No. It is you who seeks control, Maximus!” Atlas hissed the words before striking. He pressed Maximus backwards with a blinding flurry of slashes and stabs, seemingly ignoring the gash behind the knee. Maximus, wary of the wet ground, dodged and checked each strike as he let Atlas push him back. Indeed, Atlas proved worthy with the knives, causing Maximus to rely on his reflexes and instincts. In the blink of an eye, Maximus struck the wrist of Atlas, causing the knife to fly from his hand. At the same time, Atlas gashed Maximus’s shoulder with the other blade before spinning away. He held it in front of him, observing the blood that dripped from the steel.

  Maximus choked back the pain and fought the urge to stifle the wound with his other hand, content with letting the blood flow rather than show any form of weakness.

  “You’re done, Maximus,” Atlas said with a self-assured grin before charging with a maniacal cry.

  Maximus didn’t back up this time. He caught Atlas’s wrist, taking a gash to the inside of his arm in doing so, and twisted it with the great strength that he possessed. Atlas cried as his bones popped and the dagger fell to the ground. Maximus twisted Atlas’s arm, pinning it behind him as he stepped behind the governor to grab his neck. He kicked the back of Atlas’s knee where the knife had sunk deep, forcing the governor to the ground with a cry of pain. That cry was stifled as Maximus buried his face into a rising puddle of mud. Atlas tried to scream as his body flailed about, but with all of Maximus’s weight driving him into the ground, it was no use. It didn’t take long for the flailing to stop. After three last convulsions, Maximus stood over the governor’s lifeless body. He stood tall and held pressure on his injured arm as he eyed Atlas’s men. They regarded the situation with a stunned silence.

  One of Atlas’s men moved forward and spoke. “We all heard him speak the words that plotted against you, commander. He was a traitor and a coward.” His armor bore the ranks of general. “We stand with you, commander Maximus.” The rest of the men agreed and saluted.

  Maximus saluted in return. “Get some rest. Tomorrow we bring justice all the way to the palace steps,” he said, then turned and walked away. The men cheered and chanted his name, their voices slowly fading as he made his way back to the command tent. He hoped the weather to be more favorable in the morning.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Rico moved through the alleyways and side streets, drawing the least amount of attention to himself as he could. He was sure that no one would recognize him as one of the assassins, but didn’t want to chance the bustling parts of Kingsport. He spent a few days in the Crossing laying low, letting the smoke clear from the capital. After Arkin and Moses left the Crossing, Rico decided that he would return to Kingsport and keep an eye on things. “Keep your friends close, your enemies closer,” Master Coll had always said. Rico smiled fondly as he recalled the stubborn old master of arms and all the lessons learned over the years.

  Rico held a hand out to his companion, stopping Uurs at a busy intersection. “I’ll meet you at dawn,” Rico told him. “And Uurs, watch out for the Lost Children as they could be anywhere. We’ll settle the score with Vaylesh soon.”

  The faceless man nodded before blending into the crowd. Uurs was to meet with the guilds and gather the latest information on Victor and the Religion, then he planned to have a meeting in two days to discuss their next move.

  Rico turned back into the alley, trying his best not to draw attention to himself. His heading would require him to cross the busiest street in Kingsport, right outside of the market place that the workers were busy rebuilding. As he was about to cross the congested road, he stopped and backed against a porch railing, using it for what bit of cover it could provide. Peering around, what he saw gave him caution — a handful of Lost Children dealing drudge on the other side of the street. Ever since the failed assassination, he knew that Vaylesh had betrayed the guilds and aligned himself with Victor.

  I’m going to do the world a favor and watch the blood drain from that traitor’s throat. He thought, cursing himself for not seeing Vaylesh for what he was sooner. I should have followed my gut instinct about you. Live it up, you son of a bitch. You’ll be dead soon enough.

  Rico fell back into the alley and made the long way around to Jennie’s house. He knocked on the door, using a sequence to alert her that it was him. After a moment, he knocked again. She was home, he had smelled the cooking before he got to the door. He raised his fist to knock again, but not before Jennie opened the door.

  “Come in, quick,” she said, pulling him inside.

  “What’s wrong? Is there someone in the house?” Rico asked and drew a knife, noticing her frantic behavior.

  She jumped back. “No. There’s nobody here but me and the kids. They’re all upstairs.”

  “Awfully quiet for a house full of kids,” Rico noted.

  She quickly spun away and went into the kitchen. He followed after her.

  “I thought you were dead,” Jennie said, keeping her hands busy at the sink.

  “Almost was.”

  “What happened?”

  He would have told her everything, but it wouldn’t have mattered. His world and the world that she knew were entirely different. “It just went south. How have you been?”

  She turned to him with tears in her eyes. “I had to,” she stammered. “I didn’t have a choice.” She dropped to the floor and began sobbing uncontrollably. He rushed to hold her.

  “You had to… what? Jennie, talk to me.”

  She turned her right hand over, revealing the mark. Rico gasped upon seeing the symbol of the Religion — a shard from a soul stone, seared into her flesh. It softly glowed through her skin as Rico stood close to her. She didn’t looked surprised given her history with Thomas and the Order, also knowing that Rico could soul tap.

  “You joined the Religion? Why in God’s name, Jennie?”

  She shook her head. “It was the only way. I had to take it to feed my family. The King’s Generosity is the only thing keeping us alive.”

  Rico ran his hand over hers and held it tight as he embraced her. “I’m sorry that Thomas is gone. I’m sorry for all of it. It shouldn’t be this way.” He comforted her until the shaking stopped. As they both sat on the kitchen floor, she slowly turned her head toward his and kissed his lips. “Thank you,” she sighed, gently touching his face. Rico began to question her gratitude but held his tongue, relishing the moment.

  Later, she cooked a grand meal while he e
ntertained the children. They were fascinated with his weapons and were scolded by their mother several times when one of them tried to touch one.

  “This might be the last good meal we have for awhile, so eat up,” she said, setting the table. Rico cocked an eye at her statement, reserving his question for later; after the kids went to bed.

  “Momma,” the youngest boy said as she tucked him into bed, “are we going to be alright?”

  “Of course we are, sweetie. Go on to sleep now and we’ll see you in the morning.” She caressed his face before leaving the room. She met Rico as he tended a fire and handed him a cup of whiskey. He smiled and took it in appreciation, content with the company, without words. She returned a grin, and poured twice more before they spoke.

  “What is it?” Rico asked, noticing her staring blankly into the fire.

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  “I just got here, and all I know is that the last time I was in town, Victor somehow healed himself and a grandmaster named Moses saved our skins. That was seven days ago.”

  She met his eye. “Victor and his ever-growing army march to war with the independent cities.”

  Rico almost choked on his drink. “Come again?”

  “Greenehaven was the first city to pay the price for not succumbing to the king’s taxes. The arena full of people, all destroyed. It was a warning to the cities — pay the king’s tax and bend to the Religion, or burn.”

  “Like the market,” Rico said as he looked into the fire. “I wasn’t here when Lucian attacked, but I heard. Could it be him again?”

  “I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care. The man will eventually pay the price of his sins, if he still lives.” She turned her head away. “May the Almighty cast him into the deepest pit of Hell.”

  Rico knew she still mourned her husband who had been taken away by Lucian’s hand, and that she would probably never recover from it. For God’s sake, she held his burnt corpse in her hands!