by Matt Moss
The Path of Man
The Path of Man
a novel by
Matt Moss
Copyright © 2016 Matt Moss
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 9781539040071
ISBN-10: 1539040070
To my wife, Tara. You have made me a better person.
I love you and the kids more than I can ever express.
To my dad. I miss you. I know you would have been proud of me.
To my mom and my sister. I love you both. Thank you for all of your love and support.
Acknowledgements
To the editor, Amy. Thank you for everything. This book would not be the same without you. I gave you the roughest draft possible, and you made it shine. To the artist, Marc. What you have done with this book is truly amazing. The imagery that you have painted us has brought this story to life. Thank you for taking a chance on a writer, and a novice writer at that. To my cousin, Seth. Thank you for pushing me to pick up a book and read, despite my stubbornness over the years. This book may have never existed without you. My gratitude extends to the early readers of this book; Tara, Mary, Kim, Seth, Angela, Grey, Marcella. You were able to overlook all of the errors and help me out more than you’ll ever know. Thank you for all of your priceless advice. To all of my friends and family. Thank you for believing in me.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-THREE
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
About the editor –
About the artist –
Prologue
The Church silently prayed for the salvation of mankind. High Priest John, kneeling upon the altar of stones, earnestly vowed his service to the cause. Lining the great hall, the priests devoutly followed John’s lead.
King George broke the silence, his boots echoing through the hall as he approached the altar. He allowed John a moment to finish.
“Your Grace,” John said then stood, turning to meet the King.
“Pardon the intrusion,” George replied, “but certain matters have been weighing on my mind as of late. We need to talk.”
John motioned him with a hand. “There’s nothing to pardon,” he said, smiling. “Please, follow me.”
Guided into a chamber, the King began to pace the room.
John shut the door, noticing the king’s unusual demeanor. “Tell me, what’s troubling you?” he asked.
“I’m not sure about the Religion,” George said.
John reclined in a chair, sitting behind a desk. “Go on,” he said and folded his hands.
“People will never deny the Faith,” George stated, meeting John’s gaze.
“They will,” John assured him.
“How?” George retorted. “Why would they forsake the belief of their father’s and take on the Religion?” He furrowed his brow. “Because we tell them to?”
“No. Because God tells them to.”
George stopped pacing and turned to stare at John.
“And if that’s not enough,” John said, leaning forward, “then we’ll have to give them another reason to believe.”
George sat in a chair, facing the High Priest. “What do you propose?”
“The kingdom is in upheaval,” John noted. “The people are looking for something; for someone. They need a savior.”
“I’m no savior,” George said.
“Oh, but you are,” John said. “You are exactly what the people need.”
George shook his head. “What would you have me do then?”
John eased back into his chair. “Take control of what belongs to you.”
George cocked his head, curious.
John continued. “Take the food. You have control over the food supply. Use it.”
“But the people are already suffering,” George said. “I can’t raise the taxes. I won’t cast any more burden upon them.”
“It’s not a burden,” John said, smiling. “It’s a generosity. The King’s Generosity.”
“Generosity,” the King mocked. He turned his head and chuckled. “I’ve counted you trusted friend and counselor for many years, John, but I fail to see the wisdom in all of this.”
John slowly nodded, gathering his thoughts. “The Faith is good,” he noted, “but where is God now? He has abandoned us, leaving His people with disease and drought in His wake. I can hear them,” John said, furrowing his brow. “I can hear the people crying in the streets, begging for mercy.”
“And they shall find it,” George said. “Things will get better. They must believe it.”
“They need the Religion,” John said.
“And what good will come of it?” George asked.
“It will give them hope. They need that more than ever.”
“Hope in what?” George said. “In the Church? In man?”
“Yes,” John said and stood, placing both hands on the desk. “People believe what they can see. They will see that the Religion will not only take care of their spiritual needs, but their physical needs as well.”
“The King’s Generosity,” George said, turning his head away.
John eyed him. “You will give them food, protection, and something to believe in. They will worship you.”
“I don’t want to be worshiped,” George snapped.
“That is the price to wear the crown, Your Grace,” John humbly said.
George met his gaze, stood, and paced the room. “If I commit to the Religion, the rest of the Kingdom will eventually be forced to commit as well. You know the independent cities won’t stand for it.”
“Give them time,” John said, then walked to stand by the King. “Everyone will eventually come to believe.”
“You sound so sure,” George said, crossing his arms.
“I believe in the Religion,” John stated. “And you have the Order behind you.”
“Here at the capital the Order is nothing more than high ranking guards,” George said. “It is the Prophet, along with the rest of the Order at the Grand Highlands, that concern me. They hold true to the Faith.”
“True,” John noted, rubbing his chin. “Let us hope that they stay out of it all. And if they do get involved, you must convince the Prophet of our mission.” John smiled at himself. “Of God’s mission.”
“Is it God’s mission?” George asked.
John clapped the king on the shoulder. “Everything is, old friend,” he said with a smile. “It is all planned in accordance to His will.”
One
The Cross and Anchor was as crowded as any other night. People came there to drink and wash away the toils of the day. It offered the best food in town along with the p
rettiest serving girls. The warm fireplace and the glow of the lanterns provided a welcome sight for anyone this cold time of year.
“Is the food ready yet?” a gruff voice called from the corner. “Or do ya gotta kill the cow first?” Mad Jack was known to be the loudest mouth in town, especially when he had an audience and a few drinks in him.
A tall, blonde serving girl walked by the table.
“Hey lass, fetch me another whiskey while I wait on the cows to come home.” Mad Jack slapped her on the behind as she walked away.
Jack’s friends laughed around the table. The sound of people talking, plates clattering, and cooks shouting filled the wooden oasis. The smell of cooked meat and baked bread hung in the air. The townsfolk looked forward to it every night. It provided them an escape from the everyday wake up, go to work, go home and go to bed routine. Fights broke out on occasion, but in a town this small, you learned to make up quick. Everybody knew everybody.
Farmers, artisans, and trade workers comprised the small town of The Crossing. Its location, nestled in a valley between the great mountain range, made it ideal for travelers to stop in. Kingsport, the capital city, sat to the west, while the rest of King George’s kingdom lie to the east. To go from one to the other, a traveler had to cross the mountains or charter a boat to ferry across the sea to Stonebridge. The winter months made it treacherous for anyone brave enough to attempt the trip.
Mad Jack emptied his glass and turned back to his companions. “As I was saying...”
The front door slammed open, allowing red and orange sunlight to stream in. The cold blast of air and the tall figure in black made everyone stop and look. He wore black leather boots, trousers, jerkin, and a black cloak with silver embroidery. The cloak whipped and snapped in the cold wind. Beneath his cowl, a sharp jawline with a clean shaven face could be seen, but his eyes remained covered.
He closed the door behind him.
The stranger made his way to the bar and sat down. The noise and commotion resumed.
“Get you a drink?” the bartender asked, wiping the bar top.
“Warm ale,” the stranger said, resting both arms on the bar.
“Don’t get that request much.” The bartender pulled a glass from the shelf. “Most like it cold. Got the barrels sitting out back.”
Mad Jack looked at his companions, disturbed by the intruder. He glared at the stranger.
“Here’s your whiskey, Jack,” the serving girl said.
Jack stood, shot the drink down, and slammed the glass on the table. Maybe it was the liquor, or maybe it was his friends coaxing him along, but whatever it was, it made him walk over to the stranger. There was something about this man he didn’t like. He was going to let him know who Mad Jack was.
“What’s your business here in our peaceful town this time of year, stranger?”
“I’m looking for someone,” the stranger answered without looking at Mad Jack.
“Well, I believe you just found him. You see, I’m Mad Jack and this here is my town.” Snorts and chuckles came from every table in the room.
“I’m looking for Levi,” the stranger said in a calm, cool voice, “but if I was looking for a mush brained maggot of a man, then yes, I have found him.”
Jack’s face turned to stone and flushed bright red. Three of his friends jumped up from the table upon hearing the insult and surrounded the stranger. The room hushed.
“Here’s your food boys,” the serving girl said, attempting to call Jack and his friends back to the table as she set the plates down.
The bartender sat the beer in front of the stranger.
“I came here tonight for a little fun,” Jack said, choking out the words. “But now, I’m gonna have a really good time stomping your ass.”
The stranger picked the beer up, emptied the glass, and softly placed it back on the bar. He stood up and met Jack’s gaze.
Jack noticed something unusual about the stranger’s eyes and the sight of them made him question his own bravery.
“Good luck,” the stranger said.
Jack reared back and threw with everything he had. He caught the stranger square on the jaw, snapping the man’s head to the side.
The stranger snapped his head back, threw off his cloak, and grabbed Jack by the throat. The stranger tossed Jack across the room, slamming him against the far wall of the tavern. Jack’s three friends jumped in.
A bright streak of silver flashed from the stranger’s side. Too quick, the sword turned red as he gutted two of the men.
Screams filled the room as people hurried for the door. Half the men, the ones who weren’t running away, picked up a stool or whatever they could find to join the fight.
The third of Jack’s companions landed a clean shot on the stranger. A silver streak shot through the companion’s abdomen and pulled out as fast as it went in. A straight kick to the chest sent him flying towards the door, knocking people over who were trying to escape. Chairs flew and tables were pushed aside as the men pressed toward the stranger. The blade ran red as bodies hit the floor.
One man stood alone with a dagger in hand. He charged in a rage and met the same swift fate.
As the man in black pulled the blade from the last man’s chest, he wiped the hair back from his face.
The sounds of dying men accompanied the crackling of the fireplace.
Mad Jack lay on the floor broken and wheezing. The stranger knelt down and met his gaze one last time.
Jack coughed blood. “Who are you?”
“Just a stranger,” the man in black said.
Jack marveled at the strangeness in those eyes. His world went black as a boot crashed into his skull.
The stranger strode across the blood soaked floor and picked up his cloak. He flipped a copper coin on the bar as he made his way out.
He closed the door behind him.
The Whistlestop, the general goods store in The Crossing, could accommodate the needs of any traveler. It was Levi’s, and he had been running it solely for many years. He bought, sold, and traded in rare goods and antiques; always keeping an appreciative eye out for anything of value. Behind his front desk was a collection of tomes and books.
Levi’s son, Arkin, knew the collection was his father’s most prized possession, but he didn’t know why. Arkin would rather experiment with all the other trinkets in the shop than stick his nose in a book.
Arkin picked up a wooden puzzle box that an old man had traded over the last traveling season. His hands moved the parts around as he tried to unlock the piece in the middle of the oak sanctum. Arkin had been trying to solve the puzzle since it had arrived in the shop. The last time he made an attempt, he had thrown it across the room.
“Son, make sure you dust everything off before you sweep.”
“I’m supposed to meet my friends before dark,” Arkin said. “Can’t I clean it tomorrow?”
Levi ran an oiled cloth over a table. “You know spring is coming,” he said. “The snow is melting, which means the traveling season is only a few weeks away.”
Arkin put the box down.
“Why do you care about it being so clean?” he said and grabbed a rag, shoulders slouched. “I just cleaned it a week ago.”
“Because, Arkin, a man needs to take pride in his work. It lets himself and everyone else know about his character.”
“But I thought pride was a sin?”
“It is whenever someone is arrogant or boastful,” Levi said, then took pause to gather his thoughts. “Confidence can sometimes be perceived by others as being arrogant.” He rubbed at a spot on the table, “A good sense of pride comes from being confident and knowing that you did a job well done. It really just depends on the condition of a man’s soul.”
Levi paused to look up and noticed Arkin deep in thought.
“Do you understand what I am saying?” Levi asked.
“Yes, but what do you mean about the condition of a man’s soul?”
Levi put the rag down and walked to A
rkin. “A soul is the eternal spark that was created by God. It is the essence of who you are.” Levi waved his hand and said, “It is constantly surrounded by good and evil in this world. When we die, our souls will live on, which is why we must live the purest and best life that we can while we are here.”
Arkin nodded as he spoke, “I understand father.”
He began polishing the shelves.
“That’s my boy,” Levi said with a smile, gazing up into Arkin’s blue eyes. His son stood at least a head taller than most men. “I love you son, and I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, I love you too father,” Arkin said with a smile. “What is it?” he said, noticing his father’s peculiar stare.
“You have your mother’s eyes,” Levi said, turned, then limped back to the book shelf.
Arkin noticed his father’s limp had become worse over the winter. An old wound from falling off a horse his father had once told him.
Levi removed a book, The Path of Man, and reverently laid the big, leather bound book on the table. Two more books were placed beside it.
Arkin meticulously cleaned; his mind distracted by the boredom of the small town that he had grown up in. He loved The Crossing, mainly because it was all he knew, but he wanted more. He longed for an adventure and a life of his own.
The fading light through the shop window caught his eye. Ready to catch up with his friends, he quickly finished cleaning the shelves. Turning, he noticed his father thumbing through the two smaller books while carefully writing notations in the big, leather bound book. He looked deep in thought.
Arkin was used to seeing his father like this of late, consumed by his books. He went to the closet and returned with a broom.
“I can’t believe it,” Levi said as he dropped the pen to the floor. “So, the stories are true.”
“What is it?” Arkin hurried to the table to look over the books.
“I think I’ve found...”
BANG
BANG
BANG
“Sorry, we’re closed,” Levi said as he went to open the door.
A woman burst in, shaking from shock.
