The Path of Man (The Soul Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by Matt Moss

  He passed a store with various plants and flowers in the window. With Lyla in mind, he made a note to remember that in the future.

  A stand on the corner of the dirt street drew Arkin in. An old man sat behind the table whittling a stick.

  “See anything you like, young man?” the woodworker said.

  Arkin looked over the various wood carved boxes, figurines, and utensils.

  “I’m sorry,” he replied. “I don’t have any money.”

  “You with the Order?” the old man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you don’t need money,” the man said, then tossed Arkin a box.

  Arkin turned it in his hands — a puzzle box! Similar to the one that had enamored and befuddled him for the last year back at his father’s shop.

  “Thanks! What’s your name?” Arkin said.

  “Picaro,” the man said as he shook Arkin’s outstretched hand. “And you?”

  “Arkin, nice to meet you. Hey, do you sell a lot of these?” Arkin asked, referring to the box.

  “Ah, a Picaro box. Not too many,” he said, his voice thickly accented. “I’ve only made seven, and we don’t get much business up here in the mountains anyways. Not like you all in The Crossing.”

  “You knew I was from The Crossing?”

  Picaro smiled a toothless grin. “Everyone does. Small town, ya know.”

  “Ever sell one of these to a tinker?”

  “Sure I have. Maybe a few to one, er,” he scratched his head with the knife, thinking. “Or was it one to a few. Hard to tell. A tinker may pass through from time to time,” he said, then began whittling again.

  He’s got too many years on him, Arkin thought.

  “What’s inside?” he asked. “I have tried to unlock mine, but with no luck.” Frowning, he fumbled the pieces, shifting them around the center of the box.

  “Got you a Picaro box, eh?” the old man said, cocking an eyebrow. “Now that’s the real puzzle, ain’t it; what’s inside. I’ll make a deal with you,” Picaro said. “You unlock the box, and I’ll tell you what’s inside.”

  “But won’t I know what’s inside when I unlock it?” Arkin stated.

  “I don’t know,” Picaro replied. “Will you?” the old man asked, then burst into laughter that sounded more like a wheezing cough.

  Arkin smiled, finding the old man half crazy. But there was something about him that intrigued Arkin.

  “I’m looking for the doctor,” Arkin said. “Care to point me in the direction?”

  “The doctor? Or that pretty young thing walking around with him?” Picaro jeered.

  “You don’t miss much, do you?” Arkin said.

  The old man smiled. “I’m old, but I ain’t blind. Can’t blame ya for chasin’ that one around.” He scratched his chin. “They were walkin’ around town a bit ago. You might check his place on the west part of town. Behind the tavern.”

  “Thanks,” Arkin said, then turned to leave.

  “Good luck,” Picaro said, his tone thick with humor.

  Rounding past the tavern, Arkin found the house. The sign hanging next to the front door boasted an array of tools the doctor used in his practice, nailed to a plaque. They looked old and worn.

  Arkin knocked on the door, waited, and then knocked again. Nobody was there. He had to get back to the training grounds.

  Jogging back through the town, he heard a girl laugh. He froze, swearing it sounded like Lyla. Desperately, he scanned the streets, but he didn’t see her. Making his way back to the Lodge, a little disappointed, he promised himself that he would see her again, soon.

  Master Coll was old. As much or more so than the Prophet. His hair and beard had turned white when he was young, and he had kept it short cropped ever since. Lean muscle made up the majority of his medium build.

  Word was that Coll, the Master of Arms, had been training the Order since its inception. Every fallen foe was a testament to the man’s genius and skill.

  “One would think that he would be past his prime,” Cain whispered to Arkin. “Proving no real threat in any fight. But to underestimate Master Coll would be a fatal error.”

  A body hit the ground. He was slow to rise, a trickle of blood dripping down the man’s face.

  “Have you shits not been listening to me?” Coll said.

  “Did I mention he also has a foul mouth to go with his bad temper?”

  Arkin stifled a chuckle.

  “Foot position is the key,” Coll barked. “Weight on the front foot,” he said, slapping his front leg with a wooden training sword. “Knees, slightly bent. Circle away from your opponent’s sword arm with smooth, careful steps. Always facing him.” The master eyed them. “The farther that bastard has to move, the more time you have to counter.”

  Coll pointed to another man. “You,” he said, then pointed his sword to where he wanted the man to stand.

  The man stood in front of Coll, a few paces away.

  “Farther. Over there,” Coll said, pointing.

  Turning, the man began to walk away. Coll lunged, whipping the length of the wooden sword across the man’s back. He fell, screaming in pain.

  “How many times do I have to say it?” Coll spat. “Never turn your damn back on an enemy!” He shook his head as the man stood up. “Sometimes I feel like I’m wasting my damn time on you sorry little shits.” Coll crouched and raised his sword over his head, point slightly angled down.

  “That’s Jikari style,” Cain told Arkin. “It’s from the eastern land. Beyond Cartha, the farthest independent city in the realm.”

  The man charged Coll with a flourish of overhead strikes. Wooden swords cracked like thunder as Coll blocked each blow. The old master was quick as a cat, moving like the wind as he blocked a swing that would have knocked him out, spun to the side, and cleaved the man in the ribs. He finished with a kick to the legs, dropping the man to the ground in a scream of pain. Coll spun the sword in his hands to thrust down on the man’s chest.

  The man’s eye’s went wide. Coll quickly put his sword behind his back then extended a hand to help the man up.

  “Reacting is better than acting in a fight,” Coll spoke to the group. “Sometimes, it may be to your advantage to strike first, or push the pace, but countering is key.” He walked down the line, looking each man in the eye. “Wait for your opponent’s mistake. Use their momentum to your advantage. Time their strikes,” he said, then his fist flashed to a man’s face, barely stopping shy of his nose. “And wait for an opening.” He held his fist there for a moment before continuing down the line. “Can nobody beat an old man?” he said.

  Stubbs stepped onto the hallowed ground, his sword in hand. The big man’s body language read hostile and his eyes shone with a dangerous gleam.

  Arkin figured that Stubb’s was still mad over the race and looking for a way to prove himself.

  “Well, aren’t you a big shit of a man,” Coll said. Stubbs threw his sword to the side.

  “And a dumb one at that,” Coll chided. “Never throw away a perfectly good weapon.” Coll tossed his sword away. “But I will say, you’ve got some balls.”

  “Time to shut your mouth, old man,” Stubbs said, then raised his fists.

  The group watched in stunned silence. Nobody had ever talked like that to the master. Coll narrowed his gaze, appalled by the arrogance.

  “Is Coll crazy,” Arkin whispered to Cain, “Stubbs is twice his size. He’s gonna kill him!”

  Cain raised his hand, silencing Arkin, intent on watching this unprecedented event.

  Coll held his arms to the side, palms out. “Time to learn your lesson...the hard way,” he said.

  Stubbs charged, roaring. He engaged Coll, his massive fists cutting through air. Coll moved with fluidity and strength, like a river, checking strikes and landing his own. In a matter of moments, Stubbs’s face was a bloody wreck. Somewhere between jabs, Coll broke Stubbs’s nose. The master had yet to take a blow. He kept the big man at bay with his lightning fast j
abs and foot maneuvering, darting in and out from his opponent’s reach.

  Stubbs began to slow from swinging at air and he breathed heavily through his mouth as blood poured from his nose. In a last fit of desperation and rage, he charged at Coll. It was faster than anyone would have anticipated, including the old master. They crashed onto the ground.

  Upon landing, Coll immediately wrapped his legs around Stubbs and grabbed the back of his head. Vicious elbows slammed into the big man’s face, making a wet, crunching, sound.

  “Arghhh!” Stubbs roared as he broke free from the hold. Rising up, he began raining heavy blows down on Coll. The old master brought his legs and arms up to defend himself as he rolled from left to right. He took a heavy fist to the mouth. Turning his head, he spat a mouthful of blood. Two teeth flew with it.

  Scrambling with his legs, Coll waited for an opening. Stubs swung, leaving his other arm exposed. Seeing his opening, Coll swung his left leg around Stubbs’s neck, using it to lock his right leg in, trapping an arm against Stubbs’s windpipe.

  Stubbs tried to break free, slamming the old man against the ground. It was no use. Coll reached up, pulling the big head down, and squeezed with all his might. In a futile attempt, Stubbs tried to hit Coll with his free arm.

  Coll let go when the big man went limp.

  The master stood to his feet, leaving his opponent face down in the dirt.

  Everyone stood, gaping in awe.

  Coll spat blood. “You four,” he pointed at several of the awed men in training, “get this trash off my grounds. Take him to the doctor.”

  Each man grabbed a limb, stumbling as they hauled Stubbs away.

  “The rest of you, pair up. Practice with the swords.”

  Leaving the grounds, Coll stopped and looked at Arkin. A bloody smile crept across his face, a gap in the bottom of his jaw where two teeth used to be. The old master made his way into the Lodge with a slight limp and wasn’t seen the rest of the day.

  Thirteen

  Poor Richards, the only tavern in town, was a favorite among the Order. The owner, Jamesh, was a man in his thirties. He distilled his own whiskey and was famous for his smoked ribs. Word was that he was wild in his younger years, filling his wants with drink and women, but now was settled down with a wife and children.

  He wore tattered clothes over his plump frame. He kept his already balding, dark hair shaved short and he wore a scraggly goatee.

  He casually strode to Arkin and Cain’s table. “Geet you boys a drank?” he said with a slurred accent. “Y’all shood try th’ whiskey.” A sly grin appeared on his face as he puffed up with pride.

  “Alright, sold,” Cain said, slapping the table. “Bring us two.”

  Jamesh slapped the table, then turned and walked away.

  “I’ve been coming here and drinking his whiskey for over a year now,” Cain said, shaking his head. “Still, every time he asks me to try the whiskey.”

  “Is it good?” Arkin asked.

  “Oh yea. But I think he’s tried it one too many times himself.”

  Arkin chuckled then looked around the room. It was large enough to hold a hundred people, maybe more. Two fireplaces burned on opposite ends of the dining hall.

  Most of the men from the training today were there, scattered out in small groups amongst the tables. Most men were accompanied by women.

  The smell of barbecue, smoke, and spilled beer tugged at Arkin’s senses.

  A lute player and a percussionist sat tuning their instruments in a far corner, readying for the night’s entertainment.

  Two young, pretty, girls approached the table. They smiled coyly at Arkin and Cain in passing.

  “Ladies,” Cain said, courtly gesturing.

  They giggled after passing. One looked back in their direction and whispered in her friend’s ear.

  Arkin noted the look of confidence Cain had in dealing with the opposite sex. And why wouldn’t he, he was an attractive man in his prime. And he was a member of the Order.

  Arkin thought of Lyla and hoped that one day he could feel confident in courting her.

  “Ah,” Cain said, putting his hands behind his head while reclining. “Nothing like beer, food, and women after a hard day’s work.”

  Arkin agreed, though he knew next to nothing of beer or women.

  “Speaking of beer, I think we’ve got some coming this way,” Cain said, pointing.

  Turning, Arkin saw Rico striding in their direction with three mugs of ale in hand. He moved through the noise and commotion like a slow moving arrow loosed from a bow, straight and with purpose, like there was no one else around.

  Grinning, he sat the beers on the table. “Mind if I join you?” he said it as a statement, forcing Arkin to make a seat.

  “Hello, Rico,” Cain said with a smile.

  “Damn good job carrying those logs today,” Rico said, then looked at Arkin, “And you, on your first carry.”

  “Thanks,” Arkin said. “Congratulations on the race by the way.”

  Rico inclined his head to a bow. “Anyways, I felt like buying you two a drink.”

  “But you won the race,” Cain retorted. “We should be buying you drinks.”

  Rico had the mug to his mouth and dismissed Cain with a wave from his free hand.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Arkin asked, after Rico sat the mug down.

  “Shoot.”

  “How did you win? I mean, Stubbs and Bennie were the top team. I saw that they were ahead nearing the top of the hill.”

  Turning in his seat, Rico looked at Arkin. “How do you think I won?” It was a serious question.

  “You ran faster?” Arkin guessed.

  “No. I paced myself,” Rico replied. “Ran at a speed I knew could be sustained. They didn’t. Sometimes you gotta slow down to speed up.”

  Rico turned the mug, admiring the clay. “But that’s not how I won.”

  “Then how?” Arkin asked, his curiosity piqued.

  “Here,” Rico said, tapping Arkin on the forehead with two fingers. “I got in their heads before the race. They became so bent out of shape that they didn’t pace themselves. That’s why they ran out of strength upon cresting the hill. Most of any challenge is mental,” Rico stated, picking up the beer. “Get inside your opponent’s head, and they will have lost before they ever begin.”

  “I can’t believe Stubbs stepped up to Master Coll today,” Cain said, then drank deeply.

  Rico laughed. “I knew he was dumb,” he said, exaggerating a head shake. “He should have known better than to challenge the master of arms.”

  “Is Master Coll alright?” Arkin asked, then took a drink of beer. He tried not to grimace at the potent bitterness that filled his mouth. He agreed with what he had heard about it being an acquired taste.

  Rico drank then wiped his mouth with his arm. “He’s alright, I checked on him earlier. Looks meaner than hell with those two bottom teeth missing though.”

  “It fits him,” Cain said, and everyone laughed in agreement.

  Jamesh came shuffling back to the table with three glasses, each filled with clear whiskey.

  “Now,” he said, “this here’s so good, it’ll make you wanna slap yer mama.” He sat them on the table. “Oh, didn’t see ya there Rico. I brought this extry one for ma’self, but,” he said, pausing, “if you wanna try it.”

  Grabbing the glass, Rico raised it high. “Here’s to tryin’ the whiskey.”

  Arkin and Cain raised their glasses in turn, then the three shot them down at the same time.

  Jamesh watched, wide eyed with a toothless smile, slowly nodding his head. He was shocked when the three began coughing and hacking.

  Arkin felt like his throat was on fire. Cain had tears running from his eyes. Even Rico, whose coughing was subdued, looked like he was having trouble with the fiery drink.

  “What the hell,” Rico choked out.

  “What?” Jamesh said with a puzzled look on his face.

  “It’s never been t
his bad,” Cain wheezed out as he wiped his eyes.

  Jamesh scratched his scraggly chin. “I musta forgot to mix my cooks.” He ran his finger in the glass, tasting it. “Yep. That’s tha first run off ther’. Ya can’t drank that. Gotta mix it with the other runs.”

  He stacked the glasses. “I keep tellin’ ya to try tha whiskey before ya shute it down.” He shook his head then shuffled away, talking to himself.

  Arkin shook his head in attempt to clear the poison. His eyes caught the double doors flying open at the front of the tavern.

  Stubbs walked in, stopped, and looked around. His face was a wreck, his nose bandaged with cloth, eyes swollen and purple. He spotted Rico in the crowd, then stormed in their direction.

  Arkin nervously elbowed Rico. Seeing the big man coming, Rico finished his beer, and stood up, away from the table.

  Stubbs stopped in front of Rico, close enough to smell the beer on his breath. They stood like statues, face to face. Stubbs, a head taller, glared down with a clenched jaw.

  Neither moved as everyone in the place watched with nervous anticipation.

  Feeling the need to do something, Arkin stood. Rico stopped him with an outstretched palm, never taking his eyes off Stubbs.

  “You looking for another ass kicking?” Rico said, his face stern.

  Stubbs clenched his fists. The tension peaked for a moment, then suddenly melted as Rico cracked a grin. Stubbs returned the smile, then growled as he wrapped his arms around Rico, patting him on the back.

  Arkin furrowed his brow, confused.

  “Good race, today,” Stubbs said as he pulled away.

  “Aye, it was,” Rico agreed. “Didn’t think you would take the loss so hard though.”

  “You know me,” Stubbs said, shrugging.

  “I know you’re dumber than a cross-eyed mule for fighting Master Coll.”

  “I wasn’t in the mood to hear his mouth today.”

  “You showed him,” Cain said, then snorted.

  Stubbs turned, shooting him a glance. Cain looked down at his beer.

  Stubbs poked Rico in the chest. “Next time, you’re mine.”