by Matt Moss
After the King’s death, fifty men poured from the palace door with weapons in hand. Now, only two remained.
The seven members of the Clergy, horrified, began to run into the palace.
“Hold fast, brothers!” Victor said to them. “God is on our side!” He led them in prayer.
Behind Victor, Sarie held on to him, shaking.
The bodies of the last two guards rolled down the steps in Lucian’s wake.
Victor held his arms out. “My son,” he said, offering an embrace as Lucian stepped toward him.
Lucian grabbed Victor by the throat with both hands.
Sarie screamed.
Victor’s eyes bulged as the life drained from his face.
With arms straining, Lucian screamed as tears poured from his eyes. He let go of Victor only after the man’s life was gone. Shaking, and in a cold sweat, Lucian stood over his former master’s body.
A sharp sensation suddenly came from his side. Turning, he found Sarie with knife in hand. Tears filled her eyes. She pulled the dagger out of his side, dropped it, and ran into the palace.
The Clergy stood guard of the door after she ran in.
“You’re going to have to kill us first, friend,” one said, shaking.
Lucian held his side, stifling the blood that had begun to pour. He looked at Victor, King George, then High Priest John.
He looked at the Prophet’s decapitated corpse.
Lucian’s knees buckled as his head suddenly felt fuzzy. He glanced down the stairs. A few skirmishes lasted here and there, but the majority of the fighting was over.
The mob began to climb the steps, bloody and cursing, after finishing off the guards and the Order. They were coming for him.
Lucian closed his eyes, pulling anything that his soul had left.
He charged into the mob.
Bodies flew as he tucked his shoulder, bull-rushing into the crowd. He almost lost his footing, trampling over countless bodies, but he pressed on, driving with everything he had.
Sharp cuts and a barrage of blows came from every side, almost causing his body to collapse. Only his will pushed him on and out of the mob.
Dripping blood, he ran to the stable and threw himself onto his horse. After kick starting the animal out of town, Lucian collapsed across its body, his vision fading into the black.
Twenty-Five
The mob began to care for the dead. They piled the bodies at the base of the steps to be burned. Four men grabbed Paul’s body and threw it atop the pile. King George and High Priest John were laid at the top of the steps. They were to be given a proper burial.
The Clergy gathered around Victor’s body, praying.
A white light beamed from Victor’s body up to the sky. After a brief moment, it disappeared, leaving everyone in a hushed anticipation.
Victor, stirred and then gasped, taking in a lungful of air.
The Clergy began to praise God. Everyone stood gaping in awe of the miracle.
“It’s a miracle!” a member of the Clergy said as he helped Victor up.
Victor slowly stood, his eyes squinting at the light as he tried to regain his senses.
It worked, he thought, shaking his head in disbelief.
He’d heard tales of a resurrection stone before, but the last known use of one was centuries ago. It was told that if one were soul tapped at the time of death, and in possession of the stone, that life would be returned. That was the story, and Victor gambled on it. He bet his life on it.
The mob, stunned, made their way toward Victor. He looked at all of them and began to speak.
His voice came out distorted, as if his windpipe had been crushed.
Apparently it does not fix everything, he thought.
“Here me now,” he forced the words out. “Today should have been a day of justice and peace of mind. If anything can be learned from today, it is that there is no peace. Not anymore.”
“You were dead,” a man in the mob stated. “Saw it with my own eyes. The demon killed you.”
“I was dead,” Victor replied. “I stood before the Almighty, awaiting judgement. He told me that I was not finished here. He said that I still have a job to do, to lead us all out of the darkness and into the light.” He raised his arms.
The mob cheered.
“Today was a call to action,” Victor continued. “We must act with swift determination to make sure this never happens again.”
“What shall we do?” a man asked.
“Strike at the very heart of this evil” Victor said.
“How?” another asked. “We don’t even know who to blame.”
“Yes, we do,” Victor said. “Today they exposed themselves, and we saw who the real enemy is.”
“Who?” a few in the mob asked.
“The Order!” Victor said. “They have been manipulating and controlling us since the beginning. They have too much power. It is the Almighty’s will for the Order to fall, and I promise you,” he said, eyeing the mob, “He has assured us victory over our enemies!” Victor raised his fist.
A man cheered, “High Priest Victor!”
The mob joined in with shouts of praise and support.
“High Priest Victor!”
“Down with the Order!”
“Justice!” they all chanted.
Victor looked at the Clergy. They nodded, approving his newly appointed title.
High Priest Victor turned to the mob. “In three days, we march to victory!” he said then turned and walked into the palace.
The mob cheered and chanted as they continued to pile the bodies.
Torin watched the whole scene from the second floor window of a house. He closed the blinds after seeing Victor walk away.
A woman entered the room carrying a water basin and bandages. She wet a cloth and wiped the blood from Torin’s head. He winced at a deep cut that ran across his forehead.
“Come then, after everything that just happened, you cry about a little cut?” she said and rinsed the cloth.
“Thank you, Jennie. You shouldn’t have taken me in.”
“They would have torn you apart if you hadn’t hidden here,” she said.
“I heard about Thomas. I’m sorry,” Torin said, taking her hand. “He was always a good friend to me.
“He was a good friend to everyone,” she said and began to cry, but held her resolve. “You know, he stayed here the night before, Lucian that is. Ate supper and all.” She stared blankly at the floor. “He seemed fine. Like he was doing well.” She shook her head, then looked at Torin. “How can somebody do something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Torin said, “but I swear to you that Lucian will die before I draw my last breath. I’ll send him to Hell myself.”
“Thank you, Torin.” she said, applying a bandage to his head. “I heard people cheering outside. What happened?”
“Lucian killed Victor,” Torin said without much inflection. “Then he came back to life and rallied the mob against the Order. They march in three days.”
“You know, I would normally ask how someone would come back from the dead,” Jennie said, shaking her head, “but after everything that’s happened, it just doesn’t surprise me anymore.”
“He’s also the new High Priest.”
“Like I said, doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “World’s going to shit anyways.”
Torin grabbed her hand. “Jennie, listen to me. You need to lay low. I don’t know what’s going on here.” He shook his head. “I fear this is just be the beginning of something truly awful.”
She nodded solemnly, her eyes distant.
“You should leave.” Torin said.
“No,” she said. “This is my home. This is our home.”
Torin bit his tongue. “If you won’t leave, then stay inside as much as you can. When you go out, be careful, and keep your ear to the streets. I could use a pair of eyes and ears here inside the capital.”
She put her hands on her hips. “You assume that I’
m going to help you. I’ll be risking my life, you know.”
“Forgive me, I shouldn’t have asked,” Torin said, head down.
She laughed from somewhere that lie between eager and crazy. “Of course I’ll help you. You tell me when and where, and I’ll meet you there.”
“You won’t meet me,” Torin said. “Not here anyways. I’ll send a messenger to keep in touch.”
He stood slowly, assessing the pain. “I must be going.”
“Where?”
“To warn to Order. We don’t have much time.”
“You will at least eat and regain your strength,” she ordered. “Besides, nightfall would be the safest time to sneak out of the capital.”
Torin reluctantly agreed with her. As she left the room, he pulled the Prophet’s letter out.
Turning it over in his hands, he began to open it. He paused. Paul would want him to read it aloud to everyone when he got back home.
As night fell, he said goodbye to Jennie. “Tell the children I said hello, and that I’m sorry.”
She smiled, promising she would.
He snuck out back, mounted his horse, and rode hard for the Crossing.
Twenty-Six
At first light, Arkin left the Grand Highlands on horseback, alone. He didn’t much like the idea of Cain and Lyla working together, tracking the Garden without him, but he was adamant on going solo. He was confident that there was something at his father’s shop — some clue that would be key to finding the Garden of Stones. So he rode for the Crossing.
He chose to go alone to face his fear. His memories. He never had time to fully grieve. He never got to say goodbye.
To make the journey, he packed enough food for three days — enough to make the round trip if he rode hard. The road ran alongside a creek, for the most part, which made it convenient for travelers.
After pushing his horse hard through midday, he guided it to the water so they could both drink. The cold air and the gray sky would see night fall fast. Judging the sky, Arkin figured he would make it to the Crossing before dark.
But it wasn’t the dark that concerned Arkin. It was the bandits. If night fell, he would need to make a fire, and fire brought unwanted attention.
He remembered the last time bandits struck. The time when Torin fought them off. Arkin felt confident in his newfound training, but he didn’t know if he could take on more than two at a time.
That’s why he brought a crossbow.
The Order trained with many different types of weapons, but he found himself favoring the ones with range. Throwing knife, axe, javelin, and bow were his favorite, and he showed deadly precision with each.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like hand-to-hand fighting, he was proficient at that too, so much so that Master Coll said he reminded him of his younger self. Arkin just liked the ranged weapons for one simple fact — he could reach out and touch somebody.
Something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye — a hare, running by the stream. It stopped, looked around, then commenced to munching on clover.
Arkin slowly moved to the horse and pulled the crossbow from the pack. Laying it on the ground, he stepped on the arch and pulled the cord back. It clicked, setting the action, and he loaded a wooden bolt. He had steel, but those had more knockdown and were meant for bigger targets. Like bandits.
Arkin aimed, looking through both eyes, and slowly exhaled before squeezing the trigger. The bolt struck home, sending the hare rolling. He pulled the bolt from the carcass and washed his kill in the stream before tying it onto the pack.
A stick broke behind him. Arkin turned and pulled a knife.
“Easy now, son, I want no trouble,” an old man said. “That was a nice shot there.”
“A sneaking man always means trouble,” Arkin said. “So, if you’re not looking for trouble, then what do you want?”
“I wasn’t sneaking, I swear it,” he said, holding his hands up. “Just saw you from the road and figured I’d come say hello.” He laid his heavy pack down and dropped his walking stick.
Arkin put the knife away, seeing him harmless, and loaded the crossbow on the horse.
“I’d stay and visit, but I’m in a hurry and really must be going.” Arkin said, pulling some bread from the pack. He tore off a chunk and threw it to the man before taking a bite for himself.
“Much obliged,” the old man said before taking a bite.
Arkin fed a piece to the horse, it wasn’t much for sustenance, but it would have to do.
“Almost there, boy,” he said to his horse.
“Where ya headin? “the old man asked.
“The Crossing.”
“Just left from there,” the old man said between chews. “Spent the last few days selling my wares to the folks passing through. Best tradin’ I’ve done in years.”
“Was there a festival in town?” Arkin asked.
“No. Wait, you haven’t heard?” the old man said.
“Heard what?”
“The High Priest was murdered.”
“What?” Arkin said, stepping towards the man.
“Sure ‘nuf,” he said, brushing the crumbs from his face. “Caught the bastard who did it though. The same day he set the whole marketplace on fire. Killed everyone.”
Arkin felt his stomach drop.
“They say he’s a demon. Uses black magic and such, calling fire down from the sky.”
Lucian, Arkin thought.
“You say they caught him?” Arkin asked.
“Yep. Gonna execute him today.” The old man looked up. “Seein’s as it’s getting close to dark, I’d say he’s done gone. I’m surprised you didn’t know. Whole world knew and wanted to see it for themselves. That’s how I faired so well in town.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Arkin said, making ready to leave. “I really must be going now.”
“Wait,” the man pleaded. “Trade for that hare?”
“I really don’t have time.”
“Help an old man out. I’ve nothing but a bite of bread to eat and another day’s walk to the next town. Wait,” he said and began rummaging through his pack. “This knife here is a step up from yours.”
“Mine does just fine, thanks,” Arkin said, climbing upon the horse.
“Alright,” the man said, not giving up. “How about this coat. Still awful cold at night.”
“No thank you. I...”
“Here now,” the trader said as he pulled a chain necklace from his pack. He revered it, holding it for Arkin to see. “This here is some master craftsmanship,” he said. “Really I shouldn’t trade this for a hare; it’s worth so much more. But I’m hungry, and I like you.” He tossed it to Arkin.
Turning it over in his hands, Arkin noticed it held a white stone in the pendant.
“The craftsmanship is quite good,” Arkin noted, though he’d seen better work at the Order. He obliged the man, eagerly wanting to get back on the road. “You got yourself a deal.” He untied the hare and tossed it to the old man.
“Good doin’ business with ya,” the trader said. “My shop is in Fortuna. If you’re ever in town, do stop by.”
“Will do,” Arkin said, rounding his horse. “You gonna be alright the rest of the trip alone? Bandit’s love this stretch of road.”
“Been alright all my life.” The old man grinned.
“Well, thanks again,” Arkin said. “Safe travels.”
“You as well,” the old man said with a wink, then threw his pack around his shoulders.
Arkin rode hard for the Crossing as the light of day began to fade.
The Crossing was vacant. As Arkin rode down main street, he noticed many of the shops had been closed. The welcome light from lanterns hanging in the windows had been replaced with signs.
Closed. Open tomorrow.
He rode past the church. Looking up, he saw where his father had died. The sword was gone, but a permanent scar would forever live on in the wood. Anger boiled up inside him as his thoughts turne
d to Lucian.
Before he knew it, he realized he was crying.
Lucian was dead. It had to have been him who used a stone to kill all the people in the market. He had used a stone to kill Levi.
The thought of Lucian gone did not comfort Arkin. Vengeance had been taken away from him. Lucian should have died by his hand.
Arkin stabled the horse behind his father’s shop. Making his way to the front, he noticed all the windows and doors had been boarded up and nailed shut. He tried pulling on one of the boards to no avail.
The woodpile, he thought.
Part of his chores was to gather and split wood for a fire.
«Nothing is more inviting than a good warm fire,” his father used to say.
The hatchet still laid buried in the log where Arkin left it so long ago. He pried it loose and gathered some wood in his arms.
After making quick work of the boarded up door, he made busy to making a fire. His mind was blank, exactly the way that he wanted it.
Just make a fire, he thought. Tinder, kindling, match.
It was all so familiar to him, and within moments, he sat in front of a warm glow. He fed it into the night, his mind entranced by the motion of the flames.
“Why do you just sit and stare at a fire for so long, Father?” Arkin asked as a boy.
“When you stare at a fire, you get lost in your thoughts,” Levi replied. “I do my best thinking in front of a fire.”
Arkin remembered his father tussling his hair after saying the words. Arkin tried to think of more pressing matters, but couldn’t. He just sat there, remembering. Sometime later, his eyes began to droop and he drifted off.
The sound of footsteps on the porch snapped him awake.
He jumped up, realizing that he had left the knife and the crossbow in the pack, stabled with the horse. He cursed his stupidity.
Whoever it was stopped at the door.
The hatchet, he thought.
It had been left on the counter by the door. He ran to pick it up. Upon reaching it, the door kicked open. Arkin gripped the weapon, ready to strike.
