by Matt Moss
He looked her in the eye. “Did you do that for me? Or for you?”
She met his gaze, then opened her mouth to speak, but had no words.
“Pardon, Your Grace,” Rat interrupted, briskly walking from a side chamber. “I’m to inform you that the messages have been received. The troops rally as we speak.”
“Excellent. And how many of the independent cities have we reached so far?”
“All of them, Your Grace.”
“Good. That’s sooner than expected. With the Order gone, we will need influence in each and every one,” Victor said.
“With the Order gone,” Rat said. “I’m sure that will be no problem.”
Victor stared at him. Rat rubbed his hands nervously.
“The rest of our men should be here tomorrow,” Rat continued.
“Then we shall march on the following morning,” Victor said and flipped his hand. “That’ll be all.”
“Your Grace,” Rat said, then scurried off.
“Is everyone in Sanctum coming?” Sarie asked.
“Yes,” Victor replied.
“But Sanctum is our home,” she stated.
“This is our new home,” he consoled. “No longer do we have to hide in the shadows. No more living in fear.”
She looked at the floor.
“This is our new life,” Victor continued, raising her chin up. “We will create a new world, the two of us. The people will bow to me and worship you.”
She looked into his eyes and saw conviction.
“What if they don’t believe?”
“They will believe,” he promised. “Go, get some rest. It’s been a long day.”
She stood and kissed him on the forehead before leaving.
After watching her leave, he sat alone. He rubbed his neck, laughing to himself.
It was all his — the throne, the church, the people, and soon the Order.
He ran his hands down the arms of the throne and relaxed into the warm comfort of power.
Thirty
Lucian awoke to the snort of his horse. He opened his eyes to find a bubbling creek splitting the woods in a covered glen. The horse, obviously wanting a break, shuffled its feet, attempting to coax the rider off. Lucian rolled off the mare in excruciating pain.
His raised his blood soaked shirt, slowly, to inspect the damage.
Damn, he cursed. There were too many cuts and broken places to count.
He never minded the bones and the pain. His concern was for the deep cuts and the potential of infection. He needed to clean and bandage his wounds, and quick.
He looked around, familiarizing himself with the location. Many times he had stopped here, on the other side of the Crossing, for a rest.
He needed to get back to the Sanctum. There, he could patch himself up and allow his body to heal.
He limped to the stream and bent to drink, coughing as he took the cold water in.
The horse whickered nervously.
Lucian barely had time to stand before it ran across the stream and through the woods. He would have cursed it if he had the strength.
That’s when he heard the noise. A troop.
Through the distant trees, he saw movement on the road. He limped, quickly crawling behind the creek bank, hiding himself the best he could. The cold water stung his wounds like a dagger.
The first rider came into view.
Lucian recognized him, but couldn’t place his name. More riders followed, hundreds of them. Waiting out the never ending line, his body went numb from the cold. Sleep almost took him.
“Let’s have a drink,” a rider said and stopped his horse. He was one of the last in the line.
“You heard the boss,” another said. “No stops until the Crossing.”
“Ain’t nobody gonna know,” the first man protested before jumping off his horse.
Lucian lowered his head, knowing that he lacked the strength to fight these two men.
“Damnit! I’m not gonna get in trouble for you,” the rider said. “I don’t even like you. I swear I’ll gut you myself and leave you lying here.”
“Alright, alright, you scary bastard! Can I at least take a piss?”
The rider looked around. “Hurry up.”
After the man finished his business, they rode away.
Lucian crawled out of the water. His body convulsed as he tried to remove his wet clothing. To his best guess, he was half a day’s walk from the base, hurt, weak, and starving.
After shedding his clothes, he struck onto the road to Sanctum, the only home he knew.
Thirty-One
“How’s the defenses coming along?” Torin asked.
“Not as good as I’d like,” Master Coll replied. “We just don’t have enough time, and Victor knows it.”
The two men sat in the Prophet’s room.
Master Coll shook his head. “I’m working them to the bone.”
“Work them harder,” Torin said.
“They need rest,” Coll retorted. “How do you suppose they fight if they’re broken down?”
“There is no excuse, Master Coll,” Torin spat. “This is war. No man is truly ready for it. It’s live or die.”
“Do not presume to lecture me on war!” the old master stood and shot back. “Or death. I had already seen more than most while you were still sucking on your mother’s tit.”
Torin met his gaze, then looked down. “Forgive me. I should not have spoken to you like that. I...”
Coll breathed deep. “You have a lot on you, I know,” he said.
Torin nodded.
“And you’ve seen enough over the last few days to drive anyone mad,” Coll said.
“He was like a father to me,” Torin said, his voice quivering.
“He was to us all,” Coll said. “That is why we must protect what he built.”
“It’s not worth the lives lost,” Torin said. “We can find a new home. We can rebuild.”
“I’m not talking about wood and stone,” Coll said. “I’m talking about flesh and blood. The people. The beliefs on which the Order was founded. They must be protected, at all costs.”
Torin sat there, replaying the recent scenes of horror in his mind. He often faded off, trancelike, since his return.
“I’m not ready.” Torin said, eyes distant.
“Nobody ever is,” the old master noted. “If a man tries to prepare for a change in life, more times than not, he’ll talk himself out of it.”
Torin looked at Coll, respecting a side he’d never seen in the man.
“Sometimes it’s best to jump in with both feet,” Coll said.
Two knocks came from the door before Rico walked in.
“Scout’s here,” he said.
Torin stood, threw on his cloak, and made his way outside. The three met the rider as other members of the Order gathered around.
“Rode straight through,” the scout gasped out. The horse fell over with exhaustion as the scout left his back.
“Bread and water!” Torin called out.
“Here,” Stubbs said, handing the man a skin of water.
“Victor’s on the march,” the scout said after guzzling it down. “I left right after I took a headcount.”
“How many?” Torin asked.
“Six thousand, give or take a hundred.”
Everyone stood, looking at one another with apprehensive doubt. Cain spoke up from the gathered crowd.
“What happened to three thousand?” he said. “We can’t take on six thousand, no way.”
Murmurs of agreement spread.
Torin looked to his most trusted men for response.
“Six to one,” Stubbs noted, “I like those odds.”
Bennie walked up beside him. “Sounds fair. Been awhile since we had a good fight.”
“How much time do we have?” Torin asked.
“They’ll camp tonight, be here by tomorrow afternoon.” the scout said.
“Let’s hit them while they sleep,” Billy spoke
up. “We could take a couple hundred of them out and be gone before they knew what hit them.”
“Too risky,” Rico said. “They’ll have extra scouts posted outside the camp.”
“That’s no problem,” Billy said. “I can be quiet.”
“If someone told you to be quiet or take an arrow to the chest, you’d have three quills sticking out of you before you got the point,” Stubbs said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Billy said, staring at Stubbs.
“Enough,” Torin said. “Rico’s right. It’s too risky. We can’t afford to lose a single man. We’ll wait here, use the high ground and defenses to our advantage.”
“We will need soul stones,” Bennie noted. “How many do we have?”
Torin hesitated. “Ten,” he said. “But they are to be used as a last resort.”
“Right, well, as it is,” Master Coll said, “these defenses couldn’t hold against a herd of hungry beggars! Double time, men, you can sleep when you’re dead!”
Everyone went to work. News of the enemy’s numbers and the impending battle lit a fire inside of them.
Master Coll turned to Torin. “How many stones do we really have?”
“Three,” Torin said.
“Only three?” Coll said, shocked. “I thought we had more. How many for war?”
“I don’t know,” Torin said. “Those three are left over from the Rebellion years ago.”
“Well, let’s hope they don’t have more than three,” Coll said.
“How many do we have who can soul tap?” Torin asked.
“Twelve.”
“Is that including Arkin?”
“Thirteen if you count him,” Coll said, “but he’s not ready. The boy can’t control himself.”
“We need every man we got,” Torin said.
“He’s gonna get himself, or God forbid, someone else killed,” Coll stated.
“We won’t have to worry about it then if we’re all in the same boat,” Torin said, then turned and stormed away.
Coll shook his head and went to work.
Entering the Prophet’s room, Torin shut the door behind him. He went to the shelf — the one that held the wood carvings Levi made when he was a child. Moving those aside, Torin removed the false plank of wood. After pulling a soft leather pouch from within, he returned to the desk.
As he sat in the Prophet’s chair, his eyes were fixed on the warm glow of three stones that lie on the desk.
A blue hue, with a hint of silver, softly lit his weary face.
Arkin walked through the town in the early morning sun. It was cold, but his body was warm due to the work.
“How many left?” he asked Cain.
“Few more trips should do it,” Cain said, carrying a bundle of arrows.
Arkin entered the carpenter’s shop for the fifth time. The master, Brennan, was putting the last fletching of goose feathers on a wood shaft. Upon completion, he spit on the feathers and ran them between his fingers.
“Why do you do that?” Arkin asked.
“It makes them ready to fly,” Brennan said, thickly accented. He was an outlander, from beyond Cartha, but he had the reputation of one of the best wood smith’s in the world. “It is also good luck.”
“You believe in luck?” Arkin said.
“I believe things happen that cannot be explained,” Brennan replied. “Some are good. Some bad. Like this arrow,” he said, drawing it back as if he had a bow in his hands. “In battle, the archer raises his bow and looses. The wind may shift, or a shield may lower at just the right time. Good luck for the archer. Bad luck for the other guy.”
He handed the arrow to Arkin. Arkin spat on the feathers, then ran his fingers across.
Brennan nodded at him, smiling.
Arkin shouldered another bundle. “How many arrows does this make?” he asked, looking over the remaining arrows.
“Eight thousand, six hundred and fifty,” Brennan said. “I wanted ten thousand, but ran out of materials and time.”
“You did all this yourself?” Arkin asked incredulously.
Brennan laughed. “No. Five of us have been working on them since the Prophet left. His orders were to make a lot of arrows. So we did.”
Arkin shook his head, smiled, then walked out the door.
Upon leaving, Lyla met him. “Arkin,” she said, running up to him.
“Lyla! What are you doing here?” he said, dropping the arrows. “I thought you left for the camp with the others.”
“Doctor Arze is staying to care for the injured,” she said. “A few others and myself are doing the same.”
“You can’t,” Arkin said.
“Why not?” she said, putting her hands on her hips.
“Because it’s not safe. I would die if something...” He looked into her eyes. “Just let me finish here and meet me by the gardens.”
“Alright,” she said, then walked away.
A short time later, Arkin met her in the gardens. They walked in silence for awhile.
“Other than the obvious,” she stated, “what’s wrong, Arkin?”
“The Garden of Stones is a lie,” he said. “It doesn’t exist.”
“What?” Lyla stopped and looked at him. “How do you know?”
Arkin pulled Paul’s letter from his pocket and handed it to her. He had taken it from Torin’s desk before he left.
She read it and then read it again.
“It does exist!” she stated.
“You did just read it, right?” Arkin said. “He clearly said that it doesn’t.”
“Of course he did,” she exclaimed. “He didn’t want to reveal its existence to anyone had someone else found the letter. It’s actually quite brilliant.”
“What are you saying?” Arkin said. “That he wrote this to say that it doesn’t exist, because it does exist?”
“Yes! That’s why he was talking to you in the letter,” she said, moving next to him. “Look here.”
Arkin looked to where her finger pointed, but his eyes soon strayed. Her proximity intoxicated him.
“Arkin,” she said, stepping back, “were you listening to a single word I said?”
“What?” he said. “Of course I was. You were talking about...”
“Uh huh.” She punched him on the arm. “It’s a clue,” she said.
“What is?”
“’Arkin, I know you would leave no stone unturned’,” she said, reading Paul’s words.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Arkin said.
“Clues normally don’t,” she noted. “They’re like riddles. You have to keep your eyes and mind open to any possibility.” She handed the letter back. “Maybe there’s more clues hidden under some rocks here. Might be a map or something under one.”
“It’s just too much,” he said and shook his head. They started walking. He wanted to believe her. Most of him did, but part of him didn’t. He’d grown more skeptical of everything, and everyone, in light of all his recent revelations.
“I want you to leave, Lyla,” he said. “You still have time.”
“I’m not leaving,” she retorted.
“You could get hurt,” he stopped and grabbed her by the arm, “or worse.”
“So could you,” she said, meeting his gaze.
“I’m fine with that, so long it’s not you.” Arkin said.
“Well, I’m not fine with that. I would die if anything happened to you,” she said, her eyes intense.
He found himself lost in them, paralyzed. Her lips were open, waiting. He wanted her, but fought back every natural instinct in him. Why? Because he was afraid?
After recognizing his fear, he let go.
He wrapped an arm around her and pressed his lips to hers. His other hand caressed her cheek. Time stopped.
They broke the kiss, stood back, and stared at each other for a moment. Both chests heaved as their lungs worked for air.
Her hands pulled his face in toward her, wanting more.
After a
moment, they came up for air, both staring at each other.
His surprise played across his face in a wide grin. She giggled, then pressed her head against his chest, holding him tight.
They spent the rest of the day lost in each other’s company. Arkin had never felt so lost in time. There was only the two of them.
They walked to the base of the mountains and near the cool stream that fed into the valley. Lying on the grass, they gazed up at the sky, finding shapes in the clouds.
She rolled on top of him.
What started out new was becoming more familiar to him now. Her lips tasted like honeysuckle, and her hair smelled of wildflowers.
He ran his hands over her body, aware of the boundaries, but testing the limits a little more each time.
They walked hand in hand through a stand of flowering trees. He picked a new blossom and handed it to her. Arkin felt at ease with Lyla beside him. For a moment, they forgot the present, talking freely to each other about their pasts and their dreams for the future.
Then the horn blast came; long, slow, and haunting.
Thirty-Two
The horn blast echoed off the mountains. Rico, perched up in a tree, dropped the horn after three long bursts. He slung the bow over his back and zip lined down to the ground. As he jumped on his horse, an arrow shot by an enemy scout whirred by his head.
Cursing, he kicked the horse and ran it out of the far woods. Both man and beast cut through the green plateau at full gallop and didn’t slow down until they were in the town.
Arkin and Lyla arrived with the rest of the Order.
As he looked around, he noticed that everyone carried a bow, along with a sword, axe, or spear.
Each man also had an oaken shield strapped to his back along with a quiver full of arrows.
The plan was for every man to loose as many arrows as possible before dropping the bow and joining the melee.
Rico rode to the top of the hill, jumped from the horse, and slapped it away. “They’re coming,” he said.
Moments later, Victor’s army appeared in the far distance.
“Make ready, men,” Torin said. “Arkin, grab a bow.” Torin pointed to a line of longbows leaning against the Lodge.
Arkin nodded, then took a bow and quiver of arrows. Lyla did the same.
“What are you doing?” Arkin said to her.
