The Second Coming

by David H. Burton

  They passed remnants of the old world as they traveled — the occasional stone foundation of what was likely someone’s home; larger stone buildings for which Paine had no idea its use; the occasional rusted pile of metal he knew to be cars; and even old bridges that collapsed into mounds of rubble. Through it all, the forest was ever present, trees and wild shrubs poking through the ruins. Paine had a burning fascination with the old world, but Lya’s furious pace prevented him from pausing to study the remains. He spurred his horse to catch up to her.

  Eventually, as the morning dragged on and the sun teetered past the brink of midday, they came upon a man riding ahead of them. He kept a leisurely pace, and would often pause to stare into the trees. As they drew near, Paine recognized him as the pepper-haired stranger from the village.

  They did not want trouble, but before he could make any decision, the man brought his horse around. He waved, and rode north once more.

  Paine brought Shadow to a slow trot.

  “That’s the man from the village on Sunday. What if he’s with the Witch Hunters?”

  Lya withdrew a rusted knife she carried in her belt loop. The blade was blackened with some kind of sticky substance.

  “Then we’ll be ready.” There was a coldness to her voice that made Paine uncomfortable.

  He faltered, then nodded. Their pause on the road was already long enough to stir suspicion, so he urged Shadow onward.

  In silent time they drew alongside the man and his black mare. From up close, the stranger was even more broadly-built than Paine remembered. He appeared to be of Paine’s height and perhaps ten years his senior. The man was not too hard on the eyes and, for a brief moment, Paine thought of the concoction he had used on some of the men back home; even the married ones. It sat under his bed.

  Damn.

  A dog stepped out of the woods, loping along at the horse’s side. Shadow fought with Paine as he rode in close, her head swaying and whinnying in fear. He struggled to gain control and looked down at the dog. On second glance, it was no dog, but a wolf — gray with dark eyes and a rough muzzle. But with its tongue lolling down the side of its mouth and the strange grin that adorned its face, it appeared almost comical.

  Paine patted Shadow’s flanks and whispered in her ear. “Easy.”

  Regardless, Shadow kept one eye glued to it.

  “Good morning,” greeted the man, his voice hinting at caution; a likely tone out on these roads.

  “Can you tell us how far to the next village?” Lya asked. She kept one hand free from the reins, hovering over the knife.

  He studied them and pointed north. “About fifty miles down this road.”

  Lya spurred her horse onwards. Paine nearly followed suit, but the man interrupted him.

  “Are you two newly married?”

  Paine shook his head. “We’re twins.”

  Lya reined Sable to a trot. She wore irritation in her furrowed eyebrows.

  The man laughed. “My apologies, you don’t look it. I'm heading towards the next town and wouldn't mind the company for awhile. My name is Diarmuid.” He held out a calloused hand.

  Paine shifted in his saddle to reach over and shake it. “Paine.”

  “Is that your name, or how you feel?” he asked with a dimpled grin.

  Paine returned the smile. “Funny.” He’d heard that joke before.

  “And you are?” asked the man, turning to face Lya. Both hands held the reins and the suspicion in her eyes dimmed.

  “Lya.”

  “Well met,” he said and took her hand. His grip lingered for a moment as he gazed at her bandaged arm. He then pointed towards the wolf.

  “This is Fang.”

  Its ears perked at the mention of its name, but it stared into the woods, seemingly oblivious to their presence.

  He studied Paine for a moment. “I saw you on Sunday. You live outside Fairfax?”

  “About ten miles west.”

  “Within the new boundaries of the Confederation?”

  Paine nodded.

  “You're witches aren't you?”

  Lya’s hand twitched at her hip.

  Diarmuid failed to notice. “Do your parents know?”

  Paine’s face flushed.

  What could he say?

  “I see,” Diarmuid muttered. “The Witch Hunters got them.”

  Paine clenched his fists.

  They would pay. They would all pay: the Reverend, Billy Chapman, and that Hunter— her most of all.

  “I'm sorry for your loss. How did you manage to escape?”

  “I killed him,” Paine uttered. It slid off his tongue, so easy.

  Ravens croaked in the distance, the only thing to be heard above the slow clop of hooves on the dusty road.

  “There's something I should tell you,” Diarmuid continued. “It's not a coincidence we met. I waited for you to come up the road. You see,” he said, and reined his horse to a halt. “I was sent to find you.”

  Paine yanked on the reins and Shadow grunted her displeasure.

  “Us?” he asked. Fang scratched behind her ear, watching Paine's reaction before her attention shifted to two squirrels that chased each other across the leaf-strewn road.

  “I was sent to find people like you. I was in the village when the Hunters arrived, but when I reached your farm the house was already burned to the ground.”

  “Where are the others?” Paine asked. “There was a woman.” He clenched his fists once more and shook off his anger. It was causing something to brew inside of him, something cold and angry.

  Diarmuid shook his head. “I don't know. There was no one on the farm when I arrived.”

  “Will they follow us?”

  “Not likely. They won’t waste their time. There is much cleansing to be done when they annex a new area.”

  “Cleansing?”

  “They search for the signs of bloodcraft, especially dead animals, and then arrest or kill whom they suspect as witches.” He looked at Lya. “I found carcasses around your farm, sloppily covered. I also found this,” he said and held up a shard of red-stained glass. Paine caught a glimpse of Lya’s reflection in it and the unsettled look upon her face.

  Diarmuid pointed to her arm. “You must have been desperate to have cut yourself.”

  She said nothing and stared him down. He turned to Paine.

  “Why didn't you kill the other Hunter?”

  Paine recounted their story, crafting it anew so as not to make himself appear a threat. Paine never had much luck calling upon the dead, but whatever had come to him had left him untouched. This man did not need to know that.

  “Come with me,” Diarmuid said. “I don't know how much you know of the old world, but I’m from a place in what used to be Northern Michigan. It’s called Haven. There are people there that can help you.”

  Paine waved him off. He knew all about Haven; the possessed, the deranged, and the desperate fled there. “I'd rather take my chances in the Outlands,” he said.

  “The Outlands are not safe. The Confederation has long begun to cross the Mississippi and their full influence is not far behind. The river no longer separates us from them. They are sweeping through these lands and cleansing it. And there is a war coming, one that will require anyone who can summon or cast spells. In Haven, we can enhance your gifts, teach you things.”

  Paine pondered his limited options. Things were moving too fast and he needed time to sort this out. He hated rushed thinking, yet what sort of life could they have as fugitives from the Confederation?

  There was something in Lya’s eyes — intrigue, desire? She nodded her head a little too quickly.

  “All right,” Paine said, somewhat reluctant. What choice did he have? “We'll go to Haven.”

  With that, the pepper-haired man spurred his horse and led them north.

  Chapter 4

  If Brahm Hallowstone could count herself among the fortunate, she would have lived her life as something else.

  A bear maybe, or a
wolf.

  She looked around her.

  Maybe not a wolf.

  She sat amongst the human equivalent of a pack, snarling at each other and ready to take the lead at the first sign of weakness. Haven was like that these days, with various individuals yearning to take leadership now that Gregor was dying. The factions were split between those content with the status quo and those eager to confront the Confederation.

  Brahm harrumphed.

  Fools.

  As much as she loathed the Confederation, she knew which side she would choose. War with the Confederation was suicide. One need only remember the fate of Sanctuary and the butchery that occurred there. Brahm shivered as she thought of the men and women that were crucified, hung, drowned, or crushed under stones. The children had been taken. And she knew their fate. That made her tremble, yet whether it was anger or fear she wasn’t sure.

  While the power struggle raged, she picked at the cuticles of her fingers.

  She held them up. Even with the calluses they were good hands. They were one of her better features, next to her chestnut skin. Someone once commented that Brahm must have been born in buttermilk. She smiled. That woman was rewarded well for her compliment — a night of buttermilk delight.

  She pricked her ears. The conversation had turned. They now discussed the Missionaries — those sent out to lure witches to Haven. In particular there was concern about Diarmuid, a Missionary they had not heard from in some time.

  “… I know he's had five years to recover, but he was one of them for ten years,” said one voice. Brahm could not see the speaker, but his nasal whine was familiar. She flicked a piece of dirt from underneath her nail.

  “Can he be trusted not to surrender witches to them?” questioned another, a young man whose personality grated on her like a jagged stone in the sole of her foot. “Brahm,” he called, “you spent considerable time with him. What do you think?”

  She wondered why she had been invited to the meeting. She was no witch, not even a necromancer. Bloodcraft and the dead were of no interest to her. But she had become close with Diarmuid while he was in Haven. And therein lay her purpose for being there.

  She glanced up from her haphazard manicure and rose. All eyes followed her towering frame. She smirked as their heads tilted.

  “I understand your concerns,” she said. There was haughtiness in her voice, an inflection she had practiced over many years. “Others have brought back witches while he hasn't returned. But I would trust him with my life. He would rather die than return to his old ways.” She wasn’t sure if they wanted more than that, eager for anything they could use for their own machinations. It was all they were getting. She returned to her seat and stretched her legs in front of her.

  Most in Haven weren’t sure of Brahm, or of her loyalties. She preferred it that way. It kept them on edge. It also kept her safely out of the infighting. She reverted to her grooming.

  The woman who led the meeting paced. Despite her annoying traits, Brahm liked Ira. Unlike some in Haven, her heart was true.

  “As much as his absence concerns me,” the woman said, “what I fear worse is what it implies. I would like to re-focus our discussion on the reason we are here. The Confederation has plans to deal with us.”

  A flurry of gasps and muttering followed.

  Far too much commotion.

  Ira gestured for quiet, just shy of histrionic in her waving.

  “Due to the sheer number of Hunters, I recommend we halt all Missions. We cannot afford to lose our people now. We must now consider the defense and safety of Haven first, above all else. Remember the fate of Sanctuary. We must recall the Missionaries.”

  Ira sat, her dark, knobby hands fidgeting in her lap. Despite her theatrics, there was cause for concern.

  War with the Confederation.

  The faction of warmongers looked pleased.

  Perhaps it was time to leave.

  A frail-looking man who’d been standing by the window, and whose thin form cast a long shadow upon the floor, hobbled forward. Mumbling filled the room. It was Gregor.

  God, he’s aged.

  In the last few weeks he’d spiraled downwards, as if his well-preserved life was coming to an abrupt end. He was Haven’s oldest member and wielded a quiet resolve that kept the two factions from ripping each other apart.

  Someone called out. It was the first voice again. “We need a weapon of great power; something to defeat the Confederation. Otherwise we will become like the others. It is said Gregor knows of such power.”

  Others chorused their agreement.

  The old man limped to the center of the floor. He looked quietly into the audience, as if surmising who the jackals were.

  Brahm smiled.

  He already knew.

  “I know of which power you suggest,” Gregor said. His voice was hoarse. “And using it was tried once already, to our peril. It will not work. There is none among us that can wield it. Its will is too great.”

  “But there are those among us that can summon the dead and command the elements with greater purpose than…” The man paused, knowing he was insulting Gregor with such a statement. Gregor was unfazed by the insinuation. His face showed no reaction, but the sag in his shoulders indicated he might be giving in.

  He looked up once more. “I suggest we let everyone think it over. This matter can be settled tomorrow. Hasty decisions are often the ones we regret the most.” A chorus of mumbles followed, accompanied by both nodding heads and sour faces. Brahm took the opportunity to escape and swept out the door.

  She strode towards her living quarters as the others remained to gossip and linger. Her gaze wandered to the great pines and maples interspersed among the rustic dwellings as she walked. There was something unnatural about the trees and their undeviating trunks that shot straight upwards. And somehow their rigidness made her think of Diarmuid.

  She laughed aloud, hearty, unsure of where that thought originated. She hardly thought of him in that light. She did miss him though; Diarmuid and his unwavering integrity. Usually Missionaries sent word if they were delayed, but in a year there was nothing from him. But her gut told her Diarmuid was fine, and Brahm Hallowstone’s gut never lied.

  She headed north to the stable yard. As usual, the horses left a more than healthy supply of work. After donning work boots, she grabbed the closest pitchfork.

  The cleaning and sweeping persisted for a couple of hours, the stench making her head feel light. But the horses were good, quiet company.

  Eventually Brahm stepped out of the stables, desperate for air that didn’t reek of shit with a side of rotting carrots. In the distance, a young woman approached. She wore a red scarf about her neck, a symbol of her desire to be rid of the Confederation. Brahm rested the pitchfork against the fence while she waited for her. The woman was short, her mouse-brown hair framing a homely face. Farin was not one of the prettiest women she knew, but she was one of the nicest. And despite her inclinations towards war-mongering, she was foremost in seeing to the care of Gregor in his weakened state.

  She wasn’t a bad lover either.

  Brahm perched herself on the rails of the wooden fence and wiped the sweat from her shaved head.

  “What brings you here?” she asked and pictured herself running her tongue along the nape of the young woman’s neck, a particularly tender spot that would get her moaning. Farin was fifteen years her junior; and at twenty-one everything was still perky and firm — the way Brahm liked it.

  “There is a messenger here that needs your talents with the Tongue.”

  Although the Tongue comment might warrant some playful banter, Brahm allowed those thoughts to fall into the straw at her feet. There would be time to toy with Farin later. Brahm’s talent with both tongues was legendary, but this one involved communing with animals.

  She leapt from the fence. “Let's go, then.”

  Brahm shed the work boots to put on her own supple, leather ones, and left the pitchfork against the fence.
It would be waiting for her.

  They walked along the path and as Brahm veered off towards the pigeon house, Farin grabbed her arm.

  “The birds arrive over there,” Brahm said.

  “It's not a bird.”

  “What is it?”

  “A wolf.”

  Brahm left Farin where she stood, and ran.

  ***

  A recent gale had passed north of Fairfax, uprooting the trees and leaving their remains strewn across the roads. It made passing difficult at times, but Paine followed Diarmuid’s lead. The man seemed to know what he was doing.

  Monstrous storms ravaged the lands and Paine’s family, like others, simply dealt with the aftermath of cyclones and lightning that didn’t just drift; they hunted. And when they preyed upon a village, almost no one survived. Yet from what Paine had heard it was mild compared to the hundred years that followed the Shift. Those storms possessed something unnatural, powers beyond what the old world was prepared to comprehend. And they had swept the land clean, as if the Earth had rid herself of a plague of sores that had festered on her surface for far too long.

  Paine studied Diarmuid as they walked. He enjoyed watching the man. He was agile and lissome, which was surprising for someone of his stature. He was wide in the shoulders and had legs with the girth of small tree trunks. The combination should have made him slow and cumbersome, but instead he moved like a cat. Paine licked his lips at what he might do with a man like that.

  As the sun dropped beyond the treescape, they stopped for the night and soothed their weary feet by a stream that flowed through the woods in a gentle winding. With a makeshift spear in hand, Diarmuid departed to hunt for dinner. He returned with a few pheasants and wiry hares, the latter of which had the mange.

  It was not the finest of meals, but satisfying enough to settle the hunger in Paine’s gut. After eating, Lya sat off to the side with her distant thoughts and Diarmuid unsheathed an arm-length silver dagger from a scabbard. He polished it as they sat.

  “Diarmuid, how long have you and Fang been together?” Paine asked, trying to make some form of conversation. It wasn’t one of his stronger points, but Lya’s silence was getting uncomfortable. It was not the first time she had retreated within herself, but this was one of the longest.