The Second Coming

by David H. Burton

  Empty.

  He heard Meega's bare feet running through the hall, and another door opening. The little girl called for her mother.

  John continued down the hall to find a wooden door on the right. He opened it and stepped back as a rancid smell flooded his nose. He performed enough Last Rites to know it.

  Death.

  He stepped into the room and let his eyes adjust. On a blanket on the floor, clutching a small wooden doll, lay the body of a Firstborn woman. Her eyes were open, but John knew no soul took residence there. In the midst of her chest a gaping hole glared at him and branded to her forehead was a symbol from the Firstborn alphabet. He knew what it stood for.

  Blood traitor.

  He turned back to the door, to catch Meega, to spare her the sight, but the little girl stood in the doorway. Thunder shook the walls. Her eyes stared, wide as the harvest moon, and her mouth hung open. With his amulet, he caught the only word she muttered, a faint whisper that fell from her tiny lips.

  “Mother.”

  ***

  The next day was one of rest, at least for Paine. The Westwood’s attempt to break through Lindhome had been thwarted by Truitt and the others, leaving Lindhome in peace for a time. The sentries, however, now stood guard, careful to observe its movements and behavior. So far, it remained quiet, as if waiting. Its stillness did nothing for the other members of Lindhome. It set them on edge. Fortunately Paine and the others would be leaving Lindhome behind on the morrow. He would be glad to go. He had no desire to remain in a place that felt like a pot on the verge of boiling over.

  Lya had left Paine to patrol the north border with Truitt, who from Paine’s deduction was definitively Lastborn. The man was powerful, strong, and had a cruel streak that was unlike the Revenants or the self-proclaimed Nymphs. He seemed to take pleasure in killing the small rodents they used for blood spells — chinchillas they were called.

  Puck was off roaming about Lindhome, fascinated with the Nymphs. That left Paine alone with Diarmuid. His heart ached at the distance that Lya was generating between them. With every footfall she moved further away. He held his chest and then turned his attention to Diarmuid. They sat among the knee-high grasses that cascaded from the north stream. Its muddied waters flowed through Lindhome, feeding the wilted willows that littered its meandering path. The water smelled stale.

  Paine was pleased to finally have a moment alone with the man, but Fang lay between them so he tried to keep his thoughts and intents wholesome.

  Three Revenants passed by, smiling at them with crooked teeth. Paine offered a smile back, but found it difficult to be sincere. They were repulsive.

  He looked back to Diarmuid and blurted out anything to get his mind off the foul-looking freaks.

  “Diarmuid, were you born in Haven?”

  Diarmuid nodded to the Revenants as they shuffled past. His smile was genuine.

  “No,” he said when they were finally out of earshot. “I was born in the east, just south of New Boston. My parents were hanged for witchcraft when I was young. A friend of my parents brought me to Haven. She didn't want to see me fall to the same fate.”

  Two more Revenants passed by, followed by eight children — apparently their offspring. They appeared and dressed like the Lastborn.

  Paine paused to study them.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Diarmuid said.

  “What?”

  “When two Revenants mate, the result is Lastborn.”

  Paine’s loins convulsed at the thought. “What about the Nymphs?”

  Diarmuid shook his head. “Sterile.”

  “I guess that explains why the Lastborn keep encouraging the ugly ones to breed and wear all that make-up and fancy clothing?”

  Diarmuid nodded.

  “They’re building an army to fight the Firstborn, aren’t they?”

  Again the man silently concurred.

  “Have you been to Valbain?”

  “No, it’s over the sea, but I've been all over the Confederation and the Outlands, except for the north where the Obek live.”

  “Obek?”

  Diarmuid chuckled. “Surely you've heard the stories? Massive beings that roam the north moors. They hunt caribou.”

  Paine shrugged. “You hear stories around fires to scare people. Monsters that are eight feet tall, things that lurk in the Westwood, spirits that curse the newborn, ghosts searching for vengeance, and the wolfen of course. But no one ever mentioned Firstborn or Obek, only that there were devils and monsters.”

  “There is much that people deceive themselves with, especially under influence of the Confederation.”

  “And the Witch Hunters,” Paine added. He paused, thinking of how they had followed them and taken Puck. “Why didn’t the Hunters just kill Puck? They held him as captive.”

  “They take those that are young enough to be trained. Those that are too old are destroyed. The Witch Hunters are witches themselves.”

  Paine furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t understand. Why would any witch want to work with the Confederation?”

  “The Witch Hunters are controlled with an herb. It’s called Wormwood. It binds with their soul and their ability to cast spells and summon the dead. Its addiction is deadly.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Diarmuid's voice dropped to a low murmur. “I used to be one.”

  Paine sat as if his brain had shut down. He had no words.

  The corners of Diarmuid's lips jerked into a shy smirk. “Don’t worry. The Lastborn freed me years ago.”

  “What happened?”

  Diarmuid leaned back against the willow that sheltered them from the sun's late afternoon rays. He gnawed on a blade of dried grass.

  “When I was eleven, I was captured by a Witch Hunter — stolen from right out of Haven.” Diarmuid tossed the blade into the stream.

  “All the way to the Heartlands I prayed that someone would rescue me, and when we finally reached Charleston, I knew no one could. The place was swarming with Hunters. There were others like me, all bound and gagged. One by one we were stripped of everything except a silver collar and put in a dark room. The smell of that place made me want to vomit. Most of those kids had soiled the floor where they stood. I found my way to a wall and sat. Not long after, the collar fell off. Then, everything went black.

  “I don't remember a lot of what happened in the first few years after that. I have vague memories of learning to cast spells, and summon spirits. I remember hunting witches and not being able to control what I was doing. I hated what they made me do. I hated the Confederation. I hated everything. And I could not resist them because they supplied the herb — the Wormwood to which I was addicted. Without its regular dose I would die. I tried to run from them once, but the withdrawal was excruciating. I ran right back after a single day. I remember every child I captured and every man and woman I killed. I was under their control for ten years. Then one day, on the trail of a young witch, I stumbled on Fang.”

  At the sound of her name, the she-wolf thumped her tail on the ground, grinning at Paine.

  “What I told you about her abandoning her pack was true,” he continued. “What I didn't tell you is that something in her compelled me to follow her. I couldn't help myself as she led me across the land. Her hold over me was stronger than the drug they controlled me with. I rationed the herb and despite the withdrawal I was suffering, she led me here, to Lindhome. I was lucky they didn't kill me, but Alwhin wouldn't allow it. She said I had some purpose to serve and that they should find a way to free me.”

  “So you can summon the dead?”

  Diarmuid shook his head. “When they removed my dependency upon the Wormwood they also removed my ability to cast spells and summon. It did something to my soul, like they took a piece of it. Somehow, the two were so intertwined they couldn't remove one without the other. And the withdrawal was difficult, painful. I spent a year here before I returned to Haven.”

  Paine put his hand on Diarm
uid’s arm. “I'm sorry. I won't tell anyone.”

  “It's all right. I wish I could have told you earlier, but how would you have reacted if I had told you I was once a Witch Hunter? Would you have come with me after you just killed one? I had to wait until you trusted me.” Diarmuid tossed another blade of grass into the stream. It sank under the surface.

  “I thought the Confederation outlawed witchcraft,” Paine said.

  “They did.”

  “But they use it.”

  “They fight fire with fire, enslaving an army of witches to destroy those that wield it freely.”

  Paine watched the murky river. Clumps of mud and rock tumbled into it as it swept through Lindhome. As the water tore chunks from the bank, it darkened further.

  “And once they have cleansed the land, what will they do with their army of Hunters?” Pained asked.

  “Exactly what you think; they will be executed.”

  Paine lowered his eyes and nodded. He felt shame at the thought, but could not help it. The bitterness was strong. Someone had to pay.

  Good.

  ***

  Paine sat upon Shadow's back as the last of the preparations were made before they departed Lindhome. A woman with blonde hair waited beside him. She had something of a masculine look about her. He could not say that he had made fast friends with Hella over dinner, but there was camaraderie nonetheless. She was easy going and Paine liked the quiet demeanor about her. The Lastborn woman was going to accompany them to Haven.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  He looked north. “I’m not looking forward to crossing the Westwood.”

  She gripped his shoulder. It hurt.

  “All will be well,” she said.

  Alwhin came to stand before Paine and Lya, guiding them to the side for a private conversation.

  Lya quickly spoke. “You never finished telling us of our heritage. Do you know who we are? Do you know who our parents are?”

  The woman turned her back to them and ran her fingers along one of the trees that was nearly dead.

  “I cannot say. They certainly do not reside in Lindhome.”

  “So am I Lastborn or Firstborn?” Lya asked. There was hunger in her eyes.

  The woman’s face shone with pride. “I took your hand. Your grip is strong.”

  “So we’re Lastborn,” Paine said.

  She looked at him. “Not you.”

  “But that’s not possible. We’re twins.”

  “Are you?” She seemed amused by the notion. Her grin was patronizing.

  Alwhin was then summoned to the front. Her stride was lengthy as she escaped his pleading for more information. The crowd parted to let her pass and then reassembled behind her. She spoke brief words of encouragement to all, but few with advice, to which Paine overheard murmurings about her failing Sight.

  He looked at Lya who seemed quite settled. Whether she was disappointed with the cryptic answers or not, she was outwardly showing that she had all she needed. Paine, however, did not. Nothing made sense any more.

  He looked to Puck who was licking his lips as Alwhin sauntered away. No longer was Lya the sole focus of his hungry stares. The young man had walked around Lindhome with a permanent firmness between his legs that had garnered snickers and some harsh rebukes. When he got caught snooping and watching someone undress he was mostly ignored, but Paine knew there was relief among the Nymphs and the Lastborn that the simple-minded deviant was departing.

  Puck had cast that ravenous look at Hella but once. The woman struck him across the side of the head and after that Puck cowered in her presence. He remained on the other side of Paine, out of her reach, still rubbing his face.

  With a quick wave and farewell, Truitt led the group towards the northern borders of Lindhome. Half the day passed before they came upon the Westwood where the wall of darkness waited for them. From what Truitt indicated, it had spread five feet in the last day. Paine was loath to enter. He looked for reassurance, but found none. The others wore apprehension like a thin veil over their faces.

  Truitt pressed forward, barely hesitating as he sliced open the throat of another wiggling chinchilla. Paine urged Shadow to follow, and after five long strides the mare shivered. The shadow of the forest coated him, caressing his skin with cold oil. The Lastborn cast a combined spell that banished the darkness, making the air less foul, but it did little to ease the tension.

  Truitt paused for a status check. Everyone nodded their heads in silent response. His gaze lingered longest on Lya and then passed to Diarmuid, who held up his thumb.

  Paine leaned in close to Hella, he whispered so low he barely heard himself speak.

  “How far is it to the edge of the Westwood?”

  The woman said nothing, but splayed her fingers, then closed her fist. She repeated the motion once more.

  Paine sighed.

  Ten miles.

  They rode through silence, interrupted by only the crackle of dead leaves under the horses’ hooves. The forest was still, no breeze, no movement, yet there was the sense that if the barrier wasn’t surrounding them, the trees would spring to life and rip them from the saddle.

  A weight sat in Paine’s gut, worsened by a screech from the depths of the Westwood. Shadow whinnied in response and Paine patted her neck, trying to ease her worry while attempting to relieve his own. He looked to Fang for steadfast support, but found little. Even the wolf appeared on edge. She watched the shadows as she crept.

  Hours later, Truitt called them to a halt. A foul smell filled the air and Fang gave a low growl. She eyed the trees ahead of them and two shapes emerged. They were triple her size and lingered at the edge of the darkness. Gray, matted fur shrouded their twisted forms.

  Wolfen.

  They inched forward. Their muscles rippled. The beasts circled the horses with cautious steps and Shadow whinnied. With muzzles as long as their broad necks they sniffed at the ground.

  The Lastborn were already armed, each one holding a blade or bow. No one moved. The wolfen paused. Paine looked to Fang. She seemed undaunted by the beasts, paying them little heed. Her attention was focused elsewhere, towards a shadow of a shadow; something that advanced towards them from the depths ahead. The trees groaned as they bent to avoid its touch. The shrubs in its path wilted.

  Paine gasped. Walking in the midst of the shadow was a little boy. He was dark of hair, with black marbles for eyes. His skin was pale as the moon and he could not have been more than four or five years old. He opened his mouth, a black pit of rotting teeth, and spoke words in a hideous tongue. The only word Paine caught was abba. His translation amulet gave him the meaning — father.

  The boy looked at the wolfen and the beasts suddenly lunged.

  The Lastborn dodged and scattered, fending off the snaps of their jaws. Sword met air as the wolfen danced around their parries and thrusts. Three of the men stumbled, their ankles suddenly entwined with roots. One struggled to recover, but not before a wolfen stole a chunk from his leg. He screamed in agony.

  He stumbled back from the others, clutching his thigh. Blood flowed, fast and red, and the wound blackened. He writhed as a dark rash spread along his leg, edging upwards. It crept along his body and he wriggled on the ground, screaming. The dark rash took him in a fit of convulsion. He then lay still, eyes staring skyward.

  Lya leapt from her mount and sliced open her arm. Her blood dripped onto the blackened ground. She began a spell to summon aid and the wolfen turned their gaze upon her. Their attack changed. One of them weaved around Diarmuid, almost reaching Lya, when Paine heard a voice behind him.

  “No!”

  A flaming green stone flew past, striking one of the wolfen in the muzzle. The creature yelped. Licking its lips, it looked to Puck, who stared defiance at the wolfen.

  “No touch her!” he shouted.

  With fury in their eyes, the beasts leapt over the horses. Puck had no chance to respond before they plucked him from the saddle and bounded once more to drag him i
nto the forest screaming. Three men ran after him. Paine nearly joined them, but the ground trembled beneath his feet.

  The boy and his darkness stood before him. Shadow whinnied in rage.

  Diarmuid pushed Paine back. He stepped in front of the boy. With the twitch of a finger, the boy cast him aside. The pepper-haired man collapsed in a heap as his head struck one of the trees.

  Fang growled and the boy paused, cocking his head to study her. He smiled. The air and the earth shook as he stepped forward. Fang inched back.

  From the trees a scream caught Paine’s ear.

  Puck?

  Three of the Lastborn ran to face the boy, including Hella. She struck him in the head with a broken branch. His head tilted with the blow and he looked at her. There was no anger there, no annoyance, simply a blank stare. He twitched his finger once more and Hella flew into the forest where the shrubs and trees covered her. The other two men swept their swords towards the boy and he cast them into the forest behind her.

  Paine then heard a voice in his mind, clear like a bell.

  -Help. Else we all perish.-

  He shook his head. He was hearing things. More screams emanated from the forest. He looked at Diarmuid, lying in a heap on the ground. Blood trickled from his lips. Tree roots were beginning to wrap themselves around his legs.

  Truitt and the others ran forward. One by one, the little boy batted them aside. Lya pulled the parchment from her robes, her face glowering in rage. The boy's gaze slid in her direction, his mouth opened, and the trigger in Paine was released.

  “No!”

  He then lost himself in the crushing swell of cold, biting anger that flooded out of him. He called upon the dead of the forest, all souls within miles. Feeling as if his heart exploded from his chest, a dark shadow burst forth. The boy faced him, his black hair shifting with the power that surged towards him. A multitude of souls surrounded him. His eyes squinted and he flicked his hand, muttering under his breath. The howling souls sailed towards Paine. Paine clenched his fists, his fear mixing with his anger. He reached to the souls.