The Second Coming

by David H. Burton

  He penned another missive to the Pope before moving onwards, realizing he had little time to squander.

  Two days further, as all three stood upon the white, sandy shores of Baleal, he wondered what the Pope thought of his writings to her.

  Had she even received them?

  Meega splashed about in the waves. He picked her up and she put his face in her hands once again, staring into his eyes. It was a moment where nothing else existed, but her porcelain features and smiling face. She still said nothing, but she didn’t seem to need to.

  He held her to him for a time before she wriggled free to splash about once more. John breathed deep, inhaling the briny air, and watched the little girl laugh as the waves knocked her over. He removed his boots, and waded through the shallow waters, feeling purified by the ocean's cool caress. It was a moment's peace before the journey over sea; a moment of heaven before stepping into hell. He gazed out. Four Portuguese galleons set sail as two returned.

  Would the Pope know what to do? Did he? And could he bring himself to do what was required?

  John relished a further moment of peace as they strolled northward. Gulls crossed overhead, squawking as they scoured the beach. They approached a small stucco building with a framed archway perched at the edge of the port-town. They stepped through the doors, where they were greeted by a man who was two heads shorter than John, yet his face was set with the same definitive jaw.

  The man smiled wide, opened his arms and gave a hearty laugh.

  “John! It has been a long time, my brother. How are you?”

  John returned his fierce embrace. “Manuel, it is good to see you. You look well.” He took stock of the small bar with its white and blue fresco tiles that climbed half the wall, some a little chipped. Manuel had run the establishment since they were young men.

  He sat at a round, wooden table and grabbed a ceramic bowl of olives, popping two into his mouth. Meega and Miguel pulled up chairs next to him, both sampling the black olives. Meega’s face grimaced as she put them to her tongue.

  Manuel looked at Miguel and then Meega.

  “Hello, little one. How about some fresh pineapple juice? Perhaps some cod cookies? Rosa made them this morning.”

  John smiled at the mention of Manuel's wife. “Rosa. Where is she?”

  As if on cue, the woman stepped through the kitchen door, an apron tied about her waist. Her dark hair was shorn in a bob that highlighted a round, pleasant face.

  Both the sun and the moon reside in those eyes. If only…

  She laughed as she sized up the tall friar, music to John's ears.

  “John! I am so happy to see you. How are you?”

  She kissed him on both cheeks and held his hands. “We miss you. You don't visit often enough.” She glanced at Miguel and Meega. “Who are your friends?”

  John made introductions and Rosa patted Meega's head. “Look at the little angel. I have something special for a girl so sweet.” From under the counter she pulled out a plate with a small serving of cake. Meega practically swallowed it whole. Within moments John's brother and sister-in-law brought out mounds of food. John savored every bite, from the cod dish to the goat stew.

  How he missed this. How he missed her. If only she had chosen him.

  He looked at the two of them and sighed. He did not begrudge his brother her love, only wondered at what might have been.

  When they finished eating, and a small glass of port sat in front of each of them, Manuel leaned back in his chair.

  “So tell me what brings you here. It has been years since we saw you last.”

  John tossed back the contents of the glass and it warmed his gullet. “We are making for the Confederation.”

  His brother straightened in the chair. “You've lost your mind! Don't tell me you flee like the others. So many washed up on shore. Only the Baron's Guild can provide safe passage, but their price is high.”

  He smiled. “I will take one of the Guild’s ships. And I do not flee, I chase.”

  Rosa sipped at the port. “Who do you chase?”

  Miguel pushed his glass away and leaned in to whisper. “The Beast.”

  Both Rosa and Manuel laughed, yet cast a nervous glance towards Miguel.

  Manuel rose from the table. “What do you mean you chase the Beast?”

  John sighed. “The Pope has sent me to search him out.”

  Rosa tossed back the port, her small hands trembling. “And you expect to find him in the Confederation? The Baron's Guild says the Hunters are dangerous.”

  “I have heard of these Witch Hunters. Perhaps the one I search for is among the Confederation.”

  Rosa eyed Meega, and her eyes gave John a stern look, a look he once loved.

  “You can leave her with us if you want. The Confederation is no place for a little girl.”

  John studied Meega.

  I would miss you, Little One.

  “Meega, would you like to remain here with Manuel and Rosa while I take a trip? I will try to come back for you.”

  Meega leapt from the chair and put her arms around John's leg, clinging so tight his toes prickled. He smiled inwardly, yet still worried for her safety.

  “I guess she is coming with us.”

  Miguel slammed his glass on the table, giving John a look of the devil’s anger.

  Manuel took the glass. “There is a galleon moored in the docks, the Lady Misia. It is leaving shortly. Go and speak with the captain, a man named Baron Jorge. Tell him I asked him to give you safe passage to the Confederation. He owes me a favor. He will take good care of you. But you should leave now.”

  John rose. “Thank you. I‘m sorry I cannot stay longer.”

  Rosa hugged Meega and the two friars in turn. “Come back to us, John.”

  Is this the last time I will set eyes upon your face, my Rosa?

  “I will, if I can.”

  The three walked out the door and down to the docks.

  Chapter 14

  Paine rose from his makeshift bed and took a whiff of his clothing. He’d soiled himself while asleep.

  He didn’t care.

  He’d roll around in his own shit if he wanted to.

  His head still hurt, less than before, but his heart — how it wrenched.

  Lya.

  The bandage was still wrapped about his skull, and tight. No one seemed to notice that he was up so he decided to change clothes. He checked the sidepacks on Shadow, looking for something to wear. They were crooked, as if someone had been rummaging through them. He grabbed some fresh clothes, or at least fresher than what he wore, and examined Sable. Her sidepacks were disturbed as well. Fortunately the grimoire was still there. Underneath it was a shard of mirror, splattered lightly with drops of brown.

  He checked his pocket. His fingers found the parchment. Fortunately, it was not sullied.

  Paine slipped out of his clothes and wiped himself down with his shirt. He’d need a stream and some soap. He couldn’t ride around smelling like this.

  He stroked Shadow for a time, lost in what happened in the Westwood. He closed his eyes, trying to sense another presence within him, but found nothing. Whatever he had summoned had left him untouched once more. It made him uncomfortable, like he owed some debt he could not pay; one that would be remunerated in vast amounts of blood.

  And then there was the lingering question of the deal that was made with the Westwood. He fisted his hands.

  That woman would pay.

  Puck approached, running his hands along Shadow’s flanks. “You… up,” he said.

  Paine gave the saddle strap a tug and Shadow grunted. He noticed the bags under Puck’s eyes. “You look tired.”

  “No sleep … well,” he muttered. His speech was languid. “You stink,” he said, plugging his nose.

  “Come, Puck,” interrupted Truitt. He shoved the young man, giving him little time to get his footing. Puck stumbled and fell.

  Truitt glanced at Paine as if daring him to confront him. Paine lower
ed his head, yet his blood simmered. He felt unable to challenge him, and hated himself for his cowardice.

  Puck recovered and ran off before Truitt could get to him a second time.

  Great Bear strode past and nodded to Paine. He led a horse upon which the Witch Hunter rode. Her arms were bound with rope and she sat upon her steed with a deadpan look. The silver collar around her neck was dull and tarnished, reflecting little of the morning sun, yet she still bore her uniform in which the pearly white cross shone. She looked at Paine for a brief moment. Then her face contorted and she turned away as Great Bear led her forward.

  Paine closed his eyes. His heart ached.

  She should have been killed.

  And Paine knew that he would have to find a way to take care of that himself.

  He climbed aboard Shadow and the horse snorted at his rough mount.

  The small troop traveled the valleys of the upper Outlands, eventually skirting the northern coast of Lake Nanabijou with its namesake's Island of the Sleeping Giant. Paine's nights were spent huddled with Fang. She never left his side. It helped lessen the suffering. The wolf would often cast a glance in the direction of the Hunter, and Paine wished once again, he could speak with animals. That made him think of his sister.

  Lya.

  A touch of guilt flitted through his mind. He didn’t feel he’d apologized for what had happened in the Westwood. But then, had she ever apologized to him? She’d used him repeatedly over the years.

  As he rode, alone and behind the others, Paine pulled the note out of his pocket, examining the flowing lines of the script and wondering what his parents might have known. He struggled to call forth whatever he had used at the tablet in an attempt to decipher it, but it failed him. He caught the Hunter staring at him as he pored over the parchment. He then folded it and placed it back in his pocket.

  Why had she been tracking them for so long?

  The woman had been relentless. How had she followed them through Lindhome and the Westwood? He felt sick with rage — he’d lost his parents and his sister to this woman.

  Was she the one who made the deal with the Westwood? And if so, why? What did she stand to gain?

  He shook his head. Too many questions.

  He knew one thing. She would pay.

  Dearly.

  The days passed without event, a routine of travel, food and sleep. Finally, after the fourth of such, they came upon the Haudenosaunee village. Paine stared at the palisade that surrounded it. He sensed some form of spell weaved into its making, but knew he would be hard pressed to find it. He wondered if Lya could do it.

  She would sacrifice almost anything to learn how.

  He grunted at the tugging of his heart and urged Shadow forward.

  They approached the massive gates. The place was deserted. Row upon row of long wooden houses lay in isolation.

  Great Bear sighed behind him. “I can feel the presence of my people even now. I never thought to see it so bare, but I feel at home still.” The large man left him to stroll into the village, as if discovering it anew. He tied the Hunter’s horse to the village gates.

  Paine wandered off on his own, searching out the Iroquois village with Fang at his side. He peered into one of the longhouses, taking in the smell of sage that lingered.

  “Paine!”

  He turned as Truitt rode up to him. “We're leaving.”

  “But we just got here.”

  “There are strange tracks here, hoof marks that are far too numerous. They head south toward Haven.”

  Hoof marks? Did an army of Witch Hunters precede them?

  Paine caught the Witch Hunter glancing in his direction. Her eyes shifted and she turned her head from his gaze.

  Did she know something about this?

  Paine shook his head. It couldn’t be. He mounted Shadow and followed the others, leaving the village lifeless once more.

  They rode well into the night, some of the men and women hoisting torches to light the way. A small clearing offered them a place to rest, but it reeked of skunk. Before Paine knew it, they rode again. The journey continued into the following day, and Paine was exhausted. He ate in his saddle, almost slept in the saddle, and practically wet himself in the saddle. He was thankful for the nightly stops.

  Two further days passed, and with legs aching he lay awake feeling every chafe and cramped muscle. Their arrival in Haven was expected on the morrow and they would be departing within hours.

  What he wouldn’t give to be at an inn, he thought — perhaps with Diarmuid.

  Gazing at the pinpricks that shone through the blanket of night, Paine listened as the earth slept. Other than Great Bear's snoring, the night was still as the old cemetery back in Fairfax. He rolled over to look at Fang. The wolf stared into the forest, ears pricked. A faint growl emerged from her throat.

  Paine followed her gaze into the forest, straining to see into the darkness. At first he saw nothing, but then two eyes appeared in the trees. He barely made out the form emerging from the shadows, stooped over on two legs with claws that scored the ground. Matted hair covered its legs down to its cloven feet, and the elongated ram’s horns on its head were silhouetted by the moon. Paine stared, unsure of what to do. He opened his mouth to yell out, but choked on his voice. Something else inched its way up his gullet. He gulped it down, feeling like it was about to spew from his mouth.

  The creature leaned forward and whispered in an ugly tongue that could barely be discerned. Paine caught only one word from it and it escaped the creatures thick, twisted tongue with a sigh. “…waaaaiting….” It almost bleated like a lamb.

  Fang's growling elevated, loud enough to stir some of the bodies next to him. Paine turned at a rustling behind him. Truitt held aloft a torch with a towering flame. It lit the clearing and Paine shielded his eyes. He turned back to the forest.

  The creature was gone.

  “What's going on?” Truitt asked.

  Paine swallowed the bile and whatever else had risen in his throat.

  “There was something at the edge of the camp, with hooves. It had yellow eyes.”

  Great Bear walked over to the edge of the clearing, hands gripping his massive war club. He searched the place where the creature had stood. “Truitt, I need more light over here.”

  Paine rose to find two large prints, twice the size of Shadow's, burned into the earth. Fang sniffed at the prints and growled. She looked off into the forest, and then settled herself on Paine’s blanket.

  Great Bear peered into the dark. “I don't think any of us are going to get any sleep now. We just as well pack up and move on.”

  The flame on the torch diminished. Truitt nodded. “I agree. I don't like the feel of this.”

  Paine found Puck on the other side of the clearing, close to where the Hunter lay bound and gagged. The young man retched in the shrubs.

  Paine ran over to him. “Are you all right?”

  Puck wiped his mouth with a rag from his pocket, trembling. “That was … demon. I remember. They take … my village. Only I live.”

  Demon?

  Paine shook off the nauseated sensation that swept over him.

  “Come on, we're leaving. You'll be safe in Haven,” he said, trying not only to reassure his friend.

  The wind rustled through the trees. The smell of burnt earth was thick on the air.

  Puck gave him a blank look. “I hope … you right.”

  ***

  Fang ran. She kept pace with the horses, twisting through the forest road as they sped through the night. The encounter with the demon had lit a fire inside her.

  She alerted the others in time, but it was not she that had scared the demon off. It was not the man with the blood of the Obek running through his veins, or the Lastborn either. Fang knew now, more than ever, her purpose.

  She slowed with the horses.

  Trouble was thick and pungent on the air, as was the heavy scent of ash and burned wood. And something else.

  What was that s
mell?

  They halted and Fang trotted to the crest of the small group. She peered down the ridge.

  The she-wolf inched forward, sniffing the air. She recognized the smell now, from a past long gone.

  Burnt flesh.

  She sniffed again and closed her eyes. She prayed for the lost.

  How many had died?

  ***

  For three hours the trio rode, the jagged mountains of the Black Hills funneling them south through a lush valley of balsam fir and gangly cedars. Brahm had heard that heads were once carved into the mountain's surface, but as she scoured the craggy range she found no trace of them.

  Roan's flanks heaved under her as she rode past the collapsed bodies of two Confederation horses. Their throats had been slit. And if they didn’t break, she feared that Roan might share a similar fate.

  “Diarmuid!”

  He rode twenty yards ahead of her, his gaze cast skyward towards the falcon that circled above the Witch Hunters. The man slowed his horse. A dark hood of irritation shrouded his usually bright features.

  Brahm reined her horse to a halt.

  “They have horses to spare. We can't save anyone if ours collapse.”

  Diarmuid considered her proposal and dismounted. “Fine, but we leave at first light.”

  Brahm slid off Roan's back. “We will find her, but we can't exhaust ourselves in the effort.”

  The pepper-haired man stared into the trees. “The Witch Hunters followed us all the way from Fairfax.”

  Brahm patted Roan's neck. “You passed through the Westwood and Lindhome. How could they have tracked you?”

  He hung his head. “I don't know. Something isn’t right about this. I’ve never known them to spend this much time on a couple of witches. They are either desperate or something else is driving them.”

  A thought niggled at her. “Diarmuid, one of the Hunters said something to me. She said, 'They will be ours.' Does that mean anything to you?”