The Second Coming

by David H. Burton

  “No.” He shook his head. His shoulders stooped. “I should have kept watch.”

  Brahm took his callused hands in her own. “Don't put that burden on yourself. There was no way you could have known they would follow you.”

  White Feather dismounted and cleared his throat. Brahm caught his gaze sliding from their joined hands before he spoke.

  “We will find her, Diarmuid.”

  Diarmuid's face crimsoned. They had ridden through a swarm of locusts, over fallen trees, and had had to gather what little silver they could to ward off four spirits that spooked the horses to near panic. Had it not been for Brahm’s ability with the Tongue, Roan would have thrown her.

  Diarmuid strode into the woods, taking his air of frustration and a silver dagger with him. She knew what he planned. She wasn’t sure it would help him. The wraiths and spirits of the wells and trees were never easily appeased. What deal he might make with them could be dangerous. Brahm pressed her lips together and said nothing as he left. White Feather shuffled towards Brahm, his eyes shifting between her and where Diarmuid disappeared into the trees.

  “Aren't you going after him?”

  “No, he'll return when he's ready.”

  The Haudenosaunee looked again to the trees. “Start a fire. I will catch dinner.”

  Brahm watched him for a moment, the spring in his step diminished as he walked into the forest. She turned back to where Diarmuid disappeared, then gathered wood as the sound of White Feather’s footsteps faded.

  Brahm waited next to a meager fire that she had struggled to start. Her thoughts wandered during the time she had to herself. White Feather was taking his time hunting for food and Diarmuid was still brooding in the woods.

  Or maybe worse.

  She sat by herself, although she wasn’t truly alone. She never was.

  -Mine! Mine!-

  Brahm groaned. “Shut up.”

  Was her past coming back to haunt her?

  White Feather stood at the edge of the woods, two hares in hand.

  His look was filled with perplexity and concern. “Who are you talking to?”

  “No one important,” she muttered. She took the hares, and worked at preparing their meal.

  Diarmuid returned much later, the creases in his forehead faded. His arm was bandaged with shreds from his shirt. The blood was still seeping through. She remained still when she noticed the cinders of his anger still evident in how he re-bandaged himself. He tore off fresh pieces and grumbled. At points he wavered where he stood. She assumed the price asked was more blood than he had been prepared to part with. And the bags under his eyes indicated that whatever it was had taken more than just blood. She hoped it was worth the price.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He looked at neither of them and sat, head between his knees. Brahm took the hint and ate in quiet as the night sky settled on the land.

  After eating in a rush, White Feather retired without a word.

  Just fucking great. Nobody’s talking.

  Diarmuid hardly ate, so not only did his silence unsettle her.

  “Whatever you did, it took a lot of blood,” she said.

  She first thought of a Nix, but the spirits of deep wells or bogs could almost never be trusted. Diarmuid knew that. The same was said of the Undead; those that dwelt between the worlds of the living and the departed. And their price was as costly as the true dead.

  He stared off into the trees. “When I was freed from the Wormwood, I lost the power to summon and a lot of my memory — I still have blanks. I have enhanced all the skills I learned as a Hunter, yet there are moments when I would trade it all for being able to summon one dead soul, or cast a spell. We’re losing them and I had to rely on help.” He pulled up the bandage, and there, wriggling upon his arm was a flat wormlike creature that was red and puffed as it fed.

  “Oh, Diarmuid,” she muttered. She knew it when she saw it, and so did the second soul within her.

  -Soul leech!-

  He made a pact with a ghoul.

  He rolled the bandage back down and prodded at the remains of the fire with a knotted branch.

  Brahm winced, wishing it hadn’t been visible. She imagined that the thing sucking on his arm was painful — a constant reminder of the pact.

  Brahm put her hand on his arm. “We will get her back. And we will find a way to deal with that thing. What price did you agree to?”

  He continued to poke the embers.

  She looked to the ground with his silence.

  It was heavy.

  There was nothing that could be done at the moment. There was no removing that thing, not without killing Diarmuid where he sat. The soul leech was for assurance. Once he called upon the ghoul for aid, it was time for payment. And if it wasn’t delivered within the time agreed the hungry, soulless fiend would take his soul.

  What price did he offer? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  “We should get some sleep,” she said. “We must ride early.”

  Diarmuid nodded, but remained still.

  Brahm settled into her blanket. The ground jutted into her back.

  Her second soul prayed.

  -Please let us find her.-

  Brahm prayed with her.

  ***

  Two days later, under clouds of somber gray and an ill feeling that turned Brahm's skin to gooseflesh, they stumbled upon a mining town set in the midst of the Outlands —a placed called Underwood. Diarmuid pulled them to a halt along the bend in the road, just at the entrance to town. His spirits were raised somewhat, but he continued to remain quiet in the evenings.

  “We're here for one night, we get supplies and we're gone,” he said.

  Brahm nodded as did a silent White Feather. Her eyebrows furrowed as the warrior rode ahead of her, following Diarmuid's lead. She tried to make conversation with him a couple of times, but his responses were curt. Something was eating at him too. She shrugged it off. She didn’t have time for men who pout and she was more worried about Diarmuid.

  As they approached the entrance to the town four men hailed them, each bearing a crossbow. The tips of their arrows were crude and mottled with silver.

  A burly man limped forward. He wore an unkempt beard and soot on his face.

  “State yer business.”

  Diarmuid pulled his horse to a halt in front of the man. “We're making our way east and are looking to spend the night and buy supplies.”

  The man's eyes scoured White Feather like day old pots. “Are you Sioux?”

  White Feather shook his head. “Haudenosaunee.”

  The man scratched his beard. “I suppose you're not bloody Witch Hunters in disguise.”

  Diarmuid shook his head. “Have you seen any pass through here?”

  The man spat on the ground. “Aye, a band o’ them came riding through here a day ago. Nearly run me down.”

  “Did they have a young woman with them?”

  “With raven hair? Aye, I saw her.”

  “Did you try to stop them?”

  “Couldn't. Look at me arrows. Little silver left to us now. The Confederation came and took our silver a week ago. Took Jimmy Jackson in chains with 'em too. Not a finer blacksmith in these parts. They even walked into the church and took the silver goblets.” He spat again. “We's a part o' the Confederation now, for all the good it does. We'd be better off without 'em.”

  Diarmuid dismounted. “We will not be here long. We are after the Witch Hunters that rode through here.”

  The man chuckled as he lowered his crossbow. “There were ten Hunters in that clan that rode through here. You won't catch 'em before they reach the rest.”

  “The rest?”

  “An army of 'em. A day's ride southeast.”

  Brahm's gut turned.

  An army?

  Diarmuid gave Brahm and White Feather a quick glance. There was a defeated look in his eyes.

  Brahm urged Roan a few steps forward. “Do you have a place we can stay?
”

  The man looked the three of them over, and then to his men.

  “Back off boys. These look to be good folk.” He hobbled back a few steps. “The inn is the third building on the left, with red shutters. Greta's the innkeeper and she'll feed you well enough. Tell her Mumford Banyon sent ya.”

  Brahm nodded. “Thank you.”

  Diarmuid mounted his horse and Brahm led the way along the road that snaked its way into the town. Blossoming lilac trees and potted flowers lined the cobblestone road, but it was rouge that covered festering sores. Wooden boards covered broken windows and doors, as did a light dusting of black powder. The scent of the lilacs did nothing to cover the acrid smell that wafted on the air. The few people that walked the streets, the elderly and the pregnant, eyed the trio with suspicion.

  Men and women armed with crossbows lurked in windows or on rooftops. They retracted at her gaze, sliding into the shadows.

  The three made their way to the inn, handing the reins to the stable hand, a young peach of a woman that caused Brahm to take a second glance. White Feather caught her looking. Her face flushed.

  Later that night, after a thick vegetable stew that warmed the gut and a hot bath that cleansed the soul, Brahm sat in the common room with Diarmuid and White Feather. She nursed a beer that was meaty enough to make a meal. She had not tasted beer in weeks and savored this one’s bitter bite.

  The common room was barely lit by the hearth in the corner and a few meager torches and oil lanterns. Droves of men and women overfilled the place, all covered in soot and grime as they emerged from the mines. The heavy smell of earth filled the air, masked only by the scent of pipe tobacco. The innkeeper, Greta, was a thin stick of a woman. She greeted each by name as they made their way to the bar.

  An old man with tanned skin sat in the corner, wearing a single, dirtied feather in his long black hair. Brahm guessed he might be Sioux, but he wore the typical garb of the miners, dark overalls and a black jacket. A handful of women and men gathered as he told a tale of a Sioux woman named Winona, and how she threw herself from a cliff to escape the untrue love of a man.

  Brahm looked closer at the crowd. Beneath the dark powder of the silver mines nearly half the faces held tanned features similar to that of the Sioux man. She heard other bits of conversation over the din, piecemeal talk that made her ears itch. She took another sip of gritty beer, straining it through her teeth, and focused on a young man at the table next to her.

  “…and they didn't touch the horses of Elora Gorge neither. All they wanted was our silver.”

  A young, frail woman who was covered in the same soot looked him up and down.

  “That's ridiculous.”

  “No word of a lie. Ask that dark-haired fella at the bar havin' a smoke. That there's Paul Cathman from the Gorge. Arrived today. Horse trader. Told me himself. Word has it he's a horse whisperer too.”

  The young woman cast a glance towards the bar. The man had wavy, black hair and lips red enough to make any woman jealous. He puffed away on a long pipe.

  “Well, he's a looker.” She smoothed her hair and attempted to rise.

  The young man's hand held her down. “Don't bother, Cat. I hear he has an eye for Jimmy if you know what I mean.”

  She pouted for a moment. “What's he doing here?”

  “He heard about the Confederation comin' here and takin' Jimmy off in chains. Paul said he relied on him to shoe his horses, but rumor has it there was more between the two. He's here to get him back.”

  “If those bloody Hunters had come when we weren't in the mines, why I'd of let 'em have it.” A flicker of fire danced along her fingers.

  With a deft motion, the young man grabbed a towel and covered Cat's hands. His eyes hinted caution and the woman cast a wary gaze in Brahm's direction. Brahm nodded and smiled.

  The woman’s a diviner. She can summon the elements.

  Brahm looked about the bar. A large number of the men and women were as frail-looking as the two sitting next to her, yet they were coated in soot. Not the hardy sort she would have expected for such difficult labor. She knew their secret instantly.

  The miners are witches.

  She was about to lean over to Diarmuid, but the young man and woman still watched her. Brahm sifted another sip of beer and feigned interest in the old Sioux’s tale. She nearly dropped the mug as the door to the bar slammed open.

  Three Witch Hunters stormed in, weapons bared. The crosses on their vests glinted orange in the bar's torchlight.

  Brahm rose, as did Diarmuid and White Feather, but before they could react, an arrow sliced through one of the Hunters from one of the Sioux women. The Hunter dropped and a dozen men and women rose. The Hunters cast their gaze about the bar. Fire flitted on the fingers of seven miners, and others had knives drawn, ready to call upon the dead using their own blood. From the looks on their faces, the Hunters knew they were outnumbered. They seemed to struggle with what to do. One of them finally spoke.

  “Surrender in the name of the Confederation.”

  Paul Cathman strode forward to face them. His ice blue eyes stared down the Hunters.

  “What did you do with Jimmy Jackson?”

  They stared back, mute.

  His face leaned in to theirs. Brahm thought he might bite them.

  “I think we should make them talk,” he said.

  Something stirred in Brahm's gut. She voiced it.

  “Wait! There may be another way.”

  All eyes turned in her direction.

  “You could free them,” she said. Perhaps they knew about Lya and how they could retrieve her. She looked at Diarmuid. Perhaps if she found a way to retrieve the girl, he could avoid calling upon the ghoul.

  The old Sioux from the corner walked over.

  “Who are you, stranger? What business do you have in Underwood?”

  “My name is Brahm Hallowstone. I'm from Haven.”

  He nodded at the name. “What is this about freeing them?”

  “The Witch Hunters don't act of a free will. They're mind-controlled with an herb.” She snatched a pouch that hung at the Hunter’s belt. She dumped the contents on the table closest. The Hunter reached for it and Paul Cathman snapped the man’s finger. The Hunter voiced his pain aloud, whether at the loss of his herb or the broken finger, Brahm wasn’t sure. She assumed the former.

  Grumblings emerged from the crowd in slow, steady waves.

  The old man standing in front of Brahm looked her over.

  “What sort of devilry is this?”

  “The Confederation uses this herb to control witches. It is the most addictive substance known and it binds to your soul.”

  The grumblings grew louder.

  “So what would freeing these Witch Hunters do? How do we know they will help us?”

  Diarmuid stepped to Brahm's side, but she spoke before he had a chance to open his mouth. “You don't. They could be just as committed to the cause without the herb. But it can be done. These Hunters might know something that can help you, once they overcome the withdrawal. So, you can either kill them where they stand, or you can try to gain some understanding of what the Confederation plans to do with your town, its silver trade, and its people.”

  The old man pondered for a moment. “I think someone better get the mayor.”

  The mayor turned out to be Mumford Banyon, and as he hobbled from the back of the bar, the murmurings among the crowd lessened. The Witch Hunters were herded to the far corner and were surrounded by eight men and women, all wielding arrows, bags of powders and fire.

  The old Sioux, who called himself Yellow Hawk, whispered in the mayor's ear, as did Paul Cathman before they both walked out the door.

  Mumford Banyon approached Brahm and sat across from her. She took another sip of beer. He leaned in close, and the caustic smell of him stung her nose.

  “What's this about lettin' Witch Hunters live?”

  Brahm smiled at the unkempt man, and then told him about the secret of the
Witch Hunters. When she finished, Mumford reached over and took a long draught of her beer.

  “Well, that's some tale. Let's suppose you're tellin' the truth. How do we free ‘em?”

  “I see that you have a good number of witches here. They must band together and sever the powers of the Witch Hunters. If you sever their souls from the herb, the effect will be lost. But they will suffer for awhile before you can use them.”

  “And what if these blasted Hunters still don't talk. Then what?”

  “They may not remember things for a time, but if you don't get what you want, do what you will with them. Kill them now or kill them later. But you stand to gain something from them if you wait.”

  Mumford pondered the notion and studied the Hunters in the corner. “I need to think on this.” He rose from the table, and called to the innkeeper. “Greta, time to close up.”

  Greta nodded her head, and ushered everyone out the creaking door. After the masses departed, Mumford turned back to Brahm.

  “I think you should retire for the night. I won't be makin' a decision right away.”

  Brahm took the hint and rose, Diarmuid and White Feather following her lead. She looked back to the Witch Hunters, wondering what they might get out of them, and then followed the innkeeper to their rooms.

  The following morning, the common room was empty. Only thin Greta, with her dirtied apron, waited for them with a plate of hot eggs and fresh bread. They savored every mouthful and pondered their options.

  Diarmuid gulped down a mug of water. He dribbled some. He looked tired. “I wonder how much the mayor knows.”

  “About what?”

  “About the Hunter army.”

  “We'll have to ask him.” Brahm looked over to the innkeeper. “Greta, we’d like to speak with the mayor.”

  “Mayor's gone to the Gorge — left first thing.”

  “And Yellow Hawk?”

  “Went back to his people.”

  Brahm nodded.

  “Mayor left a message. Says you have to go.”

  “Why?”

  The woman shrugged her bony shoulders. “Said you had to go first thing.” She adjusted her sleeve, covering a tattoo on her shoulder. It was that of a goat.