The Second Coming

by David H. Burton

  -It’s her!-

  Brahm’s spirit was hauled forward without consent, dragged by the second presence inside her. She sailed towards Lya in a mad frenzy. Her soul careened towards Lya’s as Brahm’s fingers clutched the kahbeth. Like iron filings to lodestone, her soul reeled back before she reached her. The voice in her head was screaming again.

  -It’s her! It’s her!-

  Shut up!

  She rang her finger along the blade of the kahbeth, forcing blood. The pain silenced the voice once more.

  Three Hunters stooped to fill their flasks at the river. The others remained watchful, but casual in their stance. Perhaps this was good fortune after all, she thought. Perhaps this wasn’t a deliberate move by the Confederation. Night watched her from the shrubs. The wolf nodded, but his thoughts did not come to her.

  Brahm fidgeted as she waited, flicking the blades of the kahbeth with her thumb. The Hunters took turns and when one of the last ones finally stooped before the waters Brahm knew their moment had arrived.

  So had White Feather.

  He loosed an arrow that dropped one of the Hunters face down into the river. The arrow protruded from his back.

  The Hunters reacted quickly, four of them bounding towards the source of the strike. White Feather ran towards them, war club in hand.

  Diarmuid joined him from where he hid in the trees, sword bared.

  The wolves leapt from the shrubs, their snarling echoing through the trees.

  All but two of the Hunters scattered to face their attackers. Two stood guard over Lya, backs to Brahm. The kahbeth shrieked at Brahm for blood, but she deprived them.

  Instead, she crawled across clumps of bull thistle, wincing as they pierced her skin. She made steady ground, yet cautious not to make any sudden moves or sounds.

  The wolves pulled two of the Hunters to the ground. Brahm heard their screams. So did the kahbeth. They yearned.

  White Feather hurled his war club at one of the Hunters. It struck her in the face.

  Diarmuid fought with another, and pierced his thigh with the sword. The blood ran fast and red.

  Again, the kahbeth screamed in Brahm’s head. They thirsted, they hungered.

  She inched forward.

  When she was close, Lya noticed her and Brahm motioned for her to wait. Lya disobeyed that command and dashed towards Brahm, holding out her roped hands in front of her.

  “Break these!” she called.

  Brahm growled and leapt from the shrubs. She raised the kahbeth and with a swift stroke she sliced through the bindings. She reached over to release the collar from Lya’s neck, but her fingers faltered as the ground shook. The collar slid off on its own. Then two of the Hunters, palms sliced and dripping, summoned something from the earth.

  “What the—“

  The dirt around Brahm’s feet exploded and sent her flying. She rolled, and paused, shaken. Lya was free and standing, as if the blast had not even touched her. She took a jagged rock and sliced open her own hand. She screamed and uttered words in a hideous tongue while she etched symbols into the dirt.

  Waves of energy flooded through Brahm. The air shimmered. The two Hunters rose into the air. Fear blazed in their eyes and they reached for their throats. They gasped for breath. The rage in Lya’s face was seething. A silent scream emanated from the Hunters’ mouths as they burned under an invisible fire. Their flesh trickled from their bodies. A cold presence swept through the trees and Brahm cradled herself. She kept her soul resident in her body, not wanting to touch whatever the girl had unleashed. The carnage lasted for what appeared an eternity as the Hunters’ bodies dripped to the ground in steaming puddles.

  Brahm turned from the sight.

  White Feather, waist-deep in the river, removed his dagger from the chest of another and abandoned the body to float downstream. Diarmuid parried with one of the Hunters. Lya divined dark fire with one hand and flung it at the Hunter. The flames licked at the man's body, and he shrieked in pain. He dropped his silver cross before he could stop her.

  The remaining Hunters fled for help.

  Lya screamed again and the power she had summoned flooded off her in waves. The trees shook as she lowered her arms and then dropped to her knees. The souls of darkness she had called upon wailed as they departed. Brahm crawled over to the girl. The second soul within her sobbed.

  They were interrupted by Night's presence.

  *More come. We will lead them astray, but you must go. You are marked as one of my own, Orenda. Word will go through the land. You will always have aid. Be well. And remember, the gift is temporary.*

  Brahm smiled inwardly as she nodded to the wolf. She had a bond with him she never expected.

  “He talks,” Lya croaked.

  Brahm looked at Diarmuid. “More Hunters are coming.”

  -It’s her!-

  Despite the fatigue that swept over her, Brahm rose. She brushed the thick strands of black hair from the girl's face. “We have to go. Now.”

  Lya nodded, her eyes still shining with the remnants of whatever she had summoned. Her legs faltered.

  “Talon is dead,” she whispered.

  Brahm pulled her up. “I know.”

  Within moments, White Feather approached with the horses in tow. They mounted, Lya clinging to Diarmuid, and made for the road as fast their horses would carry them.

  ***

  Night watched as the horses galloped down the road, a cloud of dust marking their trail.

  Humans.

  An amused grin stretched across his muzzle, a memory from long ago.

  He scratched at the back of his ear, and sniffed the air, catching the lingering smell of the Lastborn girl.

  Not fully, though. There was an interesting mix.

  Some human, some Sidhe, and, when he savored the smell long enough, even something not seen in countless years.

  Her powers are impressive, but tainted.

  The wolf sniffed again and recalled Fang's summons. Yet her message through the clans was vague. Change is coming. Watch for the Lastborn girl.

  She had left something out; something too important to be carried on the howls of wolves. It sat like week-old mutton in the depth of his bowels.

  Night sneezed. Bull thistle always tickled his nose.

  He caught the scent of the twin-souled woman, still thick on the air. He gave what help he could to Orenda, but it would not be enough.

  She requires rest. He could smell it on her.

  Her power intrigued him as well. He had not seen its kind, not once in his long years.

  A new power to match the old, perhaps?

  Fang whispered of it once. He wondered how many others possessed such a talent.

  At least one, within the encampment. One who was watching.

  He sneezed again. He would keep that to himself until he met with Fang.

  Bane approached him, head lowered, gaze shifting.

  *The Hunters come. *

  The river trickled with blood.

  More will die before the day is out.

  He craned his neck and howled, and then scampered west.

  Good luck to you, Orenda. May you return from the Forgotten Realm.

  ***

  Hours later, the four stumbled upon a small village. An overwhelming weakness stole over Brahm as she dismounted. She reached to Roan for support, but missed and collapsed to the ground. Her head sagged and her eyesight clouded, a milky white haze covering the world. Blackness overcame her and Brahm heard two things — White Feather calling her name and her second soul screaming at her.

  -Fool!-

  Chapter 17

  The winds of the North Moors were sodden with the scent of caribou. Gault scratched his nose and then cleared it in a small puddle, the yellow mucous staining its clear waters. He sheathed the kahbeth across his back and perched himself upon a large rock, letting the late afternoon sun bake his thick hide. He removed the polar bear head from his crown, the sign of his status as a shaman among the Obek. About
twenty yards before him stood a wolf with its head cocked to the side.

  He let out a hearty laugh at the sight of it. “What is it, brother wolf? Never seen Obek?”

  The wolf lowered its head, its eyes never leaving his. Gault sat, waiting. It studied him before it took two more cautious steps. He knew why it was there, and he waited with a crooked smile upon his gray face. The wolf inched closer and then delivered its message, the smells of hatred and loathing accompanying its visions.

  The Obek cleared his nose again and the wolf darted off, heading back to the forest of scotch pines that thrived to the south. Its news cast a curtain of despair on his heart. Haven and Lindhome were lost. Perhaps the Obek were next. He muttered a curse, and plucked a clump of purple heather from the earth. It would bring inner peace.

  The old Obek rose, looking towards those he had hand-picked to accompany him. They meditated in a circle, giving their bodies a rest from the great run.

  But a run to where now?

  He had received Orenda's message, and they were on their way to Haven's aid. He lowered his head, and muttered a small prayer for the souls of the dead.

  May the Gods keep them.

  He thought of Orenda and raised his face to the sun's rays. Something was not well with her. A chill swept through him, as if Sedna, the great Sea Goddess of the north, breathed down his neck. He sensed that Orenda’s presence in the world was lacking, weak, like she lay between the world of the living and the land of the dead. He owed her much for his nephew’s life.

  Soul for soul, life for life, blood for blood.

  He grabbed the rabbit-hide sack tied to his waist, and shook its contents three times. He uttered a small prayer to the gods to grant him vision, and then upturned the sack on the moss-covered earth. Four Obek finger bones collapsed to the ground; two in a heap and two off to the side. The Bone of War, red for blood, pointed southeast.

  He examined the two piled together, the black and the green. Life mixing with Death.

  Orenda walks the Forgotten Realm.

  His fingers immediately began twitching a spell. His thick lips muttered other words; a second incantation — a spell of complement. He then sluiced off a portion of his own soul and winced with the pain of it.

  Soul for soul.

  The portion flew off into the world, with a voice to summon her back from whatever dark abyss she had descended into. Then Gault examined the fourth bone, stark white. It was crooked and had fallen into a small crevice, pointing into the depths of the Earth. Gault was unsure of how to read the Bone of Peace.

  What did it mean?

  He scooped up the bones and returned them to the sack, making his way quietly to the rest of his clan. He settled his aging body in the spot reserved for him at the northern crest of the circle. He closed both sets of eyelids, and slowed his breathing.

  The answer would come.

  ***

  Paine drifted in a land that was not land, in a white void where sensation was an empty feeling inside him. He attempted to step forward, but could not move his legs. His arms hung limp at his side. He opened his mouth to speak but no words fell from his lips. His head sat like stone upon his shoulders. He tried to breathe, but his chest would not move.

  A darkness inside him worked its way up, brimming at the edge of his throat. It threatened to vomit. Paine swallowed it down.

  In the white void of a distance, he caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-skinned woman. She looked familiar. He knew her. He opened his mouth to speak, but a low, wicked laugh vibrated in his bones. Paine struggled to see what was behind him. He recognized the voice.

  Something whirled him about, and before him stood a demon, the one that haunted his nightmares. With it were the dead, hundreds of souls. And they were bedecked in robes of red. They danced around him with cloven feet.

  The demon cocked its head, watching Paine and it moved forward, muttering the words of a spell he could not hear. Its yellow eyes glowed within the dark hood and it wore a tattered robe that fell short of its hoofed feet. In its claws it held a black leash, which circled Paine's neck. The demon leaned in towards him, its breath heavy and wet, and pulled back the hood.

  Paine opened his mouth in a silent scream as his own horned face stared back at him.

  ***

  A tall, dark-skinned woman stood in a land inundated with trees of green bark and sable leaves. She did not recognize the towering giants that shot upwards. They were rigid and tall. That made her want to remember someone, but who?

  She laughed, but did not understand why.

  A carpet of moss and peat covered the bog that was the forest floor, and she sniffed. She found only dead air.

  A dark feeling overshadowed the forest, a presence that could only be described as despair. She shuddered.

  Where am I? Who am I?

  She lifted her legs to step through the moss, and struggled to pull her feet from the soft ground. She slogged forward and twitched her ears to listen.

  No sounds. What is this place?

  She didn't remember coming here. She didn't remember anything. There was nothing but the present, as if her life had begun in the moment she found herself standing among the great trees. She felt no thirst or hunger. She felt nothing. There was only the bog forest, a never-ending maze of mammoth trees.

  Through the marsh she walked, her breathing labored, her legs sore. Something moved at the corner of her eye and she thought she saw the horns of a great stag, but it vanished before she could make it out. She continued on and wondered when she would find the end of the forest, and stumbled upon a large body of water, a muddied reflection of what she knew it should be.

  How do I know that?

  The trees disappeared, leaving her standing on the still, shimmering surface of the sea. She looked about, but found only water, smooth as glass.

  The woman thought it strange. She knew she should not be able to walk on water.

  How do I know that? What happened to the trees?

  She strode forward.

  Across the water she walked, and the sun beamed upon her naked form. Her long fingers caressed the smooth dark skin of her arms. They were like buttermilk.

  That made her want to pleasure herself, but neither the mounds upon her chest nor the opening between her legs took delight in it.

  The water under her bare feet felt dry as earth and offered no cooling touch. Time was lost to her as she walked; yet in a time that was not time, she came upon land. She stepped onto the beach and the water abandoned her as the trees had done, leaving her to stand in the midst of a vast desert. Wind blew and sandstorms rose, yet the sands did not sting her bare flesh. She strode across the desert and did not feel the heat that scorched the land.

  Before her, a small bush rose from the sands, its branches aflame with tongues of red fire that did not consume the lush leaves or course bark. She approached the bush and in her mind a voice thundered.

  *I am.*

  The fire spread, igniting the land in a sea of crimson flame, searing everything except the woman and the bush. The voice thundered again.

  *I am.*

  The bush succumbed to the flames and burnt to dust before her eyes, leaving the woman to walk across a lake of fire and brimstone. She continued on, knowing of no other purpose.

  Where am I going?

  She stepped onto a land filled with green grass, the tall blades tossed about by a hollow wind that blew through her, sparing her the feel of its cool touch. The grass did not rustle with the wind, nor tickle her skin, nor delight her ears with a faint whisper.

  Time, or the lack of time, passed, and in the distance a stone city waited for her, armored in shining white. As she walked closer, a red substance trickled down its towering walls.

  It bleeds.

  The blood pooled on the ground and flowed towards the craggy mountains in the distance, a river of crimson.

  The iron gates to the city stood open, revealing a gaping entrance that waited to devour her. She strode forward,
and as she entered the city, the walls appeared to shift. The woman looked closer. Countless bodies, all painted white and nailed in place, squirmed. They opened their mouths to cry out, but no words fell from their ruby lips. The sight of them sent a shiver through her body, but the dark-skinned woman did not avert her eyes. She knew she must bear witness.

  An altar lay in the midst of the empty city and upon it sat a young man. He had mouse-brown hair, and something about his eyes looked familiar to her. Blood seeped from the corners of his mouth.

  Do I know him?

  She stepped towards him, but a look of horror swept across his face and he disappeared. But not before she saw a black leash around his neck.

  No other signs of life did she see within the city. Rows of gnarled, lifeless olive trees lined a bone-littered path, guiding her towards a white building with spires that stretched for the heavens — a church.

  The Church.

  The dark-skinned woman walked the path, her feet stepping upon the skulls and bones that paved it. The bones made no sound as they cracked and crumbled beneath her feet.

  She entered the church and strode into an airy room painted with scenes of human sacrifice; dark-winged demons holding swords, seven-headed beasts, dragons, horned creatures carrying scythes of death, and above them all a shining man clothed in white. Below his sandaled feet groveled the peoples of the land, praying for mercy.

  The woman turned her attention to a golden throne upon a dais, far above which shone windows of stained glass. Seven was their number, and in each was painted an angel of shining white, yet with wings black as a starless night. She walked towards the throne and pressed a lever beside it. The throne swung aside, across the white marble floor.

  Behind it lay a corridor, wide and beckoning. The woman entered, and touched its walls of ancient stone, which breathed beneath her fingers. She jerked her hand back as rats the size of dogs flooded into the corridor and climbed the walls in droves; rats that opened their mouths to squeal with voices she could not hear. They ran out of the church, spilling out into the streets of the city.