The Second Coming

by David H. Burton

  Paine scanned the land for Fang, but could not find the wolf in the battle. He looked for Truitt and Great Bear. Both were mired in a sea of dark spirits and fire.

  He gritted his teeth. “What do you want from me?”

  Puck did not answer, but looked into the crowd. A short woman approached from the shadows — Farin. Her features changed and she stood as Puck, demon-like and towering.

  “We deceived those fools in Haven and Lindhome.” Puck’s face grinned. His breath was bitter. “Do you know what I hold in my hand? It is Elenya's Soul. The same jewel that has held the Westwood in place all these years. Do you know its power? Can you feel it paralyzing you here? Long enough for me to take your body. I want your power. You're not worthy to wield it.”

  Paine clenched his jaw as his soul was squeezed aside.

  Puck laughed, a low guttural chuckle that made Paine's skin gooseflesh. The demon leaned in and faint words sighed from his rank mouth. “You were promised to me. And now you will be mine.”

  No!

  Farin grinned the same unctuous smile.

  Gregor and Alwhin ran forward. The old man gasped. “Elenya's Soul.”

  The demon flashed her teeth at him. “You won't be stopping Dark Wind now.”

  He reached out with a frail hand. “You can't possibly think to control it.”

  Puck waved him off. “It will do as we say.”

  “But it’s cracked. It will not hold Dark Wind.”

  “I won’t need it.”

  Paine's anger and fear seethed and a legion of souls flew to his aid. Puck took control of them, used them, and sent them into the onlookers. Screams echoed as the crowd scrambled for safety. Little Doe ran, but stumbled and fell. She was dragged into the trees. Her gurgled screams deafened Paine's ears and blackened his soul. Then there was silence.

  No!

  Puck continued to seep into Paine's body. Paine felt an urge to surrender to the creature, a desire to yield to its wants. A madness stirred within him, a darkness that beckoned him into its lair, warm and inviting. It would be so easy. He wanted to yield, but a part of him resisted. Puck continued to shuffle closer. Paine’s will began to slip.

  -Hold on, child! Hold on to your will! Do not let it take away your spirit. It is your own to command. Fight it!-

  It was the voice.

  He thought of the Clan Mother, slaughtered by the very spirits he had summoned. Anger brimmed and Paine fought, pushing back against the force that invaded his body. Puck’s presence hesitated and then pressed forward again, worming its way inside him.

  Little Doe.

  She had been more of a mother to him than Gwen. He would not let her death be in vain.

  -Fight!-

  The fire within Paine blazed with blind rage and he walled the demon from getting any further. The demon stopped.

  -Good!-

  Paine gripped the staff and sensed his body once more. He pushed against the foreign soul, forcing it out. Taking the staff with both hands he stood his ground and focused his power. Shock flitted in Puck's eyes. The black orb glowed again, throbbing and the demon held it up.

  A flash scorched the night sky, and Paine closed his eyes to the blinding light. The staff seared his hands and shattered. He heard snarling and opened his eyes. Fang pounced on Farin. The wolf gripped the demon's throat in her jaws and blood spurted as Farin gurgled in agony and rage.

  Puck lay on the ground. He rose and spat. “This is not over! You were promised to me. You will be mine!”

  Someone fired an arrow, but it pierced only air as Puck vanished from sight.

  ***

  From atop bold, rocky cliffs, Gault peered down upon Lake Nanabijou, the largest of the great waterways. The land of the Sleeping Giant rose in the distance, in the form of a great spirit who once lay to sleep, waiting for his time to rise. Gault sniffed at the air and looked back to the small band of Obek, all nodding in silent unison.

  He stepped closer to the ledge, fingering the small sack of Troll's bones at his hip. On his shoulder, Sri dug in her black talons and then leapt into the air to dive from the cliff. Her onyx wings spread wide in a graceful stretch. The sea eagle glided along the water, her feet lightly touching its course surface.

  Gault watched through the giant bird's eyes as she soared across the waterways and approached the sleeping form of the great island.

  Does he slumber still?

  Shriveled trees dotted the island, and only dust blew along its surface. The eagle swooped over the giant's head and a draft forced her upwards, a warm and damp breath.

  He breathes. He will wake soon, as will the others.

  From the depths of his mind, Gault summoned Sri back to him and he turned from the cliff, walking its edge. Sri joined them momentarily and the Obek marched south and east. A still hush sat thick on the trees as they strode through the forests of pine and cedar.

  Calling them to a halt, Gault raised his mangled left hand, its smallest finger lost to the blades of the kahbeth. Before them, thick, black smoke rose from the trees like the Dark One's anger. The scent of burning flesh tickled his nose and the great Obek once more fingered the bones. He signaled for readiness and marched forward, stepping through the trees with feet of heavy silence.

  The scent thickened as they walked and Gault slowed his breathing, focused, ready. The trees thinned and a palisade of thick wooden stakes, charred and smoldering, towered over them. Gault signaled for the others to walk the perimeter and search for survivors, and then bent to look at a painting on the wooden stakes. Blackened, but still noticeable, was a white pine tree with four roots that extended to the four corners of the Earth. At the top, with its wings spread wide, perched an eagle.

  The Tree of Peace.

  He heard the Haudenosaunee were expanding.

  He continued around the circular wall, finding its entrance and fallen gates. Bodies of demons and Haudenosaunee littered the ground, broken, crumpled, and burnt. Bows and daggers were still clutched in their hands. Black smoke billowed from the blood-spattered longhouses.

  Gault stepped around the bodies, his fingers twitching signs of blessings over each.

  May the gods keep them.

  Crows pecked at the bodies of the fallen Iroquois, but avoided the demon dead. He reached into his pack, pulled out a handful of dust, and threw it into the air. As the faint breeze carried it south, he muttered words of warding and the dust sparkled. The crows scattered, cawing as they fled.

  He strode to the center of the village, side-stepping pools of blood and the bodies of four demons.

  Foul creatures.

  He scanned the village. The only movement was his own band stepping through the silent ruins, their faces showing no sign of emotion in the manner of the Obek warrior. Yet he knew their thoughts would be similar to his.

  This was a slaughter.

  A gurgling cough shattered the still air. A demon's legs moved at the side of one of the newly built longhouses, its hooves coated in mud. As the Obek rounded the corner, a sickness settled in his stomach at the sight. Before him, a monster clawed its way towards the gates. Its lower body was hoofed and hairy, yet its torso was Haudenosaunee. Its eyes glowed green and it coughed up mucus and blood.

  Gault unsheathed the kahbeth from across his back as he approached. “What happened here, Nightwalker?”

  The half-demon gurgled. Its human face stretched in pain, yet its eyes cast hatred.

  “You are too late.”

  Gault passed the blades of the kahbeth before the demon's face.

  “I will end your suffering if you tell me what happened.”

  It smiled. “What does it look like?”

  From the pack at his side, Gault withdrew a silver knife and a pouch of yellow dust. He sprinkled the dust on the knife and muttered a few words.

  “I will cast the demon wraith from you.”

  The demon's eyes widened as the Obek jabbed the dagger into its leg. It howled with rage, scraping the ground with its nails. A few mo
ments passed as the legs changed from demon to human, and back again. The demon hissed and green smoke sifted from its legs as it rolled out of the human body. It clawed the ground one more time before it lay still.

  Gault knelt to cradle the frail human body in his arms. The Haudenosaunee tilted his head and opened his eyes.

  “I am Two Moon. Please ask my people to forgive me.”

  Gault, with his knotted hands, brushed the flowing hair from Two Moon's face.

  “It is not your fault, warrior,” he whispered. “The wraith controlled your actions. They take us when we are most vulnerable. It is a powerful demon, hard to fight. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Two Moon sputtered. “The demons launched an attack upon the village. They attack the others that flee for New Boston. I was supposed to send messages to the new villages for help, but that thing inside me would not let me. Instead I led the demons to destroy them.”

  “Do not lay blame upon your shoulders, great warrior. It is too great a yoke to bear when it is not yours.”

  He coughed again. “They will destroy my people.”

  “Where are your people now?”

  “East of the Mississippi. You must warn them.”

  “Rest your mind, great warrior. I will take up your dagger in your place.”

  Two Moon's eyes fluttered for a moment. “Thank you, Wise One.”

  He closed his eyes, his head fell back, and he breathed no more.

  Gault lay the man's body down as if he were an infant.

  We must bury them all and burn the demon flesh.

  He looked at Sri, perched upon the remains of the palisade. “You must send a message, my friend. Look for my nephew. Tell him the others of their kind are lost and that we make our way east to their aid. Go, my friend. I will catch up to you.”

  Sri screeched and then leapt into the air, her great wings taking her higher until she disappeared beyond the trees. Then Gault called the others over to him and prepared for the great burial.

  Chapter 23

  The Lady Maiden bobbed in the waters of the Mississippi, a seesaw motion that mired the captives in a bog of weariness and boredom. For an hour it had been moored in New Memphis, and Brahm leaned back against the wooden walls of the cargo hold, awaiting her fate. The creaking of the ship grated on her nerves like a dull song droning in her ears. She pulled at the loose threads of the drab gray tunic and pants her brother had offered her.

  At least it was better than that fucking dress.

  Lya lay asleep on the floor, having now joined them. White Feather sat chained on the other side of the hold. On occasion he glanced in Brahm's direction, his eyes appearing thoughtful at times, confused at others. No longer did she feel the heat of his anger, yet she wondered what ruminated in his mind.

  Diarmuid waited near the door, his ear turned to the crack.

  “Someone is coming,” he said.

  His chains rattled as the pepper-haired man shifted away. An unsteady clopping echoed down the hall. She knew it was not her brother's deliberate stride. The being walked with an awkward cadence, and she knew him instantly.

  Imp.

  The door inched open and Breland stepped in, offering her a shallow, mocking bow.

  “My lady.”

  His bulbous head held vacant eyes. “We are disembarking momentarily. New Memphis is a busy port. Should you try to escape, no effort will be wasted to re-capture you. You will be killed on the spot.” His hollow gaze lingered on Brahm. “The sight of you will likely stir some heated emotions. I suggest you keep a low profile and try to look humble. It's hard to say what might happen should an uprising occur.” His face twitched. “I am sorry it has come to this, my lady. The price for treason is high.”

  “You seem different since last we met, Breland. Are you unwell?”

  The man shuffled over to where she sat on the wooden floor, his meaty fingers bedecked with lavish gold rings. “I'm as well as always, my lady. The Lord has been good to me.”

  “You still believe that drivel?”

  His eyes hinted brief irritation. “Though it may not seem so, God has also smiled upon you this day. Senator Thurmond has surprised us with his presence. He is attending a Revival tonight.”

  “A Revival?”

  “Some of the flock have strayed here,” he said. “They need the chance to save their souls — as do you. I'm sure it has been a hard road since you left the flock.”

  Strayed?

  Brahm’s face pinched. “I think I'll pass.”

  His lips slithered into a smarmy grin. “You don't have a choice. You're going to be held up as an example of what happens when you drift from the presence of God. Your capture is a good omen.”

  The door opened again and Mason strode in. “Breland, what are you doing in here?”

  The shorter man’s eyes flitted anger before his face melted into humility.

  “Encouraging your sister and her friends to find their way back to the flock. Perhaps tonight's Revival will save their souls.”

  Mason waved him off. “I think you should be worried less about their souls and more about their interrogation. Leave us, I must take them down to the docks.”

  “As you wish.” Breland bowed low, and then hobbled out the door.

  Brahm took the opportunity to prod her brother. “You were not expecting Thurmond.”

  “No.” He closed the door. “The Senator wants you in his custody immediately. He will be personally escorting you back to Charleston.”

  Charleston.

  She remembered the place well, and the stench of ink and oil as bibles were mass-printed on some ancient contraption from the Age of Marvels that Thurmond had supposedly discovered. Despite the fact that it was a forbidden item, it seemed the Confederation was willing to overlook such an abomination if it furthered their cause. They sent the neatly printed books throughout the land, even overseas, in their bid to proselytize the Good Word. And the Senator had become like a god to the people with his findings.

  “Is the Imp coming with us?” she asked.

  Mason lifted an eyebrow. “Did he tell you that?”

  She shook her head. “Just a guess.”

  Mason said nothing as he shackled each of the captives at the waist.

  She prodded further. “Was he involved with Lya's capture?”

  He re-examined the silver collar around Brahm's neck, ensuring the lock still held.

  His breath caught at the question. “He ordered—.”

  Mason paused, his eyes lost in thought, and then he scowled. “I no longer answer to you, Brahm. I see the seeds of doubt you are trying to sow. They will not take.” He said nothing more and led them out of the room.

  They passed the locked closet where the kahbeth and the other weapons sat. Brahm thought of reaching out with her soul to see if they were still there, but as Mason pulled on the chain, she left the idea behind.

  A heavy breeze carried with it the bustling sounds of the port city. It was tainted with the scent of raw fish. The docks were crowded with Confederation cruisers and barges, moored in precise order. Gulls soared through the air and alighted on the wooden docks, suffusing the port with a thick veneer of white slurry.

  The four captives shuffled down the plank, careful not to step on each other. Their chains clanked, drawing unwanted attention. Gawks and hushed murmurs shadowed them as Mason and five Hunters escorted them into the city. The onlookers muttered and Brahm dodged an overripe tomato.

  “Witch!” a voice called from the crowds.

  Another tomato flew and struck Lya in the side of the face. Brahm caught the young woman's look as she turned and scanned the crowd. Her expression spoke nothing but loathing.

  Another voice called out. “Fiend! Monster!”

  Mason took stride next to Lya with his sword bared. He said nothing, yet his presence silenced any further calls.

  They continued through the city, past horse-drawn carriages and teams of Hunters. The nobility of the city stared from under t
heir frilled parasols, their faces puckered in disapproval. Brahm sensed their stares, and their looks of recognition. As a daughter of New Memphis, she was well known among the upper class. She supposed her parents would have been shamed.

  As if on cue, they strode past the lofty crypts of the New Memphis Cemetery. A warm breeze wafted through the stone vaults and Brahm caught its silent voice.

  Mother. Father.

  A morning dove cooed from atop one of the granite mausoleums.

  What would they think of this?

  Sweat trickled down the back of Brahm's neck as she noted the neat rows of stone tombs that lined the cemetery streets. She caught a brief glimpse of her family's crypt with its weeping angel clinging to a cross. On each side of the stone door were carved two elongated swords.

  When a man's ways please the Lord, he maketh even his enemies to be at peace with him.

  She remembered her father's wishes for that inscription, as he lay dying with her mother on the floor of the Confederation Courthouse, an assassination attempt on one of the senators gone awry. The same inscription was etched into the tiled ceiling of the judicial building, just under a stained-glass window. Brahm remembered well the image in that window, with the angel kneeling before God, sword in hand. It was the last thing he saw. That angel still haunted her dreams, for it was under the image of that angel, clutching the frail, dying hands of her parents, that she rebuked everything to do with the Church of the Ascension. Mason never understood.

  Her brother led the captives east towards a towering, stone church that stood upon a hill. Its soaring steeple and cross caught the light of the setting sun, reflecting a blinding light that hurt her eyes. It had always fascinated Brahm as a young girl.

  No more.

  They strode close enough to its entrance to see what was etched into its keystone.

  The Church of the Ascension.

  Instead of walking through the arch, Mason led them around the side through tall hedges to the back of a building that was being encroached upon by tendrils of ivy. Brahm paused. A large crowd gathered upon the hill behind the church. Hundreds milled about a grand, covered stage while others sat upon blankets, fanning themselves from the early evening heat. Mason ushered the captives through a narrow, black door into the Church. Its creaking sent two mice scampering across the strip floor.