The Second Coming

by David H. Burton

  With pristine wings.

  John had shed his Friar’s robes and dressed now in black cloth. He let his thoughts wander into darkness and of things that he had once regretted. He took pleasure in his past wrongs, and he did not castigate himself for his impure and wicked thoughts. He hated himself and the others that had caused him pain. And with all of this, he marched forward.

  He cast a spell to hide his own mission, even from himself; a spell that would raise his consciousness and the righteousness in his heart when the truth was revealed. When the time was right, his true purpose would come forward and he would smite that which would bring evil to the world; the Hand of God.

  He constructed a new truth, one which he would use to fool himself; he immersed himself in the whisperings of the mirror and let his heart be tainted by their promises. He let himself be led into their temptations. He delivered himself unto evil. He became what he once was, so long ago.

  Assassin.

  Then, as the last of the spell was cast the man that was once Friar John marched forward. In his hand he held a wick. He smiled his pleasure at it and then sucked upon the leaf of the Wormwood.

  Chapter 25

  Brahm stood, clothed and cold, in a place where time moved and the scent of blood soured the air. Here there were no petals that delighted the skin as they dropped, or the loving caresses of half-women that danced naked under the moonlit sky, and neither was there a man who knew how to pleasure her in ways no being ever had.

  Or might never again.

  She found three dead Hunters at her feet. Their bodies were hidden in shadow. She was back in the place from which she had departed this world. Brahm looked to the sky to find the clouds shifting across the firmament once more.

  She peeled back her shirt to examine the brand that lay beneath. It was no longer a fresh wound and her fingers were cool as they brushed it. There was no pain.

  She vaguely remembered the making of it. It was different than Greta’s. Where the thin woman’s was a dancing goat, this was a mark of a goat’s head with horns like that of the Horned One.

  Senator Thurmond’s voice echoed upon the still air like grating metal. “And he caused his children to pass through the fire in the valley of the son of Hinnom: also he observed times, and used enchantments, and used witchcraft, and dealt with a familiar spirit, and with wizards: he wrought much evil in the sight of the Lord, to provoke him to anger.”

  Brahm reached to her belt. The silver dagger had returned.

  White Feather and Diarmuid motioned her to the back of the stage. They had no idea that she had been gone for what seemed like days.

  Brahm’s face pinched, in fury and in pain. She had been taken to a place of such pleasure, only to return to a world filled with suffering and hate. It was as if she had been teased with a taste of heaven and she would likely long for it for the rest of her days.

  Brahm spat.

  What cruel joke was this?

  She approached the stage. Two more dead Hunters lie on the ground, their bodies one with the dark mist that enveloped them. Dïor stood over them, his white hands clutching a dripping, red dagger. Brahm kicked them.

  Thurmond's voice thundered. “And I say to those that support the witches: Let now the astrologers, the stargazers, the monthly prognosticators, stand up, and save thee from these things that shall come upon thee. Behold, they shall be as stubble; the fire shall burn them; they shall not deliver themselves from the power of the flame: there shall not be a coal to warm at, nor fire to sit before it.”

  Brahm searched for her brother. “Where is Mason?” she snapped.

  White Feather's face was grim. “He said to tell you he is looking for the Imp.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  The Haudenosaunee pointed towards the far side of the stage. “Orenda, he asked that you not follow him. You are needed here.” His hand brushed hers. “I think he left us to allow us to escape. Take the opportunity. Leave him to his Confederation.”

  Mason? She wondered if that were true. Hasn't he seen enough?

  “Fine, let's get this over with.”

  Diarmuid gripped the rusty pick-axe. “Any thoughts on where to go once we get her out?”

  Dïor pillaged a dagger from one of the Hunters and handed it to White Feather. The hilt was emblazoned with a white cross. “The docks.”

  Brahm nodded, but she could not believe she had been swept back to this reality. She wanted to return to the grove.

  Dïor murmured again. “Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen.”

  Brahm stepped in front of the Firstborn Lord, his face in shadow under the hood of his cloak. “Are you all right?”

  His eyes stared out through the hood, cobalt flames at the end of a dark tunnel. “I was trapped by the Westwood all this time. Seventeen years my soul endured torture; seventeen years of my daughter's life I lost; and seventeen years I have mourned my Sephirah. I will never be 'all right'.” His dagger flashed before her eyes and he melded with the shadows. “It is time.”

  White Feather's hand squeezed her shoulder, unknowingly pressing against the brand. “Orenda, be careful with him. He kills with darkness and shadow. His pain and hate run deep. I do not like how he looks at you.”

  The concern in his eye eased her mind and gave her a sense that she did, somewhat, belong to this world. His slight smile secured her in this place. And in that moment, she knew what she felt for the man who stood before her.

  She could not love him; not after what she had just experienced. It wasn’t possible.

  Diarmuid interrupted her thoughts and the regret that sat in her heart.

  “Brahm, let's go.”

  She followed him to the side of the stage where she found another three Hunters in the darkness, their gaping throats screaming out the identity of their assailant. From her belt, Brahm pulled the silver dagger and watched Thurmond at the podium. Lya stood back in the shadow of the stage, surrounded by Hunters. She was unchained.

  Brahm’s soul took wing and the silver dagger tugged at her as she skirted the shadows searching for Lya's father. Within moments she found him, his presence not yet physical. She sensed him as he made his way towards his daughter. When he leaned in to whisper in Lya's ear the girl turned suddenly to look in Brahm’s direction.

  Thurmond's voice pierced the air. “And I will cut off witchcrafts out of thine hand; and thou shalt have no more soothsayers: Thy graven images also will I cut off, and thy standing images out of the midst of thee; and thou shalt no more worship the work of thine hands. And I will pluck up thy groves out of the midst of thee: so will I destroy thy cities. And I will execute vengeance in anger and fury upon the heathen, such as they have not heard.”

  Lya suddenly stepped from the dark and raised her hands to summon the souls of the dead to her aid. The Hunters stood where they were, as if unaware of her presence. The crowd sat like lead weights in their seats, unflinching, as if awed by a part of the Revival. She strode towards the Senator with deliberate strides and the man’s hands lit up with green flame.

  The crowd finally responded, the cold reality of the situation settling on them like a sudden frost.

  A voice cried out. “The Senator is a witch!” Screams filled the night air as people tumbled over each other to flee the hill.

  Thurmond summoned brimstone and aimed it at the place where Dïor had materialized. He waved it off, sending into the crowds where it struck the onlookers dead.

  From the north end of the stage, green flames flew towards Brahm. It missed and Breland hobbled across the stage, his face swelling like an overripe melon. His fingers still alight with green fire.

  “Master, we must leave now.”

  Thurmond cleared his throat and nodded.

  From the field, Mason leapt onto the stage.

  Thurmond gritted his teeth. “So you have betrayed me, too, Mason. No matter, you cannot stop us.”

  Mason swung at the Imp and caught him unaware. His sword slid across the Imp’s midsection
, gutting him. The wound was deep and his insides seeped from the wound. He hobbled towards the Senator, one hand reaching for the man, the other trying to hold his innards together.

  Thurmond called upon the elements and the dead. Then he was gone.

  And with him he had taken Lya and the Imp.

  “No!” Her brother stared agape at the place where the Imp once stood.

  Dïor’s rage was palpable. The death cloud solidified and he stood among them, clinging to a blackened knife.

  Diarmuid left White Feather to fend off three Hunters that scrambled onto the stage. He unwrapped the bandage from his arm. Brahm would have advised him against it, but there was no other choice. It was off in moments and he yanked the leech from his arm.

  Darkness spread from its mouth and the leech wriggled upon the stage.

  Diarmuid closed his eyes as the image of the ghoul he had summoned formed before him. It was hooded and stooped, with dripping, crooked fingers.

  Diarmuid faced the wraith-like figure. “Take us to Senator Thurmond.”

  “The deal is set,” said an iron voice.

  Brahm felt a tug. She was pulled through a black emptiness. But the cold void was temporary and soft torchlight filled the clear night. Crickets chirped. She lay upon the ground, staring into a clear night sky.

  Where are we?

  They were no longer on the stage, but surrounded by an encampment of Hunters, all looking like stunned rabbits. The ghoul had swept them across the land with its spell, right into the heart of the Confederation army.

  Something yanked the knife from Brahm’s hand and a voice hissed in her ears. She was pinned to the ground by an unseen force.

  -I will not kill you, Soul Runner. My Sephirah lives within you now. But you must still pay the price.-

  Darkness shrouded her. She coughed, and swooned.

  “No! Please!”

  *Seventeen!*

  Brahm screamed as agony pierced her wrist, and the silver edge of the knife sawed off her hand.

  ***

  Fang had run, for days and nights, calling to her brothers, sisters, and her children. She pushed her body almost as far as it would go. Yet she was successful in her venture; some had responded to the summons and they waited in the woods on the borders of the Plains. The urgent cry was carried across the lands. The wolves were needed.

  She waited in a grove, unable to run further.

  The clan leaders will come. They will all come.

  A thick scent on the air caught her nose and she turned her attention. A black wolf approached. He was followed by another, whose wiry, tawny body stood shorter than the other.

  The first one greeted her. *It has been some time, old friend.*

  She sniffed the air. -Night. Bane. Are you ready?-

  Bane stepped in front of the darker wolf. *Where is this boy?*

  Night growled at him. *In time.*

  He looked back to Fang. *Are you sure about this? We will have only one chance.*

  She nodded. -Yes.-

  ***

  Friar John skirted a land that was filled with dying grass and insipid air. The Witch Plains, this place was called. He smiled at the name. Somehow it was fitting.

  He had had to take a wide berth around a group of people that were native to this land, mixed with Lastborn and some other humans that smelled of necromancy and weak summoning. He was unsure of their intent, or why they were amassing here, but he knew this was not the gathering for which he searched. There was another, and it lay further west.

  He continued on, well past the congregation of exhausted-looking vagrants. He moved as if something drew him towards it. He felt something old and familiar pulling him, guiding his steps. This path was his to take.

  The sun beat upon him and the sweat of his head slid along his temples and down his unshaven cheeks. He took out a blade and shore off his hair in clumps as he marched forward. There was relief from the faint breeze that tickled the back of his neck.

  John paused. Before him an army waited. Among them were the Witch Hunters he’d heard so much about; mindless drones to something much greater than themselves. None of them approached, only a small creature that John knew to be a goblin. It was shorter than even the shortest of men. The little beasts were known for killing for sport when left to run amok. This one showed some constraint as it waddled towards him.

  It tilted its head, studying John. “This place is unsafe for travelers,” it said. Its voice rasped.

  The goblin was repugnant to him and John wanted nothing more than to kick the little beast and beat its crooked face into the earth. He loathed them.

  John looked down upon the thing. “I have been called.”

  “You must submit to the testing.”

  “Bring forth whatever you would, goblin.”

  The creature looked to the west. There were bodies hanging from tree limbs, some torn, some whole.

  The little beast grinned. “Those that have failed.”

  A being came forth and John saw its wings trailing behind its long strides. They were black and shining. Its face was terrible, yet beautiful —a face that instilled fear and awe. In its hand, it carried a sword of flame. John knew him at once.

  “Uriel,” he said.

  The archangel studied him and then spoke. His voice was low and cruel. “Who are you that you know my name?”

  “An assassin of the former Pope.”

  The angel’s face was unflinching. “I did not command Aloysius to send help.”

  John paused.

  Uriel did not hesitate, sensing the dilemma. “You were not sent by Aloysius.”

  John could not lie. “No. The Pope sent me forth, but I was tempted by the summons in the mirror.”

  Uriel nodded. “That which calls has great power.”

  “And I have come.”

  “An assassin is useful, although your talents could be better used elsewhere.”

  “I am yours to command. You may search my heart.”

  The angel held the sword to him. The fire upon it was searing. “Before you even came up the hill, I knew what lay in your heart. The grief and pain is great, as is the curse your spirit bears. I smell the soul leech upon your arm and the dead whore you killed as payment.”

  John rubbed at his arm. The soul leech that lay beneath wriggled under his fingers. He vaguely remembered the encounter with the ghoul. He remembered only that if he needed help, it would be there when asked. The leech was assurance of that.

  “For a man of your abilities, you bargain with some unsavory characters.”

  John swallowed. “I will use whatever means are at my disposal.”

  Uriel said nothing. He drew back the sword and John felt the angel probing his heart. His wings fluttered behind him.

  This being’s power is great.

  He felt fear in the pit of his stomach. It seemed to remind him of something, but he could not remember what.

  He lowered his head. “I am your humble servant.”

  “You show humility when required. What are you called?”

  “John.”

  Uriel smiled. It was terrible. “Then you shall be the herald. You will prepare the way.”

  John nodded.

  “Follow me, heretic. I have need of you.”

  And the man called John, awed and jealous of the magnificence of the winged being, followed in the wake of the archangel.

  ***

  Brahm rolled to her side and moaned. The pain of her severed hand ripped up her arm. Her iron chains rattled as she gripped at the red-stained swathe of rags that wrapped about her stump. She fisted and flexed the ghost-hand as if it were still a part of her.

  The captives sat in a circle, each chained to a pole with a Hunter standing guard. The one looming over her pressed the flat of his sword to her shoulder.

  “Move back.”

  Brahm shuffled back as Senator Thurmond approached.

  He poked her with his boot. His white robes brushed her stump. “I want to know
about your power.”

  Brahm cradled her wounded arm. Breland sat off to the side, his sinister eyes smiling. The sword wound to his midesection was sloppily stitched. He wore the hideous scar exposed, and with pride. Flies hovered over it.

  He should be dead.

  Mason sat up. “Leave her. She knows nothing.”

  Thurmond rounded on his former Captain. “Fool! It is you who know nothing.”

  A painful look crossed the Senator’s face as he gritted his teeth. His face and body began to split. A second set of arms and legs emerged from his body, led by a second head. When the creature had finished crawling from the Senator’s form, its face smoothed out and took on a youthful, blank visage, the features melding into androgyny. Two now stood where one once did and the second took the shape of a young man. His phallus was erect and he played with it.

  Diarmuid sucked in his breath. “Puck! What have you done to Paine?”

  Puck grinned back. “I-I-I,” he said mockingly, “will have that pathetic brat soon enough and then you will see.” He strode away, still playing with himself.

  Senator Thurmond cleared his throat and an unctuous grin slid across his face. “You see, brothers and sisters,” he said, his preaching voice dipped once again into viscous drawl. “We are fishers of men. And you are bait.”

  Brahm’s eyes challenged him. “What do you mean?”

  “We want the boy. His mother whelped two children — twins; both of whom command great power. But one of them has the ability to command the Westwood. Their afterbirth helped create it and so they are a part of it. We want that power.”

  He then marched away from them and the Imp scuffled along behind him.

  Diarmuid called after him. “Where is Lya?”

  “Safe,” said a voice that was low and harsh. It came from behind them. Brahm craned her neck and sucked in her breath at the sight. A tall man in black robes approached. He had shorn hair and a hard look in his eye. Behind him strode a magnificent being of darkness and light. It had black wings, yet they shone in the sunlight. Its face was terrible and beautiful. It reminded her of the statue that she had seen upon her parents’ death. In his hand he brandished a sword of fire.