The Second Coming

by David H. Burton

  An angel?

  The second soul within her shrieked, as if Sephirah was being burned by it.

  -No!-

  Brahm could barely peel her eyes away from the angel as it swept around to face them.

  The man in the black robes remained behind the angel, muttering the words, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is nigh.”

  The sword swept low and close to Brahm’s missing hand. “You are insignificant in the eyes of the Almighty,” he said, “a maggot among worms. Tell me, Soul Runner, which of the others has touched you?”

  Brahm shook her head. “I don’t understand.” She wiggled her ghost fingers.

  The angel cocked its head. “One of the gods has lain upon you. I can smell the beast all over you. You reek of sweat and fornication.”

  White Feather looked at her, but Brahm kept her gaze focused on the angel.

  Brahm heard Sephirah’s voice within her.

  -Don’t lie to him! He will know.-

  Brahm thought for a moment.

  Don’t lie to him.

  She spoke. “He did not give me his name.”

  The angel looked to the man in black robes. “What say you, messenger?”

  The messenger adjusted a pack upon his back and then nodded his head.

  The angel leaned in and shoved his hand against Brahm’s stomach. She moaned with the roughness of his touch.

  The angel said nothing and then strode off, his wings trailing him. The messenger followed, but paused for one last look at Brahm. As he did so, Sephirah forced Brahm’s soul to sail forth and lunge at the man, delving within him. Then her soul reeled back as Brahm tried to understand what she had done.

  -Soon we shall be free.-

  The messenger remained motionless for a moment. Then he adjusted the pack on his back once more and walked in a different direction than the angel.

  Chapter 26

  The late summer air moaned silence across the Witch Plains, its humid breath seeping into Paine's undergarments. He thought of Little Doe. Her loss was a wound to his heart, piercing and sharp. And what made it fester was that she had died by his hand. They had found her body the morning after, shredded and sliced. Her mouth and eyes had been open in suffering.

  Paine’s nose twitched as he remembered the scent of the burning flesh from the funeral pyre. He had been the last to mount, remaining by the fire as the others departed. He had remained until her body had fallen into the branches and disappeared from sight. The thoughts of raising her soul and speaking with her had been tempting. He had wanted to apologize for his careless actions, but in the end he rode away, leaving her soul to rest in peace. The regret had been heavy on him for the last five days as they fled from an army that had caught them too swiftly.

  Mira and Great Bear stood to his left, Truitt to his right, their gaze cast two hundred yards away, to the Hunters lined in the middle of the Plains.

  He thought also of the souls of the dead that now resided in him. After the staff had been broken, the souls had wanted their price and he knew they waited within him, reveling in the blood that ran through his veins. He could not sense their presence, nor their voices, but it still made his skin itch. And others had witnessed that the dead had advanced upon him and dwelt within him. Almost everyone avoided him now, as if they were expecting him to explode and that hundreds of hungry dead would come looking for their toll elsewhere.

  Gregor stood a few feet over, his gnarled hands fingering Elenya's Soul. His eyes appeared lost, looking toward some distant thought. Alwhin and Brown Bear stood at the old man's side, both looking drawn and grim.

  The army of Hunters assembled in pristine order, their swords still sheathed across their backs at a forty-five degree angle. Row upon row they waited, their faces expressionless and hard. The pearly-white crosses of their leather vests gleamed in the light of the rising sun, but paled next to the bleached white robes of the man who rode in front of them. Gregor named him; Thurmond, the man who created the Witch Hunters. Paine thought back to what Puck had told him.

  Is he with them?

  He looked at the meager army of refugees. Mounted Haudenosaunee flanked the right side, the remainder of Lindhome with the Lastborn lined the front, bows lowered, but arrows nocked. The witches of Haven, with daggers unsheathed, were prepared to draw their own blood. They flanked the left with the brightly-garbed ranks of the New Boston Guard. The mayor had sent them to help protect the city.

  Man, woman; half-breed, human; they stood together, faces haggard, but eyes determined. Paine looked again to the Hunters that outnumbered the refugees by four to one.

  It’s hopeless.

  A shifting in the trees to the north turned the heads of both hosts. Twelve mighty beings marched from the woods, their gray bark-like skin covered in tanned hides. They each stood a head taller than Great Bear.

  As if on cue, the Haudenosaunee prodded him and whispered.

  “Obek.”

  ***

  Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen.

  Dïor, once master of the Overlords, heir to the throne of Valbain, and High Magus of the Empire, wriggled through the congregation of Lastborn like a deathworm. Their mere existence twisted his insides with revulsion. His presence skimmed past them, squeezing between their tired bodies to avoid their touch. He brushed the wretched boy and reeled from him.

  I should kill him.

  He continued on, one thought in his mind.

  Lya.

  His presence slunk through the crowds, avoiding the old Obek as he spoke of demons. He felt the Troll’s double gaze trail Dïor as he slid along the shadows to materialize in front of Gregor and the Lastborn witch with the Sight.

  Sorceress.

  Both stepped back and Dïor’s lips curled in a shallow grin. He pulled back his hood, feeling the pain of the sun on his pale skin.

  Alwhin gasped. “Dïor, you live.”

  Seventeen.

  “Indeed.” He sensed the gaze of the rebel eyes upon him. Ten Lastborn aimed their bows at him. The Revenants cowered.

  He laughed. “Put down your weapons, fools. I no longer have any quarrel with you.”

  Alwhin motioned them to lower their arms. “What has happened to you? Your presence has darkened.”

  “There is no time. Dark Wind is upon you and my daughter is among them.” He pointed to the army of Hunters.

  “They have Lya?” asked one of the Lastborn men, his goateed face contorted. Dïor sensed the waves of diluted adoration that radiated from him. It was a tainted love.

  You could never love her like I did my Sephirah.

  “So you know she is my daughter? I'm surprised you did not take her captive.”

  Alwhin shook her head. “I did not want to endanger her life by revealing her identity. You have now done that, to her peril.”

  Seventeen.

  He spat black mucus to the ground. “She will be far greater than any of you can imagine. She should know who she is and take her rightful place.”

  A young human pushed his way to stand in front of him. Dïor saw the questions in his eyes and smelled fear wafting from him. He remembered the boy's name, Sephirah's idea, for the suffering he brought upon her, in his conception, his birth, his life.

  Paine.

  “What do you want, whelp?”

  “You are Lya's father?”

  “And not yours,” he snapped. “I want nothing to do with you, boy. I would have slit your throat when you were born, but Sephirah wanted you to live. She even wrote some note as to why she had done such a thing. Now get out of my sight.”

  The boy swallowed, but his eyes were hard. “This?” He held up a ripped piece of parchment. On it was the writing that Dïor knew to be Sephirah’s hand. And on it was the script that he knew only he could see.

  “You can read this?” he asked.

  The boy nodded. “It’s the same as the script on the Tablet.”

  Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen. “This cannot be! Only three souls can read this. Min
e, Sephirah’s and our child’s.”

  And then Dïor read the note left by his love. His insides twisted with anger and revulsion. The pain of it made his legs wobble where he stood.

  “What does it say?” the boy asked.

  Dïor looked to him and still hated him.

  He swallowed back his pain, but his pride remained caught in his throat. He choked as he pointed back towards the Hunters. “For your mother's sake, I will give you one piece of advice. Get on a boat with the half-breeds, boy. Flee this place. Dark Wind wants you and your sister. As does that monster over there. I am going to see it does not get its hands on you. Now, get out of my sight.”

  Dïor turned his anger towards Gregor. “So, ancient one, what do you plan on doing to fix the mess you helped create? I should stab you for your part in it, but my Sephirah agreed to it. Now I need you to help me stop it.”

  The old man looked worn, like his life was nothing more than yarn stretched too tight and ready to snap. He pulled from his tunic a black orb. Dïor recognized it instantly. “You will need more than one of these. Dark Wind's power has grown.”

  Gregor looked into the distance and nodded. “How much time do we have?”

  Dïor closed his eyes, feeling for shadow and gloom.

  Seventeen.

  He opened his eyes. “It will be upon us before the day is out.”

  “Do the demons control it?”

  Dïor cackled. “Nothing controls Dark Wind, and it will devour them as easily as the rest of you.”

  “It made an alliance with them.”

  “Listen to me, old man. I was a part of the Westwood when that happened and I know what it intends. It will not honor that alliance. Its purposes have been served and now that it is free, it will do what it pleases. All of you should get on boats because if you cannot stop it, none of you will survive.”

  Gregor sighed. “We have an army to fight. When Dark Wind arrives, find me. I will need your help.”

  The double gaze of the old Obek slid along Dïor’s skin. He spoke.

  “I sense Brahm's presence among them.”

  I should cut out his Sighted eyes.

  Dïor nodded. “There are others with her. A kin of hers, a severed necromancer, and one of theirs.” His pointed finger targeted one of the Haudenosaunee. The sun burned his bleached skin and he remembered the days when he used to relish its warm caress on his face. He lowered his hand and pulled up the hood of his battered cloak.

  Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen.

  “I will come for you, ancient one.” He caught the boy’s eye. “I suggest you avoid any unlikely shadows on the battle field. You might meet your end in it.”

  The Firstborn Lord then flourished his cloak and melded into his phantom form.

  ***

  Friar John walked among the fringe of the Hunters. In his hand he bore the Spear of Destiny. The battle was at hand and he needed to be prepared. So here he hid from Uriel while the archangel conferred on what to do with the woman, the one who bore Sephirah’s soul. Somehow her presence had set loose the spell within him, releasing his true intent from his own prison.

  Too early.

  The bewilderment had been brief and he felt a little annoyed that he hadn’t yet seen the Beast. And now that Uriel was around it would be difficult to get even near enough to see to the duty that had been bestowed upon him. If the angel sensed his true purpose it would be the end of his mission.

  A grim thought made his lips twitch. He supposed he could let Uriel kill him and then the archangel would be damned forever, but that thought was fleeting. With the bargain he had made, his own soul would belong to the ghoul. And that was a place John had no desire to spend eternity. Slowly being devoured over time by a creature that he was certain would take pleasure in tormenting him for perpetuity was not how he imagined the afterlife.

  No, he would need to avoid meeting an untimely end before he had met the terms of the bargain. He rubbed at the bandage on his arm. The soul leech hurt.

  One of the goblins bumped his leg where he stood. With his dark self still shrouding him, his irritation and anger came forth and John kicked the little beast. It turned to stab him and John’s retribution was swift. The repulsive creature found the other end of the Spear jabbed through his chest instead. Its eyes bulged and it dropped the knife from its grubby hands. The Hunters that heard the struggles of the goblin as it tried to wriggle free paid it no heed. They simply turned back to their own preparations. The goblin meant nothing to them.

  When the thing finally rasped its last breath and slumped upon the blade onto which it was skewered, John flicked it off the end of the blade like an unwanted piece of gristle. He left its body on the ground and circled the encampment. He tried to remain as far from view as he could from Uriel. He kept his heart darkened and his purpose concealed as he searched through the crowds. The angel conferred with the man in white robes, apparently a Senator in this foul-smelling land.

  He also heard through the Hunters that a girl had been taken captive; Firstborn from the description. What one of their kind was doing so far from their own lands was intriguing, but John did not have time for such curiosities.

  The task at hand called for his undivided attention. He flicked the end of the blade. It was an unconscious move and he noticed the goblin’s blood on his fingers. He smelled it. It stunk, but he put it to his tongue anyway. It even tasted of rot.

  John thought hard and quick, trying to sort out how he was going to find his prey in this confusion. He hated rushed, panicked thinking and with a battle about to begin, it was going to get more difficult. Then he heard a horn on the air and prayed that his wretched luck had turned.

  ***

  Paine's skin crawled as the Firstborn Lord faded before his eyes.

  Mira offered him a crooked smile. “Do not let his words eat at you. He is a dark being. Focus on your sister.”

  Lya.

  He fingered the bone dagger in his belt as well as one of the shards from the staff. It was useless now, but it offered him some reassurance. He watched as the Obek approached, lumbering across the Plains. Their strides were slow and deliberate, their expressions like stone. They were greeted by Gregor and Brown Bear and then took places in the crowd. Their leader, Gault, studied Paine briefly. He fingered a sack at his waist and blinked his eyes. Paine sucked in his breath at the two sets of eyelids. The old Obek nodded at him and Paine returned it. He then joined the rest of his tribe.

  The man called Thurmond stood ready, his arms raised and then from among the neat rows of Hunters marched a tall being of brilliance and splendor. Its wings shone in the sunlight. There was muttering among the Lastborn and Paine noticed the uncomfortable look that Alwhin gave Gregor. He saw her mouth the words he knew this creature to be.

  Angel.

  It stood next to Senator Thurmond, a sword of fire in its massive hand. Its face was terrible to look upon.

  The wind breezed along the Plains and Paine caught a whisper.

  “Seventeen.”

  Gray clouds gathered above them and flashes of lightning rippled through the clouds. Thunder followed soon after, rolling across the heavens. Pellets of rain pounded the Witch Plains.

  Paine pulled the dagger out and gripped it as Thurmond lowered his arms and pointed his hand towards the refugees. He yelled out orders and the Hunters unsheathed their swords.

  The army moved forward, a juggernaut of expressionless eyes and silver-plated swords. They marched towards them, pure in their mindless determination. Mira donned her Hunter's helmet as the members of Lindhome and the Haudenosaunee raised their bows. Paine held his breath and waited.

  Truitt held his sword aloft, and dropped it. Arrows streaked through the pelting rain and wind. Some landed close to the approaching Hunters, but most fell short. The Hunters pressed forward.

  Twenty yards.

  Another volley of arrows sped through the sky. Two Hunters fell.

  Ten yards.

  One last volley rus
hed through the air, these with tips of silver. Twelve Hunters collapsed and where each one fell, another took their place.

  The rain poured and lightning split the sky. Paine gripped the dagger. The Hunters swarmed, their swords raised. The rebels lunged, and swords clashed. Metal sang and the angel with the sword of fire swept forward. His sites were set on the Obek.

  A surge of fear coursed through Paine and he caught a horn on the air; a low, heavy wail.

  ***

  Brahm lifted her wet head to the call of a horn on the air.

  What is that?

  Thunder beat the rain-slicked ground. It was not the storm, but horses.

  Hundreds of them.

  She craned her neck to see the impending wave of riders brandishing swords and the emblem of the Horned One. It matched the tattoo on her arm. There was little silver to their armament, but their numbers were impressive. They brought with them their necromancy and divined elements. Their berry-red lips muttered words of enchantment and they called upon the souls of the dead.

  Brahm felt a changing tide. Selling herself had worked. He had sent help after all.

  -Whore.-

  She still longed for his touch.

  Cresting the group was Yellow Hawk, Mumford Banyon, and Paul Cathman. The Hunters halted their progression forward and turned back to face the oncoming tide of witches and their righteous anger. Brahm struggled with her chains, pulling helplessly against their implacable hold. She looked at her useless free arm with its stump and waved to the riders, hoping they might see her.

  “Help!”

  The horse riders failed to notice the captives as they bore down upon the army. Metal clanged as the last two rows of the army fell under the silver-edged shoes of the mounts. The cries of the Hunters roared over the cracks of thunder.