The Second Coming (42 page)

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 rushed 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.

The riders
pulled back, rounding to gather for a second assault. The Hunters
mustered together, raising their swords in readiness. Brahm’s soul
lifted from her body. Row upon row, the hundreds of Hunters were a
festering swamp of hatred and fear.

The rebels
barely held the Confederation army at bay. The Obek backed them,
but they were entangled with the angel, and it took all twelve of
the mighty beings to keep the winged creature at bay. A few Hunters
tried to engage them, but their kahbeth sliced through the humans
like hot pokers through fresh snow. She saw Gault, and dove into
his being, sensing his soul. It exuded a soft hue of jade, its
sound like the cry of the caribou. He held her there, as if in
comfort. The Obek let her go and she slipped past him to see Lya's
brother, dagger in hand. He waited for the Hunters to get past
Great Bear and a tall blonde woman with a Hunter's helmet.

Brahm soared
over the battle as the rebels fell back, the Hunters gathering to
strike once more. From the south, howls pierced the air. Brahm
flanked in their direction, sailing over the bloodied, wet ground.
She dodged a shadow that enveloped a Hunter and sensed its
madness.

Dïor.

Brahm the
swept towards the edge of the Witch Plains and, from among the
forest of great silver maples that bordered the land, wolves dashed
forward with their fangs bared. Nine of them dwarfed the others and
she recognized the two that led.

Fang.
Night.

Two hundred
wolves rushed from the trees, their fur sopping with the heavy
rains. They leapt among the Hunters, pulling the southern ranks
into the blood-stained mud. Brahm approached Night and as the wolf
leapt at one of the Hunters; he nodded as if to acknowledge her.
She attempted to reach into his being, but found herself
blocked.

Fatigue
flooded over her and she reeled back into her own body.

Mason’s soul
returned as well. “Bad news,” he said. “Demons are coming from the
north and the Westwood is nearly here.”

Wailing and
piercing howls filled the air and Brahm lifted up once more to
search north.

One last
look.

Demons and
fiends of the deepest forests rushed from the trees and launched at
the Haudenosaunee and Lastborn. Exhaustion settled on her as she
sailed on westward and nearly slammed into a dark haze that hung on
the air.

The
Westwood.

She sensed its
lust for all living things. Brahm sped away, back to her body to
hear Sephirah screaming at her.

-He is
coming!-

Friar John
searched through the chaos. He killed what beasts he could, trying
to avoid killing the Hunters. He’d had enough of taking human lives
for now. But the goblins, he could take them over and over.
Something in him delighted in their grunts of pain as they fell
under his blade, something that had lain dormant for years.

Demons and
creatures of savage darkness poured from the north and John took
them as well. It was too late for anything close to an orderly
approach to carrying out his plans. He continued to avoid Uriel,
hoping the angel would not sense him. Fortunately, the winged being
was occupied with a host of Obek; too busy attempting to kill them
to be worried about a single man. He had taken three of the mighty
beings already, but was hard pressed to take more.

John turned
his back on the angel, scouring the landscape for whom he searched.
The Beast had not revealed himself. Then John spotted the
dark-skinned woman, the one who bore Sephirah’s soul. And as if
reliving a strange dream he cut a path through the demons and
Hunters towards the woman he had once been in service to.

***

The rain
pounded and Brahm woke to its cold prickling upon her face. She was
leaning against White Feather’s rising chest. He said nothing,
smiled, and squeezed her good hand as she sat up. Her ghost hand
still hurt and the stump throbbed. She closed her eyes once more,
her body requiring sleep, but re-opened them at a persistent wet
nudge upon her leg. She blinked through hazy vision to see a black
form step towards her. It leaned over her.

Her breathing
labored in the musty air. The scent of the Westwood was heavy.
Birds flew east from its path and small rodents scurried in the
same direction, fleeing the oncoming cloud of death that she knew
would follow.

A bloodied
hand held out keys in front of her. It was the man dressed in black
robes. In his other hand he gripped a long dagger.

“
You will need these,” he said, unlocking the chains that
bound her.