The Second Coming (6 page)

The woman who
led the meeting paced. Despite her annoying traits, Brahm liked
Ira. Unlike some in Haven, her heart was true.

“
As much as his absence concerns me,” the woman said, “what I
fear worse is what it implies. I would like to re-focus our
discussion on the reason we are here. The Confederation has plans
to deal with us.”

A flurry of
gasps and muttering followed.

Far too much
commotion.

Ira gestured
for quiet, just shy of histrionic in her waving.

“
Due to the sheer number of Hunters, I recommend we halt all
Missions. We cannot afford to lose our people now. We must now
consider the defense and safety of Haven first, above all else.
Remember the fate of Sanctuary. We must recall the
Missionaries.”

Ira sat, her
dark, knobby hands fidgeting in her lap. Despite her theatrics,
there was cause for concern.

War with the Confederation
.

The faction of
warmongers looked pleased.

Perhaps it was
time to leave.

A
frail-looking man who’d been standing by the window, and whose thin
form cast a long shadow upon the floor, hobbled forward. Mumbling
filled the room. It was Gregor.

God, he’s
aged.

In the last
few weeks he’d spiraled downwards, as if his well-preserved life
was coming to an abrupt end. He was Haven’s oldest member and
wielded a quiet resolve that kept the two factions from ripping
each other apart.

Someone called
out. It was the first voice again. “We need a weapon of great
power; something to defeat the Confederation. Otherwise we will
become like the others. It is said Gregor knows of such power.”

Others
chorused their agreement.

The old man
limped to the center of the floor. He looked quietly into the
audience, as if surmising who the jackals were.

Brahm
smiled.

He already
knew.

“
I know of which power you suggest,” Gregor said. His voice
was hoarse. “And using it was tried once already, to our peril. It
will not work. There is none among us that can wield it. Its will
is too great.”

“
But there are those among us that can summon the dead and
command the elements with greater purpose than…” The man paused,
knowing he was insulting Gregor with such a statement. Gregor was
unfazed by the insinuation. His face showed no reaction, but the
sag in his shoulders indicated he might be giving in.

He looked up
once more. “I suggest we let everyone think it over. This matter
can be settled tomorrow. Hasty decisions are often the ones we
regret the most.” A chorus of mumbles followed, accompanied by both
nodding heads and sour faces. Brahm took the opportunity to escape
and swept out the door.

She strode
towards her living quarters as the others remained to gossip and
linger. Her gaze wandered to the great pines and maples
interspersed among the rustic dwellings as she walked. There was
something unnatural about the trees and their undeviating trunks
that shot straight upwards. And somehow their rigidness made her
think of Diarmuid.

She laughed
aloud, hearty, unsure of where that thought originated. She hardly
thought of him in that light. She did miss him though; Diarmuid and
his unwavering integrity. Usually Missionaries sent word if they
were delayed, but in a year there was nothing from him. But her gut
told her Diarmuid was fine, and Brahm Hallowstone’s gut never
lied.

She headed
north to the stable yard. As usual, the horses left a more than
healthy supply of work. After donning work boots, she grabbed the
closest pitchfork.

The cleaning
and sweeping persisted for a couple of hours, the stench making her
head feel light. But the horses were good, quiet company.

Eventually
Brahm stepped out of the stables, desperate for air that didn’t
reek of shit with a side of rotting carrots. In the distance, a
young woman approached. She wore a red scarf about her neck, a
symbol of her desire to be rid of the Confederation. Brahm rested
the pitchfork against the fence while she waited for her. The woman
was short, her mouse-brown hair framing a homely face. Farin was
not one of the prettiest women she knew, but she was one of the
nicest. And despite her inclinations towards war-mongering, she was
foremost in seeing to the care of Gregor in his weakened state.

She wasn’t a bad lover either
.

Brahm perched
herself on the rails of the wooden fence and wiped the sweat from
her shaved head.

“
What brings you here?” she asked and pictured herself running
her tongue along the nape of the young woman’s neck, a particularly
tender spot that would get her moaning. Farin was fifteen years her
junior; and at twenty-one everything was still perky and firm — the
way Brahm liked it.

“
There is a messenger here that needs your talents with the
Tongue.”

Although the
Tongue comment might warrant some playful banter, Brahm allowed
those thoughts to fall into the straw at her feet. There would be
time to toy with Farin later. Brahm’s talent with both tongues was
legendary, but this one involved communing with animals.

She leapt from
the fence. “Let's go, then.”

Brahm shed the
work boots to put on her own supple, leather ones, and left the
pitchfork against the fence. It would be waiting for her.

They walked
along the path and as Brahm veered off towards the pigeon house,
Farin grabbed her arm.

“
The birds arrive over there,” Brahm said.

“
It's not a bird.”

“
What is it?”

“
A wolf.”

Brahm left
Farin where she stood, and ran.

***

A recent gale
had passed north of Fairfax, uprooting the trees and leaving their
remains strewn across the roads. It made passing difficult at
times, but Paine followed Diarmuid’s lead. The man seemed to know
what he was doing.

Monstrous
storms ravaged the lands and Paine’s family, like others, simply
dealt with the aftermath of cyclones and lightning that didn’t just
drift; they hunted. And when they preyed upon a village, almost no
one survived. Yet from what Paine had heard it was mild compared to
the hundred years that followed the Shift. Those storms possessed
something unnatural, powers beyond what the old world was prepared
to comprehend. And they had swept the land clean, as if the Earth
had rid herself of a plague of sores that had festered on her
surface for far too long.

Paine studied
Diarmuid as they walked. He enjoyed watching the man. He was agile
and lissome, which was surprising for someone of his stature. He
was wide in the shoulders and had legs with the girth of small tree
trunks. The combination should have made him slow and cumbersome,
but instead he moved like a cat. Paine licked his lips at what he
might do with a man like that.

As the sun
dropped beyond the treescape, they stopped for the night and
soothed their weary feet by a stream that flowed through the woods
in a gentle winding. With a makeshift spear in hand, Diarmuid
departed to hunt for dinner. He returned with a few pheasants and
wiry hares, the latter of which had the mange.

It was not the
finest of meals, but satisfying enough to settle the hunger in
Paine’s gut. After eating, Lya sat off to the side with her distant
thoughts and Diarmuid unsheathed an arm-length silver dagger from a
scabbard. He polished it as they sat.

“
Diarmuid, how long have you and Fang been together?” Paine
asked, trying to make some form of conversation. It wasn’t one of
his stronger points, but Lya’s silence was getting uncomfortable.
It was not the first time she had retreated within herself, but
this was one of the longest.

What was
eating at her?

The dagger
glinted orange in the firelight and Paine wondered what might
happen if he touched it, curious if it would trigger a response.
His parents never owned anything made of silver, mostly due to
cost. Silver was expensive — the price of defending one’s self
against bloodcraft and the dead.

“
Six years,” replied Diarmuid. “She's a great companion and
friend. I would be lost without her.”

Paine settled
onto his blanket, letting the warmth from the fire seep into his
sore leg muscles.

“
Is she tame?”

Fang turned
her head to glare at him.

“
Tame?” Diarmuid chuckled. “She could leave anytime she
wants.” He leaned back further against a small log. Paine moved to
avoid the smoke that wafted in his direction, settling himself at
Diarmuid's side. The man shuffled closer, his sinewy, iron leg
pressed against Paine’s. The fire seemed to emanate more
heat.

“
I don’t understand. Then why is she here?”

“
I met up with a pack of her kind one evening. When we met,
she chased the others off and remained with me. She’s been with me
since.”

“
Why did she leave her pack?”

“
I don’t know,” he said. “I may never know. I can sense when
she’s near, but I cannot communicate with her like Lya. I don't
have that talent.”

Lya remained
silent, but poked at the fire with a large stick. Her ears were
pricked.

Diarmuid
stared into the flames and then went quiet.

“
Well,” said Paine after a time and feeling enough awkward
silence had passed. “It’s been a long day. Perhaps it’s time to
retire for the night.”

Lya rose from
where she sat and strode towards the woods. Diarmuid looked at
Paine in confusion.

Paine shook
his head. “Let her go.”

Lya then
disappeared into the dark, unchallenged by either.

Paine figured
she was going to dance skyclad with the spirits. Once, he had
tracked her into the woods on the night of the new moon and caught
her dancing with an unseen apparition. He never followed her again.
Not only did women not interest him, but the sight of his sister
frolicking naked amongst the trees was almost repulsive.

Of course, there was that shared night with
Billy
.

Paine cloaked
himself in his blanket, listening as the sound of his sister’s
travels took her further into the night. He looked to the sky.
Other than the stars that filled it, it was empty.

She would definitely be dancing
.

He rolled away
from where Lya had disappeared, closed his eyes and slept.

“…
delapsus ordo…”

Paine
woke.

Something
whispered in his ear, faint, yet audible enough that he could make
out a smattering of words.

“…
tua sum domine…”

He smelled
blood.

He already
knew the presence before he turned his head to see a shadow in the
night. Lya knelt at his side, eyes open but rolled back, one hand
raised to the air. She was trembling.

“…
te obsecro ...”

On Paine’s
chest was the shard of glass that Diarmuid had found and next to
him lay a dead squirrel, its open throat smiling at him.

He sat up and
snatched Lya’s arm. His grip was harsh and there was a faint grin
on her face before her eyes returned from their upturned state. She
plucked his fingers from her arm, each one removed with deft
firmness. She seized the dead squirrel and then departed his side
without a further word or glance.

Paine looked
at Diarmuid as she strode into the woods. The man was huddled by
the embers of the dying fire, asleep. Fang was nowhere to be seen.
So Paine lay there for a time, listening for the sounds of his
sister. The forest offered him nothing and so he lay there further,
waiting and wallowing in the pain of his sister’s absence as she
strode deeper into the woods. And with every step she took, the
suffering in his heart worsened.

***

The late
morning sun baked Friar John's freckled skin as he trudged along
the road. He took a swig of water from the flask that hung about
his shoulder, and then poured a small amount on his head. The air
was hot and sticky and made walking just slightly worse than
uncomfortable.

A hushed quiet
breathed across the land, despite the presence of travelers along
the dusty road. He said little to the passersby, mostly mumbled
greetings and comments on the weather. John wanted to put as much
distance as possible between himself and the cardinal. He had
departed at an ungodly hour, hastening from the monastery.

Beside him
waddled Miguel, breathing heavily through his bulbous nose, a faint
whistle occasionally emanating from his hairy nostrils. Miguel was
the cardinal's parting gift — an escort. Pope Esther had not
objected.

The two friars
attracted little attention as they traveled through the southern
valleys of Iberia, a land once known as Spain. It was not uncommon
for their kind to be seen in these parts. He spoke the language
fluently, as did Miguel; both were raised on the border of
Portugal. His gift for languages was many: Portuguese, Latin,
Iberian, and even some Valbain, though he had little opportunity to
practice the latter tongue. He had learned a mere handful of words,
gleaned from a few members of the Rebellion.

A single name
resonated in John’s mind.

Liesel
.

The Pope said
the members of the Rebellion would recognize it, and would point
him in the right direction. He did not know how anyone could help
him find his quarry, but he had to start somewhere, and Liesel was
it.

“
Can we rest?” panted Miguel.

John stopped.
A small grove of trees waited in the distance, enticing them with
its offer of shade. He pointed to it and Miguel nodded his
satisfaction. When they reached it, the fat friar dropped to the
ground, leaning against the old sycamore fig. He gulped down water
and continued to pant. John dropped his pack on the ground. Its
contents were heavy.