White Feather’s hand tightened around the war club. He nodded to her as if he read her thoughts.
The Hunters would hang them anyway, so why not die fighting.
Brahm gripped the kahbeth.
Her feet itched to surge forward, but froze in place as cries echoed from the east. Brahm turned, wondering whether she would face death regardless if she ran from it. She thought of the Clan Mother, of Diarmuid, of Gray Wolf, of White Feather, and of a face she had not thought of in ages, a face not unlike her own.
Would he mourn her passing?
And what of her second soul, she wondered. Would she finally have peace?
The voice was silent.
Brahm took a single step forward and paused as ten Haudenosaunee warriors crested the rise in the east, with Roan and Wind in tow. She grinned. The tides of fate were rising in her favor.
The Hunters were mired in confusion, but within moments silver daggers and bags of lethal powders were in hand. Two muttered a summons and flames danced along their fingers. A host of souls emerged from the trees.
The warriors sped forward, a whirlwind of fury sweeping through the forest. Brahm’s heart swelled with pride.
My people.
She would fight at their side after all. She joined in their war cries, but paused at another echo; this one from the west. Again, fate smiled upon her, and Brahm nearly knelt to kiss the Great Mother. Men and women weaved through the trees, swords bared and arrows nocked. But these were more than what they appeared. The cruelty in their eyes spoke their nature — Lastborn.
A crest of peppered hair, sword in hand, led the charge. A gray wolf ran at his side.
“Diarmuid!” she called out, kahbeth pulsing and alive once more. Brahm charged forward.
The lead Hunter, broad as a bear, waited for her.
“The penalty for treason is death,” she roared.
Wasting no time on words, Brahm swung the kahbeth. The Hunter raised her sword and the clash of metal vibrated through the trees. Rage from the kahbeth surged up Brahm's arm. She swung with the second one, but the Hunter dodged. The blades of the kahbeth howled as they neared the woman’s flesh. The Hunter leapt back to avoid their touch.
Brahm raised the blades to strike again, but the Hunter was faster, planting her booted foot on Brahm’s chest and shoving her backwards. Breath rushed out of her lungs as the ground met her, hard and fast. Seething anger welled inside her and she shuffled to avoid the sword that plunged towards her. The Hunter wrenched her sword from the ground.
Brahm rose, panting. She smiled.
The woman was good.
The Hunter beat down upon her again, this time with a force that knocked Brahm from her feet. She rolled backwards, slicing her arm upon a jagged stone. The kahbeth rang in her ears. They smelled blood.
Brahm rolled to her feet and swung at the Hunter once more, bringing both blades around in a wide arc, separating them at the last minute. The Hunter blocked one, but missed the other, and moaned as it tore open her leg. She jabbed in anger at the air.
Sweat trickled down Brahm’s head, and a sly grin crept across her face. The Hunter hobbled backwards, struggling to block parry after parry. Gathering all the strength she could muster, Brahm locked the sword with one of the kahbeth. The Hunter stared defiance at her as Brahm brought the other forward, and pierced her chest. The woman struggled to stand, but the life in her fermented in a heady brew from which the kahbeth drank in thirsting gulps.
The Hunter leaned forward. “They will be ours, traitor.”
“Who?”
The Hunter gave a chill smile and then collapsed at Brahm's feet.
Damn!
She had no time to ponder as another Hunter lunged towards her. Brahm gave herself over to the kahbeth, swiping at him. He stepped back and she swung again, blinded by bloodlust. He shifted back once more and a summons to retreat sounded on the air. Her opponent turned on his heel and ran with the others. She marched forward, furious, determined to take the coward.
She would destroy them all.
A strong hand clasped her shoulder, restraining her. Brahm gripped the kahbeth, and glared at her new opponent.
This one will die well.
“Brahm!” called his voice.
Barely recognizing the face through a haze of hatred, she swiped at him.
She missed.
White fury glazed over her eyes.
Die!
She stabbed at him again, but pierced air.
“Brahm!”
She knew that voice. She struggled to drop the weapons, fighting with their iron resolve.
She swiped again.
“Brahm, it's me!”
The man struck her across the face.
A voice screamed at her from inside her own skull.
-Fool!-
The kahbeth tumbled from her hands. The fit of rage and thirst for blood melted.
“Diarmuid,” she breathed.
His heavy arms pulled her close. She returned his embrace. She’d almost killed him.
Diarmuid retrieved the kahbeth from the forest floor. “Are you still using these things?”
-Fool!-
Brahm shook her head and grinned. It was good to see him. “Is that all you can say when you haven't seen me in so long?”
She secretly thanked the second soul within her. Somehow the woman had helped release her from the kahbeth’s hold.
Diarmuid handed the blades to her. “Just worried about you. It’s good to see you. What are you doing out here?”
She smiled. “Looking for you.”
White Feather approached them, cautious. There was a look of confusion on his face.
“Diarmuid,” he said, “it is good to see you. I trust you are well.” He offered his hand.
Diarmuid took it.
Another Haudenosaunee warrior approached them from behind White Feather. He was tall as a young elm and solid as the oak. His partial Obek heritage was evident in his long strides, double that of most men.
Brahm held out her arms and greeted him. “She:kon, Great Bear. I'm glad to see you.”
A craggy smile stretched across his oversized face. The man towered over her by two heads and Brahm felt like a rag doll as he hugged her. She had saved his life once, and neither he nor his shaman uncle let her forget it.
“We were sent after you,” he said. His rich voice hesitated as he studied the remains of the dead Hunters. The Lastborn had butchered them. “The Clan Mother had a feeling you might be in trouble. She was specific with her instructions: don't let them know you're there until they need you. So, here we are. I have a life debt to you, Orenda— my life for your life.”
Brahm thanked the Mother Earth for the wisdom of Little Doe. She nodded to the man.
“Come,” Diarmuid said, tugging her. “I want you to meet someone.”
He led her to the western rise, but halted as they reached its crest. A Witch Hunter, her blonde locks shifting in the breeze, stood over two young men prostrate on the ground.
Diarmuid unsheathed his sword. “Paine!”
The Hunter braced for Diarmuid's strike. When he reached her he swung, but she pummeled him with one fist as she brought the sword down with the other. Diarmuid's stance didn't waver and his sword met hers. The metal clashed, but the woman fell back as an arrow sliced through her shoulder. The Lastborn were howling in rage and running towards her. Great Bear advanced upon the Hunter first and pinned her to the ground. He clamped a silver collar around her neck with a deft motion, and then held up his hands to the Lastborn.
“Peace,” he said. His voice was like stone. “She is taken.”
The Lastborn slowed, the anger still smoldering.
“Peace!” he called out again.
Then they paused. The rage in their eyes subsided and they withdrew to the trees.
Diarmuid sheathed his sword and knelt beside one of the young men.
“Paine?” He reached over to the other. “Puck?”
Brah
m crouched at his side. “Diarmuid, what's going on?”
He stared into the forest. “Lya!” A frantic look filled his eyes.
Diarmuid ran past the horses, still crying Lya's name. Brahm knelt and checked for a heartbeat on the one called Paine. It was rapid, but he was alive. Something within her awoke as she leaned over his chest.
It was the second soul that was leeched to her own. It wept.
Paine stirred in her arms, putting his hand to his head. When he pulled it back it was covered in blood.
He moaned. “Where's Lya?”
“Diarmuid went to look for her. Who is she?”
“She's my sister.” He sat up. “Where’s Puck? Is he okay?”
The one with the black hair groaned. Brahm reached over and put her hand to his chest. His heartbeat was strong and he had no visible sign of injury. Her second soul still wept.
“He's fine. What does―” She was interrupted by a screech.
A falcon took flight and Brahm managed to catch something from it — sharp images of a pale woman with onyx hair invaded her head. Brahm sucked in her breath. Her second soul was now screaming.
-Mine!-
Brahm shook the image from her mind.
This was insanity.
“Diarmuid!”
Diarmuid bounded out of the woods.
“That falcon is hers.”
Diarmuid knew to seize the opportunity before him. “Get your horse, we're going after her.”
White Feather strode over with Roan in hand, Wind trailing behind.
Brahm took the reins, but before she mounted, she looked towards the Witch Hunter and then towards the Lastborn. They ambled among the trees, retrieving swords and arrows. They appeared tranquil now, but she wondered if their wrath would surface once more. Her instincts spoke to her.
“Make sure the Hunter lives. Take her back to Haven and free her of the Wormwood. We need to know what the Confederation is up to.”
The large man nodded. “I will see to it.”
As Diarmuid mounted, Fang growled. The she-wolf settled between Paine and Puck.
Diarmuid nodded. “Fine. Take care of them.”
White Feather climbed onto Wind's back with a fluid motion.
“I'm coming with you,” he said. He looked at Brahm with a firm gaze. There would be no deterring him.
Stubborn fool.
Brahm nodded, and mounted Roan.
And as the falcon climbed into the southern skies, the three of them followed.
Chapter 13
A heavy breeze blew through the ruins of old Madrid and up the escarpment to where John stood. It carried the scent of decay.
In the midst of the rubble a river cut a winding path, splitting the ruins in half. The source of the putrid smell lined its edge; massive Death Lilies that grew along the shores in clumps of orange and white blooms.
John tied a scarf around his face to muffle the scent. It lessened the urge to vomit, yet the smell was ever present. He waited as Miguel finished retching at the side of the road and wiped his mouth with a rag from his pocket. The woolen scarf did not help the fat friar's delicate senses.
Meega sat astride a mule they had purchased two days prior, her blue eyes shining above the rim of the scarf wrapped about her porcelain face. She had not spoken since departing Barcelona six days prior, but he knew from her eyes she found some comfort in the gangly, brown pack animal that was aptly named Mule.
The girl gave no indication of what she felt about her loss, despite Miguel's prodding. She stroked the wooden doll she carried.
When will you open up again, Little One?
The absence of her shrill laughter cleaved John's heart.
The sun crested the Gredos mountains in the distance, and John took a moment to trace their path south and west. The mountains would guide them to Baleal, to Portugal. He sighed. It had been a long time since he had visited the land of his birth. If they were fortunate, they would catch a Portuguese galleon heading for the Confederation.
And then what? Kill a child?
He turned his back to Meega as Miguel tied his scarf about his face once more. John took shallow breaths, trying to focus on skirting the ruins of the ancient city and its lingering smell. The Death Lilies had sprouted in the ruins after the Shift and thrived for five hundred years. He prayed for a downdraft.
The stillness of the valley was interrupted by Miguel's incessant gagging.
“Try breathing through your mouth, brother. It may help.”
Miguel nodded, and the sound of his nasal wheezing disappeared.
Yet four hours later, after trudging through miles of rolling hills, the wheezing returned. The scent of the lilies faded to a bad memory and John removed his scarf, casting it off to the side of the road. It was laden with the flower's odor, as was the rest of his attire.
“We need to get out of this clothing.”
Miguel reached into his pack, and his bulbous nose sniffed at the robe he pulled out. He gagged and stuffed it back in.
“Everything smells. Where are we going to get a change of clothing?”
John motioned with his chin. “Carnero is just beyond the next hill.”
Miguel's face crimsoned. “That hedonistic place? I'd rather stink.”
John laughed. “Don't be ridiculous, brother. We cannot ride naked and I don't care to ride any further with this smell. We'll find a quiet inn, have a bath, buy some clothing and be on our way.”
Miguel said nothing further, but his neck and ears matched the rosy glow of his face.
After another hour, they entered the brightly flowered city of Carnero. Etched into the keystone of its arches was a goat’s head surrounded by five flowers in the pattern of a pentagram. Over the horned head was a goblet filled with grapes. John smiled. The goat's head was symbolic of the god they worshipped, yet the city's title held another meaning, one the obvious name of the horned head did not infer. It held the ancient roots for the word flesh, and rightly so, as it was known as the carnal capital of Iberia.
Towering honeysuckle bushes surrounded the city, their scent like manna to his nose. They grew to twice John's height, and were a match for the tall hedges that lined the intricate mazes within the city proper. John had heard plenty about the mazes as a young man, and the nightly rituals of lust performed within their confines. That lure was no longer. Not since his body had been taken and forced into unspeakable things — things which had no forgiveness.
He sniffed at the air, heavy with the scent of the roses intertwined between the hedges; red, white, and plentiful. They walked along the main street, greeted by drooping, yellow blossoms of the laburnum trees lining the streets.
Children ran between the trees, hiding and chasing each other. Meega paid them no heed.
Laughter and merry talk filled the city and the people that walked the streets continued about their business, yet some cast the two friars a strange look. It was not just for the smell he needed a change in clothing. His friar's robes stood out in such a place. Yet some of the women cast him looks of longing, eyeing his tall stature. John felt his face flush.
The city's Guard stood at the corners, men and women armed with only a tall, intricately carved staff. Their scant clothing hung on hardened bodies. A number of people muttered faint greetings, those native to the place. They wore loose-fitting garb of vivid colors and flashy patterns. The clothing reminded John of the bright, billowing pants of the Baron's Guild. The visitors dressed much more conservatively, and hung their heads at the sight of the two friars. John stifled his laughter.
Guilt. A gift from God, and one of the mightiest weapons of the Church. That, and fear.
As they strode down the cobbled road, a plethora of inns offered them what they sought, but most had men and women hanging in the doorways wearing only enough to cover their most private of regions. Even that was a stretch as one woman lifted her top to show them a pierced nipple. Miguel's face rucked.
They walked past a small inn in which no one
lurked, a quaint stucco building called The Golden Fish. John supposed the name could have hidden meanings, but as Miguel carved a bee-line across the road to its yellow door, he saw what caught the brother's attention. A small cross hung in the corner of the window. He now knew the meaning of the name.
The fish. The symbol used before the cross.
Miguel stood in front of it, grinning as if the Second Coming was just announced. John sighed.
If only he knew.
John rolled his eyes and dismounted. “I guess we'll stay here then.”
He handed the reins to a plain-faced young man in a sand-colored robe and plucked Meega from off Mule's back. She still clung to the doll, but slid her delicate hand in his as they followed a seemingly ecstatic Miguel through the door of the inn.
As they entered, a tall, ample-hipped woman greeted them. She was shy of beautiful with her slightly angled features, but she appeared sultry with her dark hair and eyes, along with the slight eyebrows that betrayed her mixed heritage. Firstborn? Nymph? Sidhe? Over her gaping cleavage dangled a cross and John found it difficult to turn his eyes away.
“Good afternoon, my name is Ingrid. How may I be of service?” The smoky accent announced her heritage — Sidhe.
John stepped forward, and Meega hid behind him, hugging his leg.
“We would like food, and a room for the night. We also need to find a change of clothing.”
Ingrid nodded. “I can see to all of your needs. You smell of the east, and must desire a bath. I will have water boiled.” She clapped her hands and two young women came forward. Both were dressed in similar sandy robes as the young stable hand outside. Ingrid ordered them off to prepare baths and then turned back, eying Meega. She knelt and touched the girl's hand. “Do not be afraid, little one. Your kind is welcome here.”
Meega stepped forward, an uncertain smile on the corners of her lips. She stroked the wooden doll, yet remained silent.
Ingrid tapped Meega's chin and smiled. “I understand. You need say nothing more.”
Miguel looked at the woman, his face blank. “She didn't say a word. She hasn't spoken in days.”
The Second Coming Page 14
