The Second Coming

by David H. Burton

  Paine rose from the ground and Nahash stroked his soul with its tentacles. Its evil laughed within him and shared a thought. Paine acknowledged its wicked intent.

  Someone needed to be sacrificed. Something needs to take residence in Dark Wind’s body.

  And with the souls of the dead floating about him, Paine saw his opportunity to be rid of the former High Magus of the Valbain. He no longer needed the man.

  As the others drew near, Paine rose and commanded the dead. He lifted his hands to the air as if commanding a final act of great summoning. The dead were eager, whispering in his ear.

  -Use us.-

  He sent them to precede Dïor and Gregor, spiraling towards the location where the heart of Dark Wind once resided and they took the form of a little boy. Its appearance flickered and pointed. It was a good replica and enough of a ruse to fool them.

  Diarmuid, Great Bear, and Mira ran up to him.

  I should have killed her.

  At their feet loped a large wolf, its white fur almost glowing in the aura.

  “Fang,” he said, feigning a choking voice.

  The wolf's eyes shone. A voice, calm and soothing, echoed in Paine’s mind, a voice he recognized.

  -It is time. The ships await.-

  Once again Paine buried his thoughts, this time from the wolf, for he knew her true nature now. He needed to shield his mind from her.

  He struggled to speak, the words gurgled. He almost laughed at this coy little game.

  “You're the voice,” he said to the wolf.

  The she-wolf did not flinch.

  Diarmuid pulled him towards him, his tugging on Paine’s arm a little too urgent for that of a mere friend. The man held him. “You're safe now, Paine.”

  The air lightened, Paine coughed as if his lungs were trying to purge the soot that saturated them. He rasped a single word, as if Dark Wind had taken his voice from him.

  “Diarmuid,” he said. He offered a soft smile, one of innocence and relief. What lay under it was filled with lustful notions. He licked his lips.

  Paine turned his thoughts from what he would do with this man. He would have him later, for now he knew the secret to whispering an enchantment in a man’s ear and to get what you wanted from him. Something Lya had learned to perform in what seemed another lifetime.

  Paine paused to watch Gregor and Dïor as they entered the depths of Dark Wind. They disappeared from sight and he bit back his glee, thinking of the trap that awaited them. He turned as Fang now led them over the Witch Plains. The small troupe ran to escape the cloud of death, the ground rumbling behind them. As they slipped through the edge of the shadows, he caught a whisper.

  “Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen.”

  Mira’s legs buckled under her. Dark Wind was proving too much for her. She fell to the ground and Great Bear scooped her up in his arms. They continued on, Dark Wind’s shadow looming over them, chasing them towards New Boston.

  The muddied ground was littered with the bodies of the dead and pools of red. So much could be done with this much blood. It was glorious.

  Fang ran far ahead of them, leading them towards the city. Paine dodged body after body, his breath labored. Diarmuid put his arm around him and Paine smiled. He almost laughed at the ease of this.

  Having him would be almost too simple.

  Dark Wind trailed them, licking at their heels as they ran.

  Paine smelled its musty odor nearly tumbling over them. Then it stopped and he knew his trap had been sprung.

  Excellent.

  A tortured voice echoed across the land.

  “Seventeen!”

  ***

  Dïor strode with Gregor into the heart of the thing that had trapped him for years.

  Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen.

  He grabbed Gregor by the arm and cloaked him in the darkness of his own being. It would hide them within Dark Wind’s shadow.

  Gregor's presence gave off a scent of calm and longing, of finality and love.

  The Firstborn Lord surfed the waves of shadow that tried to consume him, knowing that the heart of Dark Wind lay close.

  I can smell it.

  It flung demon shadows in his direction, but failed to find him as he slunk through its own darkness. Gregor gripped the Soul Orb in one hand and a bone dagger in the other.

  A dark pulse throbbed around them and Dïor knew they finally stood in the heart of Dark Wind. Yet something seemed amiss.

  “Are you ready, ancient one?” he asked.

  Gregor ripped open his tunic to bare his white, spotted flesh and muttered the words of the spell that would trap his own soul. He was going to heal the Soul Orb and trap Dark Wind once more.

  Dïor thought of his daughter and the Empress she could have become. For the first time in seventeen years, the Firstborn Lord smiled.

  Gregor finished the spell and thrust the dagger into his own chest, spilling his blood and trapping his soul in the black orb with the woman who had once done the same.

  “Elenya,” the old man muttered and then his body crumpled.

  Dïor materialized, snatching the Soul Orb from Gregor’s dead hand as he fell. He held it aloft, eager to call upon its power.

  Sephirah must be saved.

  The Soul Orb thrummed in his ears and throbbed in his hand. He felt it work its power and then sensed a trap. Dark Wind’s heart was no longer there. The Soul Orb worked its magic, but upon Dïor instead, paralyzing him within Dark Wind’s ethereal body. The shadow of the creature that had once tortured him threw itself at Dïor, invading his body and he screamed his rage and fury. He would be trapped there, within Dark Wind’s body, forever.

  “Seventeen!”

  ***

  Friar John ran, cutting his way through the demons once more as they fled. The wolves had been the turning point in the battle, tipping the odds even greater than John would have thought possible. From where they had come he did not know, but their numbers were impressive.

  The sun was nearing the horizon as John reached the outskirts of New Boston. Others fled before him, making for galleons that were to sail them across the ocean. John ducked through alleyways and side streets, yet still made an easterly direction. He had little time to lose and the people that fled from Dark Wind were increasing in number. They were getting in his way and he felt his impatience rising.

  The shawl of his dark self he still wore about him. He needed to once again deliver himself to wickedness if he was to save his own skin. The sun now perched upon the western rise casting his shadow before him as he ran. He knew the location of the church. His only hope before the ghoul came for its toll was to find Miguel.

  He dashed through the entrance, past the statue of the virgin. The pews reeked of fresh pine oil and his darkened self had to keep from retching with the smell. He pulled off his pack to pull out the sigil-covered urn. The Spear of Destiny was already in his hand. He scanned the mostly empty wooden rows. A few heads were knelt in prayer – mostly the old and the particularly devout. A man and woman knelt together as they lit some candles. Their packs were large upon their backs; likely travelers that had found a sanctuary of peace.

  Near the front he found a tonsured man that had Miguel’s roundness. He knelt before the cross, fingering beads with fat fingers. John had no time to waste. None would try to stop him here and he would be gone before the City Guard would have time to react. They had their hands full attempting to stem the fear and panic that was now flooding into the city.

  He marched forward, letting the floorboards groan beneath his quickened steps. The man did not look back to see who hastened through the rows. John gripped the Spear and hoped beyond hope that this was Miguel. If not, it would be too late. John rounded the last row and walked up to the man, grabbing him by his brown friar’s robes and spun him round.

  He nearly gasped at what he faced. The man before him was, in fact, Miguel and John would have driven the Spear through him right there, but next to him, knelt low and humble, beads i
n her tiny hands and garbed in a white dress of fanciful lace, was a shock of red hair.

  “Little One,” he whispered. John dropped to his knees.

  She giggled and his heart soared. The shroud of darkness lifted from his heart, and tears choked him. He felt locked in place, like he could not move.

  The sun dropped beneath the edge of the western window and he knew his choice would lead to ruin, no matter what.

  Miguel spoke, his face alight with a look of happiness. “Praise be, brother. You were lost and now are found.”

  John swallowed back the tears and his words.

  “I found her washed up on shore and she has recovered. She was baptized this morning and will take residence at the convent just north of the city.”

  Meega held up the rosary. “Beads,” she said.

  John’s disgust and anger ran deep. And he chose, there, not to take the innocence of one, but two. The blade he shoved deep into the chest of Miguel, spilling his blood to the tiled floor. It ran fast and red towards the feet of the Christ that hung upon the cross. He muttered the spell to take Miguel’s soul as the man collapsed to his knees.

  The look of shock and betrayal was almost too much to bear, but John kept his eyes locked on those of Miguel, if only to say he had looked into the man’s eyes when he took his life. And with the soul of Miguel went the innocence of a little girl whose beautiful blue eyes were filled with tears. Her mouth was wide with shock and John scooped her up with bloodied hands and carried her out of the church.

  Meega wept with her head nestled in the crook of his neck. John found a place to stop where the ghoul would come to him. He pulled her face into his black robes and summoned the creature.

  “Do not look, Little One. This will be over soon.”

  The ghoul’s apparition came to him swift and sudden, its face covered by its cloak.

  “I have your toll,” he said. “The life of an innocent.”

  It sniffed at the urn and looked at the girl. Then it inhaled the soul of Miguel and John could swear he heard the fat man’s anguish.

  “There is more in here than just the life of an innocent.”

  John nodded. Meega’s innocence and his guilt occupied it as well.

  “You bargain well. It is now complete.” It reached towards his arm and passed its chill fingers over the wound. The hole sealed itself leaving a scar that looked like the mouth of the leech.

  Then it was gone.

  John pulled Meega’s face from hiding. She still clutched the beads in her little hand. In her other hand was the little straw doll that she had carried from over the sea. He cast the rosary to the ground and scooped her up once more and ran for the ships, abandoning his chances of redemption to a land that stank of refuse and remorse.

  ***

  Approaching the docks, Paine saw that the ships were already leaving the port. Dismayed, the runners screamed for them to wait. Fang stood at the stern of one of the ships, barking at them as it departed. Paine waved.

  “Wait!” he called. He looked about, wondering how he would actually get on the ship. The knowledge of things he now possessed was not enough.

  The others screamed frantic calls, trying to get the attention of the Portuguese sailors.

  Paine heard a voice behind him.

  “Too bad. Since Thurmond gave up on you, now you are mine.”

  They all turned and found a short, lumpy man with a gaping wound and nasty stitches across his midsection. His hair was mussed and his face charred. There were gaudy rings on his fat fingers. Paine knew what the little man was and what lay inside him.

  Mira wavered where she stood. “Breland!”

  The demon thrust green fire towards her. It struck her and she fell screaming under flames that consumed her flesh. Paine almost stopped it. He had wanted her demise reserved for himself, but he delighted in her wriggling and howling.

  Good.

  Great Bear charged with his war club, his anger as mighty as the mountains, but the little man jumped upon him with a blade and jabbed his neck. The sun disappeared beyond the horizon as the large man fell.

  Diarmuid pulled out a silver sword and pushed Paine behind him. The demon cast lightning from the skies, but the pepper-haired man dodged it before it struck. Green fire sped along the docks towards Paine and coiled about him like a snake. Paine whispered a spell of protection. The green flames did not harm him.

  The little man stepped forward. “You are mine.”

  Diarmuid looked at Paine, but he said nothing. He knelt upon the docks, his head lowered. A cloaked creature appeared before him, partly visible. It had no legs, instead at the base of its cloak appeared a thick trunk of entwined branches and reeds. It wore a necklace of bones and skulls about its neck.

  Something in Paine, as much as it wanted to simply use Diarmuid as a thing of pleasure, felt something other than a passing fancy for the man. He did not like what was transpiring. He reached out.

  Nahash spoke to him, recognizing it for what it was.

  -Ghoul.-

  What will it do?

  -Steal the soul from his body if he has not paid its price.-

  Paine stepped forward. A briny wind ruffled his hair.

  Then I must stop it.

  -You cannot. The deal is set. Once a deal has been sealed in blood, it is almost impossible to break.-

  With twisted fingers the ghoul touched Diarmuid’s face and then seized him by the hair. Diarmuid winced.

  Paine retrieved the parchment and spoke the words that had been hidden from him for what seemed an eternity — his mother’s spell. He reached deep within him for help. He called upon those that resided in his blood. Nahash and the Sovereigns spoke the words with him, reciting the ancient enchantment.

  As the little man known as Breland stepped forward to claim his quarry, Paine decided to use him as the target with which to trade. The switch was swift and unseen by the ghoul as it pressed its hooded face towards Diarmuid’s and drank of the soul that resided within. Diarmuid’s body shuddered, his fingers scratching at the wooden planks beneath him. Paine heard two souls screaming; the demon that had taken Breland’s body and the soul of Breland himself.

  An innocent?

  Diarmuid’s body slumped to the ground and the ghoul faded away.

  Paine then called upon the incantation again, to send Diarmuid’s soul back, but as he reached within him and called upon the others for help, he realized there was no soul left within Breland’s poorly stitched, festering carcass. Without the demon, the body was incapable of surviving and Diarmuid was now gone.

  No!

  He heard Nahash and the Sovereigns chuckling.

  He opened his heart and arms in the hopes that Diarmuid’s soul would come to him, but there was nothing. He had not taken the man’s life, so his memories were not Paine’s to witness. And he stood there, arms open, tears in his eyes.

  No. I will call him back, resurrect him.

  -You cannot.-

  But another did once before.

  -Parlor tricks. Once a soul has moved on, there is no bringing it back.-

  Paine fisted his hands. He looked back to Fang on the ship that was sailing away.

  He reached out to her, wondering what she was capable of.

  Could she do something?

  He was being left behind.

  No. I will go to her.

  He called upon everything within him, and stepped out onto the surface of the water. He would walk. He commanded Nahash and the Sovereigns to aid him.

  Their laughter came again as he sank beneath surface. It was deep, and Paine, unable to swim, sank. The water and the waves tossed him about, turning him over. He struggled to get his head above the surface. He took in one breath and saw the ship sailing.

  Save me, he demanded.

  -Save yourself.-

  They laughed again and he felt their presence drift. They were abandoning him.

  -You are weak.-

  No!

  He convulsed, not somethi
ng feigned, but for real. He felt an outpouring of power as the Sovereigns departed. They took with them the darkness that wrapped about his heart and soul. The tentacled arms of Nahash struggled to remain, but the strength with which he had held the being to him was leaving with them.

  Paine longed for them to return, their knowledge was slipping from him. He begged.

  Please.

  But they did not respond.

  The sea tossed him about and as a last desperate act Paine delved into the heart of the entity that had offered to aid him. What he found was dark and terrible, the knowledge that lay in there; for within the soul of Nahash lay the years of questioning Dïor. The Firstborn Lord had rescued Sephirah from the depths of the Earth, and had lain with her. Next to the existing child in her womb he had placed his own seed. And the first of the twins was a boy, a bastard child fathered by a man possessed by one of the oldest spirits to walk the Earth.

  Paine then learned of his mother’s labor. It had been difficult. She had nearly died while delivering the boy-child. And then Paine knew the birth of the insatiable creature that had dwelt within him. Once seraph, one of the burning ones, highest of the order of angelic beings, tempted like the lowest of demons towards the blood that had been spilt during Paine’s birth. Sephirah had summoned it. Her plans had fallen asunder when it desired the world that had been beneath its feet for countless years and with all-consuming hunger it craved to devour it. She had had no choice but to trap it where it had been birthed and one of her handmaidens, a virgin, had willingly given her life to do so.

  And then he learned of the deal his sister and the triune known as Puck had made with the creature. They would release it and allow it to feed if it would only serve her as required. Nahash had made a false pact with his sister. Nothing could stop its hunger.

  Paine accepted his heritage there, without tears and without pain. He was what he was.

  I am.

  The cherub-faced little boy, Nahash, reached out to him. He did not have a pleading look in his eye. He opened his mouth in a silent scream.