What had he done, bringing a little girl on such a trip?
He felt sick.
Baron Jorge approached him, his eyes no longer set with a twinkle.
“I am afraid I have not seen her.” The man hung his head. “Perhaps the sea took her as an offering.”
Tears welled up in John’s eyes. He clutched the wooden doll to his chest and pulled his pack against his back; its rigid contents pressed against him.
Little One, what have I done?
And John knew that redemption was never to be his. He looked to his hands, hands that were never meant to heal or to love, but only to inflict pain and death. He felt his heart solidify in that moment, like it had once been, like when his brother had been chosen over him.
Stone.
He let the doll fall to the deck of the ship and wrenched the drawstrings of his pack once more. The ancient blade pressed harder against him.
He said nothing to the Baron, simply nodded his head and then strode from the man’s presence. He collected what few things he had brought with him, a few tools of his former trade. He stared at the steel objects before him; all dull with lack of use over the years. He would need the blades sharpened.
He placed them with care among some of Meega’s clothing to mask their rattling. She would no longer need them. He packed his worn leather bible as well as a shard of mirror that he took from the Baron’s chambers. With these slung over his shoulder, Friar John made his way down to the docks, abandoning his senses and Friar Miguel at the port city of New Boston. He had been chosen for a task and he would now see it done.
John strode to the edge of the city, marching through its cobbled streets.
The place stunk. It wasn’t just the city. It was the land. It smelled of stagnation and refuse.
Heated blood coursed through his veins. In the commercial part of the city, the area where the rich Barons sold their wares, he found the place where he could whet his blades. He aimed for the one that had older stones and sold his services to the less fortunate. A man like that, in the interest of making money, would keep his fat trap shut and not question the sorts of devices that John required to be sharpened.
And it was as expected. The near toothless lout did just that with no word or look at what sort of man would carry such diabolical devices. And he smelled as bad as the land.
John then set out for the crossroads of need and insatiable desire. Along its rubbish-strewn streets, he eyed a young man, dressed in enough rags to barely cover areas that most would consider private. At the other end was a woman garbed in much the same.
The sun caught her stark-red hair and John knew exactly which path to take.
He walked to the entrance of an alleyway and motioned for his victim to join him. He gave a coy smile, one that alluded to a desire other than what he intended. With his newly sharpened tools, he waited with patience and a different form of desire set in his eyes — one that would rid himself of any softness.
He thought of the book of Revelation as he waited.
I know thy works, and charity, and service, and faith, and thy patience, and thy works; and the last to be more than the first.
With every step she took towards him he thought of his chances for redemption, lost.
With every footfall, he contemplated the challenge before him and immersed his heart and mind in a sea of darkness he thought he had long abandoned.
Notwithstanding I have a few things against thee, because thou sufferest that woman Jezebel, which calleth herself a prophetess, to teach and to seduce my servants to commit fornication, and to eat things sacrificed unto idols.
His skills were old, unhoned, and required practice.
The cold blades in his hands slid against each other, a clean and deliberate slice. His ears delighted in their slow grating.
And I gave her space to repent of her fornication; and she repented not.
His victim sauntered towards him, a stride of those that have practiced this profession well. She was a half-breed; and the part of her that was Naiad had taken control. Her yearning was ravenous; her footsteps intense.
She drew near.
Behold, I will cast her into a bed, and them that commit adultery with her into great tribulation, except they repent of their deeds.
She stood before him and exposed her white flesh. She waited for his hunger, and he gave it to her with all his might. The blades pierced her, in a place that suppressed her scream.
And I will kill her children with death; and all the churches shall know that I am he which searcheth the reins and hearts: and I will give unto every one of you according to your works.
The scarlet hair spilled over his arm and John trapped her soul in the crude ceramic urn he had purchased in the market. It was set with a spell and sigils to house souls. John left her body in the alley as well as his outer robe. It was stained crimson.
He strode into the street, making for the edge of the city and then hummed a few bars of Ave Maria.
It somehow brought him comfort.
***
Seven days later, after hugging the shores of Lake Michigami and then heading south and west to trace the broad path of the Illinois River, Paine and the others tracked the footprints of the survivors to a small town called Perry. It lay ten miles north of where the Illinois River shook hands with the mighty Mississippi. Great Bear chose to leave Two Moon to his own fate, determined not to delay finding the survivors of Haven. No one had disagreed with him.
The Mississippi River, lined with white oak and red buckeye, swept past them. The soft sound of the waters greeting the rock-strewn shore soothed Paine’s frazzled state. He was tired of running.
As the midday sun melted into the horizon, they were greeted by some of the survivors — Haudenosaunee warriors on lookout. Great Bear spoke with them hurriedly in his native tongue, and then charged on. The others spurred their horses to follow.
When they reached the camp, they found a large clearing full of people, their faces drawn and filled with desolation. The few greetings they received were only half filled with cheer. Great Bear and Truitt approached an old man and woman. Two men from Lindhome stood with them, Lastborn. They were both dark of hair and eyes, brothers from what Paine could tell.
Paine dismounted and approached, catching Truitt's words. “Lindhome is gone?”
The taller of the brothers clenched his fists. “Demons and wolfen poured into Lindhome from the north — hundreds of them. They came upon us in the night. The protection of Lindhome was breached and the full evil of the Westwood flooded in.”
Truitt looked up. “How is that possible? The barrier should have kept the Westwood out.”
The shorter one hung his head. “Elenya's Soul was lost.”
The old man that stood beside him reached to his chest, pressing his hand over his heart. He muttered something inaudible. He looked at the brothers, bags under his aged eyes.
His sagging jowls quivered.
Truitt looked at the old man. “Gregor, you were there when the orb was created, how could it have been lost?”
Gregor poked his staff into the ground. “Someone has discovered the nature of its power and turned it against us.”
The taller of the two brothers eyed the Witch Hunter who stood beside Great Bear, still clamped in chains. He spat on the ground.
“What is her kind doing here?”
Great Bear stepped in front of her. “She is to be freed of the Wormwood, and questioned.”
“I want to be there when you question her, for as we ran from the demons, the Confederation was waiting for us. It was a slaughter. I want to know what she knows.”
Truitt's eyes raged. “What?”
“We had been expecting the Confederation after you left. There was rumor they were invading the mining towns, but they reached us sooner than we expected. We fought hard, but in the end, many were lost. Those that escaped are heading this way, a day behind us, running from the Confederation. A few of us were sent ahead to p
repare for crossing the river.” He spat once more, this time striking the Hunter’s face. “If we do not get answers from her, I will gut her myself.”
Gregor cleared his throat. “How many of Lindhome are left?”
“Four hundred.”
“Out of two thousand?”
Silence sat heavy on the air until the old man lowered his head. “Then we must flee.”
***
Paine woke to find Fang at his side. He remembered her crawling in beside him before sunrise. His head swam with fatigue, tired from another night of terrors. The demon that stalked his dreams was relentless.
The day brought little to keep him distracted. Those he traveled with were busy making preparations for a potential defense. Even Puck was busy, enthralled with a young woman from Haven. Paine caught her name in passing — Farin. Apparently she was responsible for sending Diarmuid to them. She, too, was from the south and knew that a great many needed saving. Thankfully, Paine thought, Diarmuid had taken her advice.
He looked at Puck. Yet again the young man failed to hide the type of interest he had in the woman. Farin didn’t seem to mind.
Later in the afternoon, after seeing Great Bear talk to a short, older Haudenosaunee woman, Paine finally found some company.
“Greetings, child. I am Little Doe, but most here call me Mother, for I am a Clan Mother among our people.”
Her smile was warm and made him think of hot stew on a cold day.
“I have heard of your long journey. I can see on your face the weariness you bear from the great hunt. They are wearing you down, but you must find courage, Little Badger. There will be rest in the end.”
Little Badger. The name made him smile.
She reached out and Paine took her hand without thinking. They walked through the camp, no one paying them heed, except for Fang, who loped along at his side. Little Doe stopped in front of a deer-hide tent, the smell of freshly tanned leather and sage emanating from it.
“Sit.”
She gave him some dried venison to eat and he accepted it gratefully. They sat in silence for some time, Paine enjoying the peace — an easiness that seemed to be a part of the Earth itself. And somehow the woman’s presence, in addition to Fang’s, made the aching in his heart almost completely disappear.
She put her hand on his shoulder. There was comfort in her touch.
“Your worries are great.”
He swallowed. “What happened to Haven? There are so few here.”
“We fled Haven as the packs of wolfen and demons invaded. Their numbers were too many.”
“But your people were there.”
The old woman shook her head. “We did not have the full strength of our people. If the others had come, we might have stood a chance against them.”
“Where were they?”
“Building our new villages.”
“Didn’t you send for them?”
“Yes, Two Moon sent messages for them to meet us in Haven. Something must have gone wrong.” She shook her head. “Foolish boy. He went on a futile hunt to avenge his family. We will probably never see him again.”
“I’m sure he’ll come back.” He tried to sound reassuring, but his voice lacked the sincerity.
She shook her head. “Not since the Wendigo have I had such an ill feeling in my gut.”
“The what?”
She seemed hesitant to answer. “The Wendigo —a creature that stalked us long ago, taking our people in the night. I used to get a bad feel when it came and the night it slaughtered over fifty of our people I was sick for three days. I have not shared this with others, Little Badger, but I can see honesty in your eyes. Keep this to yourself, young one; my gut churns over this.”
“Is it the Wendigo?”
She shook her head. “No, that creature—“
Sudden shouting turned her attention. At the river, near the water’s edge, Paine saw a crowd surrounding the Hunter. She lay on the ground, convulsing. The Clan Mother ran over, fast for her age. She knelt at the woman’s head and held it as the Hunter shook. Her arms flailed and legs kicked and then a sudden stiffness took her. She was rigid, like a plank. She shook her head in a slow, jerky motion. Each turn looked painful. She showed teeth, a grin of either glee or malice, and her eyes turned from side to side. Paine felt as though she strained to see him where he stood, like she searched him out. Then the Hunter spoke and it was like her tongue was not her own.
It was a voice that was grinding and deep, an old voice that was slow with its words. “… I know who you are. I feel you. I am coming …” She paused as her voice rasped. She strained to breathe.
The Clan Mother fiddled with a pouch at her side. “Speak true, fiend. What are you called that we may name you?”
The voice of the Hunter chuckled. “…I have many names, ancient and new. Tell me, where is the fruit of your loins? You will share her fate, old woman.”
Little Doe paled.
The Hunter’s head jerked for a second and opened her mouth, but the voice that came out was softer. “…ake'nihstenha…yothore.,” it whispered.
Paine’s amulet caught the words. …mother… it is cold.
Little Doe wept. Her fingers tore at the earth. “Eksa'a,…”, she said.
Child…
She stroked the Hunter’s face.
“Mother…,” said the voice, and then struggled to speak once more, like it was fighting with the other presence within the Hunter, or the Hunter herself.
The hunter chuckled once more, gurgling as the first voice laughed.
“She is mine, old woman, as you will be. All of you—”
The Clan Mother cried out and then stabbed the Hunter’s leg with a yellow-coated knife. The woman shrieked in agony; Paine was unsure if the pain was hers or that of whatever had taken her body.
“Mine!” it shrieked and then hissed. It spat at the Clan Mother and then the Hunter went still. Her breathing was labored and her body and head were moist with sweat. The Clan Mother put an herb in her mouth and saw to the wound that she had inflicted. Everyone else stood around, saying nothing, waiting to see what would happen to the body that had hosted the strange presence. Then the Hunter’s breathing suddenly eased and she relaxed. As she exhaled, so did those that watched. Each then departed with their thoughts and their fears, except Paine.
He stood and wondered when his chance to pay retribution to this woman would come.
Chapter 16
Paine strode through groans of fatigue and laments of loss. Half way through the previous day, the remainder of Lindhome had crossed the river. The pale faces of the survivors had appeared drawn and haggard, with the exception of the Lastborn. They had surrounded the Revenants with a hardened look and a single-minded purpose; save their progenitors.
Paine noticed there were few Nymphs among the survivors.
Like onlookers anticipating the traveling sideshow, a large group had gathered along the river’s edge. Paine walked among the crowd, the silver moonlight dancing along the water, to where the Clan Mother motioned him over. Puck stood next to her, his weight favoring his right leg, his arms folded across his shallow chest. What was before them was hardly as interesting as the Wolfman, the Lizardchild, or even the Horned Woman with the tail — and Paine always took a secret joy in visiting them at their cages.
He briefly clutched at his chest with the tearing at his heart and then moved his hand away as Puck looked at him. Lya remained stationary still. He breathed shallow breaths, trying to let the suffering pass.
Before him stood Alwhin, Truitt, Gregor, and six others that formed a tight cluster around the Witch Hunter. The woman knelt in the midst of the circle. The silver collar was no longer around her neck and her hands and feet were unbound. Yet, she did not try to flee. Instead she rocked herself and howled at the night’s cloudless sky.
Alwhin’s voice rose above the crowd, tinny like a dented cowbell.
“We will try to sever the link. Follow my lead.” She closed her eyes an
d chanted. The others joined her and a faint wind swept through the clearing. The sound of the combined voices rose and fell, reverberating through Paine’s chest. The wind and song bore something else with it as well. A host of spirits converged upon them; some flooding through Paine, awakening the cold fire within, some whispering things to his innermost desires.
*Summon us. Use us.*
They hovered over the circle, sweeping in and out, enveloping the entire gathering. Paine stepped forward for a better look.
The Hunter murmured words, a summons of her own. Her fingers danced with flame. She shuffled back and swiped at the air. She called upon other spirits to aid her and flung fire at the man that stood in front of Paine. He buckled as it struck, but then recovered as the fire winked out. The Hunter cast a curse upon him and he groaned, gripping the others next to him for support.
He stood once more.
The Hunter’s lips curled. Paine saw that look once before, in an injured bobcat surrounded by a pack of armed men. But here, he felt little sympathy.
She deserved it.
Puck shifted at his side.
The battle raged, the Hunter flinging fire and summoning winds and spirits to strike down the ring of enemies that trapped her. It was futile. Tears of anger streamed down her face. Her teeth clenched and she collapsed to the ground. The spirits surged towards her, converging upon her flailing body.
The man in front of Paine faltered, his legs trembling, his grip tightening on the two beside him. The souls of the dead continued to probe at the Hunter, and again the man stumbled. Paine grabbed him before he fell, and as his arms embraced the man the hum of the souls thrummed in Paine’s ears. The voices of the dead thundered in his mind. And like the voices he once heard when gazing into the mirror so many years ago, they tempted him.
*Call upon us. We offer knowledge.*
The scent of the dead was tenfold and he breathed a lungful of fetid air.
Who are you?
*We are Legion.*
Something surged from within him, a cold anger that surfaced like vomit. It brought with it his supper and spilled down the back of the man he held.
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