The Second Coming (19 page)

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?”

Brahm 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.”