Shepherd

Art by Kim Holm

“Do you understand what I am asking of you, Mical?” Azra said, his amber eyes glowing in the pale moonlight spilling through the window of an otherwise dark room. The fire had long since succumbed to the ravages of time, ousted by the passage of long hours.

Mical sat in silence, pondering the question. His gray eyes fixed on the smoldering ashes in the fireplace. The dull red light of the embers brightened, dimmed, then faded away. Mical could not help but mourn. For what little warmth remained, he would never know it again.

After a moment, Mical returned Azra's gaze. “What is the Hour of the Harvest?”

“It is a time hidden within time. It passes unseen and unfelt by all but you and me, allowing us to perform our task unhindered.”

“That task being the Harvest.”

“Yes.”

Mical shuddered as a chill crept across the surface of his skin. “But why do you need me? You have been doing this forever. Are you not eternal?”

Azra smiled. He looked out the window, watching the crescent moon drift across the night sky, near the renewal of its phase. “I need you because you are sensitive to the Hour. Aware of it. To say that it was you who found me would be closer to the truth. The Shepherd is chosen, but not by us. We are merely drawn to the next when our time has come.”

Azra turned his gaze back to Mical, continued: “No, we are not eternal. Though we perform our task for eons, all things must come to an end. Even us.”

Mical breathed deeply and looked back to the fireplace, desiring the return of the fire. Of the heat. The light.

“Can I refuse?”

“No.”

The darkness remained. Azra stood, making his way to the window. Mical followed, taking a place beside him and listened to the sigh of the wind passing through the boughs of the trees. “Will I go around covered in a black sheet carrying a scythe?”

A chuckle escaped Azra. “Of course not. I would, however, recommend a suit. It is good to keep a professional appearance. Out of respect.”

“Respect for what?”

“For the souls that you will collect. For the souls that you will guide,” Azra motioned to a gray case resting upon the table by the window. “As for your tools,” he reached into the case, “you will need only these.”

He held a small book, covered in aged black leather, and a black pen. “During the Hour, you will be drawn to those souls who must depart from this world. You only need to write their names here in the Kiniga Zhizni, the Book of Life, and their souls will vacate their bodies. Those souls will rest within the case until you deliver them safely to the Judge.”

“The Judge?”

“Yes. The Judge is the one who determines the ultimate fate of the souls you carry.”

“What is he like?”

“You will understand when you meet Him. No explanation I could give would do Him justice.”

Mical's fingertips brushed against the book. He hesitated, then took the book and pen. “I have to admit, this all seems overly simplistic.”

“Death is not complicated, Mical. No, the trouble is always what happens afterwards.”

“What do you mean?”

Azra sighed, running a hand through his pitch-black hair. “The Hour does not belong only to us. Evil spirits haunt the realm of the dead, searching for the souls you carry, to devour them. And you.”

Mical's eyes widened. “What am I supposed to do?” he said, stepping back.

“You fight. Your role as the Shepherd is not only to guide, but also to protect.”

“How? With what?”

Azra took the book. “Click the pen, three times, quickly.”

A look of confusion spread over Mical's face as he did so. The pen glowed with an ethereal light, extending in length and curving at the end so that he had to hold it with both hands. The light faded to reveal a large scythe. Its blade rang with a song of requiem, a dread chorus calling the wicked to oblivion.

Mical's eyes blazed with fury, his body surged with power. Azra stepped forward, ran his hand along the length of the blade. It returned to its former shape, a pen resting in Mical's hand.

“This is the Pesnya Smyerti. The Song of Death. Now, do you understand what I am asking of you?”

Mical nodded, his fingers closing around the pen. It was cold. Heavy.

“Then it is time,” Azra said, opening the book and laying it on the table.

“Time for what?”

“For you to write my name.”

Mical shook his head. “What?”

“The first soul each Shepherd claims is the one who came before.”

“Why?”

“To teach you your first and most important lesson.”

“What is it?”

“That even death may die.”

This piece will be featured in The Arcanist: Volume 1. Donate to our Ko-Fi page and receive a free digital copy on release!