"The Last Trumpet chapter 1" by Samuel V. R. Joseph

"The sun is just setting. Blood fills the sky, a cresting wave across the heavens, casting its crimson tendrils across the world. There is a hushed silence over the land; the wind holds its breath, the birds are silent, waiting. The angel glides over the field, the tall grass parting silently before him, his robes fluttering gently as he moves, delicate, like a butterfly's wings. His face is pale, like marble, his expression serene and unruffled, the lidless orbs of his eyes glistening with an amber hue. In his hand he holds a trumpet, made of gold and finely crafted; in the light from the sun it seems to glow red, warning of danger. The tall stalks of grass seem to shrink back from it, as if they are afraid to touch it, repelled by the pulsing red glare.

The angel stops in the middle of the field, in a circle of bent grass, and, staring into the sun, he weeps, watching, waiting for the sign. His tears float soundlessly to the ground, shrinking into the soil even as more stream down his porcelain cheeks, and yet for all his tears his expression remains fixed, unmoving. He continues in this manner until the sun has set, until the blood has drained from the sky and twilight claims the land, veiling it in a protective cloak of darkness, and then he turns and leaves. The wind breathes a sigh of relief, the night comes hesitantly to life, and without a sound the angel is gone. The sign has not come, not yet, but one day it will. One day it will appear above the setting sun, and the angel will see it, and blow his trumpet, and the world will end."

The old man finished his tale, and his drink, and set the wooden mug down on the grimy table with a flourish. Around him the children continued to stare, wide-eyed. He clapped his hands, breaking the spell.

"All right, then, children, it's getting late. It's time you were getting to bed. Go on, now." Reluctantly, the children got up, and headed towards the tavernmaster, who stood in the doorway. He patted their heads as they passed, wishing them goodnight as they trudged up the stairs. The old man, too, raised himself from his seat. In the flickering light of the torches, his face painted with shifting shadows, he looked almost forbidding. But then he stepped towards the tavernmaster, closer to the fireplace, and the moment passed.

"Many thanks for the ale, Garth," he said as he shuffled passed the tavernmaster.

"No trouble, old man, no trouble at all... I should be thanking you for keeping the children occupied while Lori and I clean up the place." Garth hesitated, then asked, "By the by, what is the sign that the angel is looking for?"

The old man regarded him in silence for a second, then chuckled. "So you have been listening in. It is only a story, Garth. A harmless old tale. Nothing more." He shuffled to the door and opened it, letting in a gust of the cool night air, then closed it behind him. The tavern was silent save for the gentle crackling of the fireplace. Garth wondered at the old man's words. There had been something in his voice, in his stance, something that indicated his story was not just a harmless tale, but Garth could not quite put his finger on it, and so he shrugged, attributing his momentary discomfiture to an overactive imagination. He turned back to the tables, giving each a cursory wipe with a cloth, placing the mugs back on the counter, and before long he had forgotten the brief encounter, lost in his nightly routine.

*

The tavern was quite full the next day, and Garth and Lori were kept busy most of the morning tending to their customers. Garth was a large man, not fat, but not quite muscular either. He stood all of seven feet tall, and his broad shoulders and thick legs had led some of his more regular patrons to call him "Girth" when they thought he wasn't listening. Garth never minded, though, he was a amiable sort of person, with a ready smile and a deep, rumbling laugh. Lori, on the other hand, kept to herself as far as possible. She rarely smiled, but she had a kind heart and she was an able, dedicated worker. She might have been beautiful, once, but for the shadow that lurked constantly beneath her features. Her parents had been killed a year previously, an attempted robbery gone sour, or so it was rumoured. Garth had taken her in, given her food and lodging, and employed her as a barmaid. He thought her grief had mellowed somewhat over the course of the year, but sometimes she looked so sad he longed to hold her. His own wife had been dead for many years, leaving him with three children: Kieran, aged twelve, Ellera, aged fourteen, and Dex, the eldest at fifteen years of age. They were quite a handful, always getting into trouble, and Garth was so busy maintaining the tavern he hardly had time for them. But he loved them fiercely, and he worked hard, trying to save up enough coin to perhaps send them to the city to study in the Academy.

The town runner arrived at noon with the news. The customers clustered around as he relayed to them all he had heard in the previous towns he had visited. All except the old man, Jeremy, who sat almost resolutely in his corner. "Jem the Tale", he was called, on account of the numerous stories he told. The children all loved him, but most of the adults were mildly suspicious of him. No one knew where he came from, he had just appeared one day. He stayed in the tavern most of the day, leaving only late at night when all the other customers had long since returned to their homes. Garth had often toyed with the idea of following him one night, just to see where he lived, but he had too much respect for the privacy of others to actually do so. Casting a thoughtful glance at Jeremy, Garth drifted over to the runner and his crowd of listeners.

"... found in an alley in Woodbridge," he was saying. A collective gasp ran through the listeners. "A woman, you say?" one of them asked. The runner nodded. "Yes. She had been strangled, but all her blood had been drained out of her."

"And yet, you say, there was no wound? None at all?"

"Not as far as I'd heard. She was naked. They examined every inch of her body, they said, and there was no wound at all."

"So how was her blood drained?" Someone else queried. The runner shrugged. The questioning continued, but Garth wasn't listening. Across the room, a curious expression had asserted itself on Jeremy's normally stony features, and in that instant Garth knew the old man had been listening, and was deeply disturbed by what he had heard. He knows something, Garth thought. But what? Jeremy noticed his stare, and quickly lowered his head, his thick mane of silvery hair hiding his face. Garth debated confronting him. If he had information about the murder, he should --

There was a sudden, piercing scream from the kitchen. Garth snapped around. "Lori...?" He rushed towards the sound. Lori stood in the kitchen, facing the back door of the tavern. She was whimpering, her hands wrapped around her body. In front of her, covering the floor, was a thick coating of red fluid -- it looked like blood, Garth thought, and he immediately thought of the woman in Woodbridge whose blood had been drained from her, and suddenly his knees were shaking, and he reached out to Lori. "Don't look," he whispered, turning her away from the grisly scene. "Don't look..."

By now the other customers had arrived, led, surprisingly, by Jeremy, but Garth was too preoccupied to wonder how the old man had moved so fast. "It's starting," the old man whispered, and he turned and shuffled back into the tavern, winding through the crowd. His next words were so soft no one would have heard them, even if anyone had been listening.

"They're coming for me..."