Jackal's Son

A.W. Nutter

For years the witches have gathered

Secluded, in a forested den of iniquity

How many people have they butchered

Practicing their satanic rites of insanity

Open fields surround the plateau

It will be hard to approach undetected

The going will be arduous, and slow

The witches believe they're protected

The moon always seems to be full

A shadow, my only friend this night

I step over the warning ring of skulls

Easing toward their campfires light

I see four hags have selected a child

Busily branding his pale white skin

Odor of burning flesh, senses defiled

The boy screams out, my legs weaken

Pulling my broadsword free of its sheath

Slipping quietly behind the four witches

Barely feeling the sharp bite of its teeth

Just reward for practicing their fetishes

Standing beside the child, I view the brands

The number 666, adorns his petite frame

Could this be the boy spoken of in legends

Born of Jackal's, heir to Satan's domain

Gazing into his eyes, lost in his darkness

Aware I've saved the stealer of souls

I will not be a part of this evil madness

Raising my sword, another head must roll