Jackal's Son

For years the witches have gathered Practicing their satanic rites of insanity How many people have they butchered Secluded, in this forested den of iniquity Open fields surrounding the plateau Making it hard to approach undetected The going will be arduous, and slow Foolishly believing they are 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 the campfires light I see four hags have selected a child They begin branding his pale white skin Odor of burning flesh, senses defiled As the boy screams, my legs weaken Pulling my broadsword free of its sheath Slipping quietly behind the four witches Barely feeling the sharp bite of its teeth A 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 the darkness Aware I’ve saved the stealer of souls I will not be a part of this evil madness Raising my sword, one more head must roll