
GUNWITCH
A Tale of the King's Coven
By David Michael
Copyright © 2011 by David Michael.
Published by Four Crows Landing.
Gunwitch: A Tale of the King's Coven. Copyright © 2011 by David Michael. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information contact Four Crows Landing: contact@fourcrowslanding.com
Designed by David Michael.
Cover artwork and layout by Don Michael, Jr.
Published by Four Crows Landing.
1.00-2011.10.5
This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Most of the locations are made up too.
for
the Three Prawns Crew --
Tick Tock, Bluu & Devlin Darkmantle
Lake Patrizio
1742 A.D.
As the moss-hung canopy of the bayuk gave way to the open sky of Lake Patrizio, Rose Bainbridge picked up her paddle and began paddling. Stroke left, stroke right. Stroke left, stroke right. She kept her rhythm steady, matching the speed of the pirogue as the small boat moved across the surface of the water toward the rusted and smokestained skyline of New Venezia. Force of habit driving pointless precision, she thought. Because she rowed only to preserve the illusion that rowing was necessary, to hide the truth that the boat moved across the water at the will of the pirogue's other passenger.
Continuing the pantomime of rowing, Rose looked over her shoulder at Chal. The native girl sat in the stern, her paddle in the bottom of the boat, untouched, her long black hair loose and streaming behind her in the wind of their passage. Chal saw Rose look at her, and used a finger to push stray wisps of hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear.
"Maybe we're going too fast?" Rose said.
That made Chal laugh, a sound like water over rocks. The speed of the pirogue increased.
Forcing her lips into a line to prevent a smile, Rose faced forward again. She resisted the temptation to row faster, because that would only encourage Chal further. Sometimes the girl could be such a ... a ... little girl. Not for the first time, Rose wondered if this was what it was like to be a parent. And not for the first time, she regretted the thought. Because she would never know.
You ever seen a pregnant gunwitch? The question rose from the past to mock her again.
Rose gritted her teeth and stopped that line of thought. Now was not the time. What was done was done.
The pirogue went faster. The rushing water nearly pulled the oar out of Rose's hand.
She gave up on rowing, braced the oar on the bow in front of her and looked back at Chal again. The wind whipped loose strands of Rose's hair across her face and pulled against the metal clasp that held back the rest.
Chal met her gaze and laughed.
In spite of herself, in spite of bad memories, in spite of the unexpected and unwelcome summons from General Tendring, Rose laughed as well. She could not say precisely why she laughed. Whatever the reason, the laughter was a welcome release. Even if it lasted only seconds.
As her laughter subsided, the pirogue settled into the water again, its speed diminishing.
Rose faced forward again and resumed her needless rowing. "I'm just trying to protect you," she said with a quick look back over her shoulder.
Chal's teeth flashed in a smile. "And I you," the girl said. "The waters move the boat, so you row to hide what they do. The storm clouds follow you. So I help you outrun them."
"Some storms you can't outrun," Rose said.
Chal's smile turned rueful, and her apparent age matured, the little girl gone. Rose did not know how old Chal was. In their five years together, companions in the bayuk, scouts leading and protecting ambitious colonists to the frontier, the girl would never give a straight answer to the question. "I am a child among the children of the world," Chal would say. Or, "I am not so old that I cannot dance in the rain." Mostly, though, Chal would only laugh that bubbling laugh of hers and look mischievous and even younger. Rose judged the girl to be no more than twenty, maybe as old twenty-five. Maybe young enough to be Rose's daughter. If Chal had been born half a world away. If ...
Rose turned to face forward again.
Behind her, Chal sighed. "The storm clouds still follow."
Rose did not reply. She focused on keeping her rowing steady. Left, right. Left, right. Focus. Concentrate. Repeat. The mantra from her instructors. In repetition there is concentration. In concentration there is focus. In focus there is power.
In focus there was no memory. No lost child. No lost innocence. Only the oar in her hands, the water of the lake, and the companionship of Chal.
With focus, though, also came increased sensitivity. Now, when her paddle dipped into the water, Rose could feel the subtle shiftings that created the improbable current that pushed the pirogue along. Magic, not unlike her own, but she did not know how Chal did it. The subtlety of the moving current belied the power invoked.
With her pistol, Rose could make a man explode at five hundred yards, further if she had a scope and properly measured powder. Then she could do a right-face and engulf a small building in flame or rip out its supporting walls. But all of that seemed insignificant to what Chal did so easily from the back of the pirogue, directing the currents of a lake the size of Lake Patrizio. Rose needed concentration and her pistol. Chal seemed to need only a laugh and a whim.
More than once Rose had speculated on how she might move the waters the way Chal did. At first you do not know what you can do. Then you know. Then you do. More words from her training. The corporals at the King's Coven did not teach the conscripted privates of the 101st Pistoleers. Rather, the corporals demonstrated what was possible, sometimes on the privates, then insisted that the privates duplicate their results. But in this Rose had chosen not to know or to do. She knew and had done much that she wished she could forget and undo. She would not pry into Chal's native secrets. She preferred the mystery. She had not asked Chal who or what the native girl was running from, hiding from. And Chal had never asked her the same questions.
The lake water, so blue after the murk of the bayuk, became dirty again as they neared the city, but dirty in a way very different from the shallow streams of the bayuk. Here sunlight gleamed a rainbow along the oily surface and highlighted floating trash and debris. Other boats, pirogue's like theirs, as well as rafts and barges and fishing boats with sails or outboard paddles and belching smokestacks spread from the city's lakeside docks and piers.
Rose maintained her pretense of rowing as Chal threaded a path through the other boat traffic. She only stopped when they approached an open berth on a mostly empty pier. A few other pirogues had been tied up to the pier, and a dilapidated barge was being unloaded. She stepped out of the boat to the dock and tied off. She looked around as she pulled her pistol from her belt to check its load.
None of the laborers or slaves unloading the barge paid her or Chal any mind. But the big foreman barking orders in a mixture of German and English paused midcurse to stare at her.
Rose returned the man's stare, blank expression in response to leer, then inspected her pistol. Satisfied that the load and the priming were still dry, she pushed the runecarved muzzle into her belt again and turned her back on the foreman. In the pirogue, Chal picked up Rose's rifle and tossed it up to her. Rose caught the rifle with both hands and automatically checked its load. Also still dry. She adjusted the strap so the stock would not hit her legs as she walked, then slung the rifle over her shoulder. Trained and disciplined as an infantryman in the King's Army, Rose had often wished she was as tall as one, as well.
"Well well well." A man's voice, thick with a German accent. "What is this? A couple of savage beauties?"
Rose turned around. And looked up. The foreman was even bigger up close. She smiled and put her hand nonchalantly on the butt of her pistol. Then dropped the smile and pulled out the gun. The foreman was not looking at her. No need to be subtle if he was watching Chal.
"Mädchen!" he shouted over Rose. "Be careful. You will tip it--"
He watched in shock as Chal walked down the center of the pirogue, then leaped to the dock. Rose did not have to look to know the boat had scarcely shifted. And had certainly not tipped over. Chal refused to go into water, whether river or lake--and never the ocean--not even up to her ankles, but boats on those waters did what Chal told them. Even without the boat, though, Chal turned men's heads, drew their attention away from more pressing dangers.
Rose stepped up to the man and poked him in the ribs with the muzzle of her pistol. She did not bother pulling back the hammer. She hoped he would just back off and let them go. It was already hard enough to get work in New Venezia. Men had a difficult time hiring a woman who could--and had, in front of multiple witnesses--beat a man senseless with just the butt of her gun, her bare hands, and a pair of dirty moccasins. She doubted the foreman was looking to hire a scout to guide his barge through the bayuk, but people would talk. And, judging by the size of him, she was not sure she could take him alone. She was an inch or two taller than the rifle she carried, but he was another twelve inches taller still. And at least three stone heavier. At least.
The pistol pulled the man's attention from Chal. He looked down at Rose. "Now now now," he said, backing up, "there is no reason to being hasty."
Rose stayed close, moving with him as he stepped away, keeping the pistol pressed against him but letting it slip down until the muzzle rested against the man's heavy belt buckle. Now she cocked it. The man's face went pale and he stepped back again, this time trying to twist away. Rose still followed him, pushing the muzzle hard into his stomach, forcing him further back until he teetered on the edge of the wooden platform over a short drop to the water. "We're in a hurry," she said. "Versteht?"
"Ich--I--yes." His eyes moved from her to behind her, then back to her.
Rose nodded and resisted the urge to push him off the dock. She turned her back on him. As she expected, Chal stood to one side, cradling her short-barreled cavalry rifle, stock in the crook of her right arm, hand resting near the trigger, barrel only coincidentally pointing at the center of the big man's chest.
Chal smiled at her and Rose smiled back.
"Hunde!" he yelled at them from behind as they walked away.
\*
Rose and Chal walked along the pier and through the busy docks, ignoring the catcalls of the laborers and the sullen glares of the slaves. They stepped around the steamgrunzers that loaded and unloaded the larger seagoing merchant vessels and filled the air with the white hiss of steam, the black smoke of burning coal, and the clank-thump-clank-thump of heavy gears and metal feet.
They walked through the lakefront quarter of the city, where the wooden structures of the original natives and first wave of Italian settlers still predominated, though under the looming shadows of steel and concrete put up by the German and, more recently, English trading companies. They pushed through the crowds of sailors, soldiers, rivermen, colonials, and natives to reach the wide street that led to the front gate of Fort Gunter.
In the heart of New Venezia, away from the docks, two more women generated little notice. Even one with a long rifle and another with the high cheekbones and smooth dark skin of a native queen. The crowds thinned as they neared the fort, though, and they stood out again, two women entering the world of men.
On a flat parcel of cleared ground before the fort's main gate, a line of wargrunzers stood awaiting maintenance, idle, with only thin steams of black smoke leaking from their high-mounted smokestacks. A group of mechanics had removed the arms from the first wargrunzer, and were reboring the cannon arm and recalibrating the loader arm. The torso stood near the mechanics, a temporary double amputee but still standing more than twice as tall as the tallest mechanic. Unlike the other grunzers, who seemed to be inactive, the head of the grunzer being serviced turned back and forth with a clicking of gears, looking first at the mechanics, then at the other side of the field. Once it looked at Rose and Chal, then turned its blank "face" back to more immediate matters.
Across the field from the wargrunzers and the mechanics, sergeants and corporals drilled colonial conscripts and volunteers under the watchful eyes of a leftenant.
"Company halt!"
"Left face!"
Rose felt her muscles flexing, remembering the responses to the shouted commands.
"Present arms!"
On a whim, Rose stopped resisting and brought her rifle around and held it in front of her. She adjusted her step and her pace to match the cadence of the callers. She saw that she had drawn the attention of a few recruits.
"Shoulder arms!"
She shouldered her rifle and kept marching. Out of the side of her eye, she saw Chal beside her standing straight, balancing her carbine on her shoulder, parodying Rose's high marching step. And she could see that even more of the recruits had noticed them. Or noticed Chal, at least. So had the leftenant. He leaned over to the master sergeant and gave instructions.
"Right face!" bellowed the sergeant.
In ragged lines the recruits turned their backs on the women. The leftenant scowled at Rose and Chal, then turned his back on them as well.
\*
Rose, rifle again slung over her shoulder, presented herself to the sergeant on duty. "Rose Bainbridge," she said. She resisted the urge to give him a salute. "Scout," she added. She pulled the folded summons out of her blouse and handed it to him. "Here at the request of General Tendring."
The sergeant took in Rose, her worn cotton and buckskin clothes, and her similarly attired native companion, and managed to express extreme annoyance and displeasure, all without moving a muscle on his lined face. Then his eyes landed on the regimental badge bent into a bracer on Rose's right arm. The metalwork tracery, once bright red, was now faded with age and soiled with sweat and dried blood, but the badge still plainly showed the crossed musket and lightning bolt of the 101st Pistoleers. The sergeant raised one eyebrow, ever so slightly.
"Right," he said. Then looked away and muttered, "Bloody witches reunion."
"What was that?" she asked. Then added, "Sergeant?"
The sergeant turned back to her, met her eyes. "Private Donalsonne will take you to the General," he said. Then added, "Mum."
A man who had been standing against the wall behind the sergeant snapped to attention and came over. He saluted the sergeant, then turned to Rose and Chal. "If you will follow me, please, Mum."
Rose held the sergeant's gaze for a few seconds more, but she learned nothing from his gray eyes. She indicated to the private to lead on. A witches reunion? The King kept the 101st Pistoleers, what the rest of the army called "the gunwitches" or just "witches"--and sometimes, usually out of earshot, "the bitches crew"--in England, though sometimes the small groups of gunwitches were detached to the Continent. But never to the Colonies. At least, not while they still wore the uniform. Rose put her hand on the butt of her pistol. Beside her, she felt Chal pick up on her new tension.
She and Chal walked side by side behind the private. The private did not look back.
Around them, men in red uniforms went about the duties of the fort. The men noticed the women, of course. Military discipline, and proximity of officers, kept the catcalls at an almost subvocal level. Still, men would nudge their comrades and indicate Rose and Chal with nods of their heads or even outright pointing. Only a few noticed Rose's regimental badge. But those who did, she knew, spread the word. No catcalls from those men. Just furtive whispers of "gunwitch". And those who heard the whispers stopped leering. Some turned away, crossing themselves. Some spit into the dirt. But none of the men they passed acted as if they had seen another woman from the 101st.
Rose ignored the insults, just as she ignored the catcalls.
A reunion meant more than one. More than just her. In his summons, though, General Tendring had not mentioned another gunwitch. How many of the 101st had she ever heard had been brought to the New World? Five? Six? Of those, Rose was the only enlisted. And of those, only three had come over in the last nine years.
Who could it be, the other gunwitch? Or gunwitches. It had to be someone like her, who had been dishonorably discharged and transported in lieu of execution. Witches had not been burned at the stake in Jolly Olde England for more than seventy years. But neither a renegade witch, nor an uncooperative--or no longer cooperative--gunwitch of the 101st would be allowed to run free. And it was impossible to hold them in prison. A gunwitch who did not want to be held was very difficult to hold. That did not leave many options. Specifically, it left two. Beheading or transporting.
General Tendring had been a Colonel when he commuted the sentence of Master Sergeant Rosalind Bainbridge. Usually only officers were transported, out of deference to their rank, not mere sergeants. The colonel had spared her from the headsman after her defiance and revolt only because she had saved his life at the Battle of the Seine outside Paris.
Rose tried to relax her grip on her pistol, but her fingers would not cooperate. Not since she had stepped on the deck of the boat that transported her to the Colonies, and then had walked off that boat and into the bayuk had she felt like this. She was scared--but this time scared of what she knew, not the unknown wilds of the Colonies--and the gun was the only comfort available.
Private Donalsonne led them up a narrow external stairway and to a deck that overlooked the interior of the fort. For the first time since he had turned his back on them at the gate, he faced them. His eyes darted to Rose's hand on her pistol. Rose did not need to look to know that her knuckles showed white. She kept her face blank. It was all she could do not to pull out the pistol, to have it ready.
Because maybe the other gunwitch was not a woman.
"If you will wait here," Private Donalsonne said, "I'll announce you to the General."
Rose nodded and the private spun on his heel. He went to one of the doors that opened off the deck.
Ducoed? No. Thomas Ducoed hated the army more than she did. She had heard that he managed to receive a commission and then an honorable discharge. She wondered how he had done that, but knew she would not like to hear the details. He had come to the Colonies four years ago and lived for a while in New Venezia. Rose had avoided the city while she heard he was there. Then he had disappeared into bayuk and bush. She had hoped he had died. She had imagined his gruesome death more than once.
The private returned a minute later and held the door. "The General will see you now."
Before Rose could move to the door, though, an officer stepped out and looked at both Rose and Chal. A young man, hardly older than Chal, but a major by his insignia. He walked to Rose and extended his hand. "Sergeant Bainbridge," he said. "It is indeed a pleasure to meet you."
Unsure how to respond, Rose took her hand off her gun and held it out in front of her. He shook her hand, his grip firm and warm.
"I have heard so much about you," he went on, the corners of his mouth tugged slightly by a smile that also shone in his green eyes. "I could scarcely believe when the General told me you had been summoned. Forgive me," he added. "I am Major Ian Haley of His Majesty's Army." His grip shifted and he gave her an elaborate bow, then kissed her hand.
Rose felt her face growing warm under his attention, and noticed that he still held her hand. She took the hand back and said, "Please, Major, just Rose. I was stripped--" Her tongue twisted after she said the word, both from the remembered humiliation of the day, and from the intensity in his face as he looked her. If she had been suddenly stripped for real, disrobed in front of this handsome young man, she could not have been more flustered. "Just Rose," she repeated, shortly. Only a bit more shortly than she intended. She turned slightly, to deflect his attention. "And this is Chal. My friend and companion. She is a native from across the Gulf."
If he heard her tone, the Major's face did not show it. He gave Chal a short bow, then turned back to Rose. "A pleasure to meet you both," he said. "Rose. And Chal." He gestured toward the door where Private Donalsonne still stood at attention. "If you will precede me, the General is waiting. And so are some other people who are most eager to meet you."
The room she stepped into seemed dark after the bright morning sun, despite the windows and the fire in the hearth. The others in the room were silhouettes standing around a table in the center of the room.
One of the silhouettes, tall, a man, with unruly curls turned to face her. She did not need to see him clearly to recognize him. In the gloom, his blue eyes were dark gray, his brown hair almost black. But his lips, pulled into a smirking grin, showed a smile she had never been able to forget.
She had her pistol out of her belt and level, hammer back, pointing at his heart in less than a breath.
"Rosalind," Ducoed said. Behind him, across the table, Rose heard surprised intakes of breath and a girlish whimper. Behind her she thought she heard the major grunt in surprise.
Rose bared her teeth. "Don't say my name." Her voice, like her gun, rock steady.
"Then what should I call you?"
"What is the meaning of this?" The General's voice cut off her reply. The General stepped forward, to Ducoed's left. "Sergeant Bainbridge, if you have a grievance with your former comrade-at-arms, I would appreciate it if you settled it outside my quarters. And," he added, looking past Rose, over her shoulder, "whatever that complaint might be, I can not imagine that it involves my newest officer."
Rose did not take her eyes off of Ducoed. "Chal?"
"The handsome major is covered, yes."
Rose risked a quick look back. Chal had her carbine positioned under Major Haley's chin, and him on tiptoes, hands wide and high.
Ducoed shifted to his left, toward the General, trying to use her momentary distraction. But Rose followed him, grabbing his shirt with her free hand, pulling him to her, pressing the gun against his chest. Ducoed opened his mouth.
Rose's fingers tightened on the trigger.
"Sergeant Bainbridge," the General said, his voice sharp, commanding, but not loud. "I must insist that you put your gun away. And tell your companion to stop threatening Major Haley."
Rose looked into Ducoed's eyes, and he looked back, closing his mouth. The smirk faded from his lips until his face was a mask of indifference. His eyes told her nothing. She tried to look deeper, into whatever was left of Ducoed's soul, looking for whatever might be left of her friend. She looked for something, anything, and he gave her nothing. She could not penetrate below the surface of the man her friend had become. Then she felt foolish for even trying. Her friend had been gone for twenty-five years. That was why Ducoed angered her so much. He owed her so much, yet never acknowledged even the tiniest debt. He only caused pain. He never felt it.
She wanted to kill him, where he stood, so close that she would feel him die. Let hot lead and cold magic rip him to pieces. Maybe he would feel that. Maybe then he would feel her pain. She could do it. She had done worse.
But not since she had left the army. Here she was, though, standing inside a fort again, gun ready, ready to kill with officers looking on.
"Sergeant Bainbridge?" The general's voice was almost gentle.
Movement behind Ducoed caught Rose's eye, and she saw two girls holding each other and looking at her with terror. The sight of those pale, young faces, so out of place in the fort, so afraid of what she might do, achieved what the general could not. Had she looked like these girls twenty-five years ago? Was she fulfilling the role for them that the army and Ducoed had assumed for her? Whatever else she might do, whatever else she might be capable of, she would not do that.
She let go of Ducoed, pushing him away as she stepped back. She did not want to--she would not--kill him in front of the girls. For one last instant, though, she hoped he would make a move, any move, even the twitch of a hand. But he only stood there, and looked at her.
She released the hammer on the pistol and settled it back in place. Then she pushed the gun into her belt again. Behind her, she heard the major's heels come down on the floor and Chal appeared beside her.
"My apologies, general," Rose said.
\*
The general had chairs brought so everyone could sit down, then had a private serve tea.
"I'm not accustomed to such displays in my briefing room," he said, looking over his cup of tea at Rose. Rose met his gaze, but said nothing. "Though perhaps," he went on, "there is a lesson to be learned. Wouldn't you say so, Major Haley?"
"Yes, sir," the Major said.
"Young and pretty does not mean helpless."
Major Haley's face colored and he dropped his eyes to his tea. "Yes, sir."
General Tendring turned to look at the oldest of the girls. "Isn't that right, Janett?" The girl looked pleased. "I am not accustomed to such displays of emotion. However, as I have now lived through several of them, two just today, perhaps it is my expectations that should change." Now the girl's face flushed. "There is no excuse, though, for my own lapses. I have been remiss. Sergeant Bainbridge, may I introduce to you Janett and Margaret Laxton. You have already met their young protector, Major Haley. And of course you know Leftenant Ducoed."
Rose bowed in her seat toward the two girls and gave the major a nod and an apologetic smile. She did not look at Ducoed.
Janett rose from her chair when introduced and gave a perfect curtsy. Margaret did the same, but without grace. Standing too quickly, then sitting too loudly. Margaret met Rose's eyes, then looked away. Janett was the older of the two girls, very pretty, with auburn hair and blue eyes. Rose guessed her age at seventeen or eighteen. Margaret, she decided, could not be older than thirteen. Unlike Janett's impressive coiffure, Margaret's blonde hair looked as if it had been only partially tamed, and her arms and legs seemed too long for her dress. Her blue eyes, though, were an exact match for Janett's. And they stirred long dormant memories.
"You are acquainted with their father, I've been told," the general said. "Colonel Laxton. Though the Colonel was only a Leftenant when you knew him."
Rose kept her expression neutral. "Yes, of course. I remember Leftenant Laxton." She heard Ducoed's low chuckle, and it sent a chill down her spine along with the remembered pain of punishment. Yes, they were both acquainted with the former Leftenant Laxton. She noticed Margaret looking at her. But when Rose turned to face the girl, Margaret looked away and would not meet her eyes again.
"Good. Because you're going to take the girls to see their father. At Fort Russell."
Rose leaned forward in her seat. "Isn't it traditional to ask first, general? I'm not in the army anymore."
General Tendring put his cup down on its saucer. "I have been assured that you would be accompanying the girls. Though, after your recent display," he added, looking at Ducoed, "perhaps those assurances were given prematurely."
"He said I would go along?" She pointed at Ducoed, but her eyes never left the general.
"And I remain convinced," Ducoed said, speaking up for the first time, "that Sergeant Bainbridge will agree to come along with me and the girls."
"I will be along, as well," Major Haley said.
"Yes, of course," Ducoed replied.
Rose ignored both men. "Taking these girls upriver? Are you all mad? There's a war on."
The general nodded. "Yes, there is a war on. And it is possible that we're all mad, as well. Hear me out," he said, holding up a hand to forestall Rose. "As Janett has pointed out to me many, many times over the past weeks of her stay, the war has not come so far south as Fort Russell. Not yet, in any case. And her father is expecting the two of them to visit. After a journey so far across the Atlantic to reach here, the girls refuse to be so close and not seize the chance to see their father."
"Forgive me, general," Rose said, "but I have to ask. What has this to do with me?"
"We simply must go see our father," Janett said.
"He's waiting for us," Margaret said.
Rose looked at Margaret. Those were the only words she had heard the girl say so far. Margaret met her eye, but only for an instant, then looked away. Rose turned back to Tendring.
"As you have said," the general went on, "there is the war to consider. Though the main thrust of that war is happening far from the Gulf of Azteka, its tendrils have reached even here. Two days ago, I dispatched reinforcements upriver to Fort Russell. As you can see, and as I have heard at every pause, I did not send the girls with those reinforcements. This was for several reasons. Foremost among them, young ladies such as Janett and Margaret have no place on a march with men-at-arms. Secondly, the river has become too risky for them to travel. The way is too open, too obvious."
"So you're going to send them through the bayuk with this man?" She pointed at Ducoed again.
"Leftenant Ducoed served with distinction for twenty years," the general said, a slight edge in his voice, "and he was discharged with honor."
Rose looked away from the general, and away from Ducoed. She knew all about Ducoed's honor. And the general knew all too much about her own dishonor.
"The Leftenant presented himself at the fort nearly a month ago, offering his services as a scout. At his request, I kept the nature of his past service confidential--"
"Of course," Rose interjected. The enlisted men would trust a gunlock even less than a gunwitch. At least a gunwitch could be recognized immediately. Only one type of woman wore a uniform in the King's Army.
General Tendring ignored her. "When the girls arrived in New Venezia, my first thought was to ship them straight back to England. But they prevailed upon me. Twice, I must confess. First, to stay, and now to see them escorted into the arms of their waiting father. Hearing their story, Leftenant Ducoed volunteered to assist them."
"But, General--"
"Please, Sergeant Bainbridge. Allow me to restate myself and make up for my earlier mistakes. You are correct. You are no longer a man-at-arms subject to the King's officers, and I was wrong to presume to give you orders." He paused. "Will you accept my apologies, Rose Bainbridge?"
Rose could not keep the surprise off her face. The general had never called her by her name. Not once in all their years together. Being officer and enlisted in the King's Army there could be no familiarity. Even as they huddled in the cold, hiding from the Hexen, two isolated English survivors of a campaign gone horribly wrong.
"Please," Rose said, dropping her eyes. "Don't think of it."
"Rose Bainbridge." The repetition of her name brought her eyes back to his. "Would you offer this assistance to your King, and to me, and see to the safe delivery of Janett and Margaret Laxton to their father, Colonel Laxton, at Fort Russell?"
Rose wanted to say No. She almost said it. Then she saw Margaret looking at her, face open and eager. The little girl even met Rose's eyes, faltering only an instant. The general had said her name, and he had asked her. Asked her. Old loyalties stirred and quarreled in her chest.
She did not want to accept. Not yet. "Does he have to go?" she asked, pointing at Ducoed.
The general steepled his hands and looked at her. "You have both served me well in the past. I have no doubt that you will both serve me well in this. And I can think of no safer way to send the girls than in the company of two members of the 101st Pistoleers."
Rose could think of many, but she realized that the general would not agree. Damn Ducoed and his distinguished service and honorable discharge.
"And he--" she pointed at Ducoed again, still refusing to look at him--"requested that I be a part of ... of this?"
General Tendring shook his head. "No, the Leftenant was surprised to discover that I knew of your whereabouts, and that you were so near at hand. Or were, last I had heard. I suggested that you might need ..." He paused. "That you might be willing to assist, and Leftenant Ducoed agreed immediately. He assured me that when you knew the full nature of my request that you would not hesitate to offer your gun and your knowledge of the bayuk. So I sent for you."
Rose kept her face impassive and resisted the urge to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. She looked at the general, then at Janett and Margaret. "Right." Bloody hell, was what she wanted to say. She would not denounce Ducoed. She never had, despite what he had done. But she would not let him take the girls through the bayuk by himself. She said, "I'll do it. But only as a civilian. I'm not rejoining the Army."
"Thank you thank you thank you," Margaret said, bouncing in her seat.
Janett gave her a smiling nod. "Thank you, Miss Bainbridge."
The general also gave her a nod, his face as impassive as Rose's.
"I knew you would," Ducoed said.
Rose refused to look at him. If she looked at him, if she saw his smirk, she was not sure she would not shoot him, right there in front of the general and the girls, consequences be damned. "You don't know me," she said. "Not at all."
Phillips on the Birchwood
1718 A.D.
Rosalind Bainbridge gathered the hem of her skirt with her left hand and pulled it to her knees so she could climb the fence. She reached the top using an awkward one-hand-two-leg gait and found that her skirt still prevented her from lifting her leg high enough. So she pulled the skirt up even further, exposing her legs and her underclothes. The late spring wind brushed against her legs from behind, giving her gooseflesh.
"Rosalind!" Elizabeth cried out behind her, scandalized.
"Hush!" Rosalind said, and hooked her right leg over. She pulled herself up so she straddled the top of the fence, skirt now bunched around her hips, pale legs down either side. The world looked so different from up here. Only six feet up, scarcely taller than a grown man, but it was like a mountaintop to her. From here she could see more of the village of Phillips on the Birchwood and the surrounding countryside than from anywhere else. Already fourteen, almost a woman--almost a spinster according to some--Rosalind had seen nothing of the world. Her small life, the small lives of the entire population of Phillips on the Birchwood, made the world seem tiny. But the world was huge. She had no doubt about that. And she wanted to see much more of it than one village.
"Rosalind!" Elizabeth said again. "Get down. Someone will see you."
"That wouldn't be a problem," Rosalind said, "if they would let me wear pants."
She smiled at Elizabeth's shocked look. Her sister was twelve, nearly thirteen. Elizabeth, at least, would be easy to marry off, and had already been the subject of queries by the village's other notable families. Rosalind's prospects, though, despite starting strong even in the face of her tomboy tendencies, had dried up quickly. England no longer burned witches. But the rumors about her had been enough to cancel one betrothal and push the dowry demands of the few others who might be interested well past the resources available to the Bainbridge family.
Rosalind braced herself with her hands on the top beam and swung her left leg over and dropped on the far side of the fence. Squire Phillips' field spread out in front of her, the tall grass bounded on the left by a thicket and copse of trees and far to the right by the holly hedge that separated this field from the next. Squire Phillips was pasturing this field, letting his horses and livestock forage. It was the horses that Rosalind was here to see. No animals were visible, though.
She adjusted her skirts and gave a low whistle.
"I told you," Elizabeth said, her face pressed up against the fence, only her eyes visible between the wooden beams. "They are not here today."
Rosalind ignored her little sister and whistled again, louder this time. "It's me," she said to the empty field. "Rosalind."
The grass bowed and rippled away from her as the slight breeze at her back picked up briefly.
"I told you--"
Rosalind waved a hand to silence her sister. A rustling in the thicket twenty yards away became the head of a doe. The doe looked across the vacant pasture, then swung her head to look at Rosalind.
"It's a deer--"
"Shh!" Rosalind held out her hand toward the doe, palm up, fingers together. She kept her voice low and gentle as she said, "Come here, girl. Come here."
The doe's ears perked, and the head swiveled to look downwind again. Rosalind could feel the tension in the animal's muscles as it prepared to bolt.
"Come here, girl." Rosalind took a slow step forward. Animals liked her. They always had. "Everything is alright, girl. It's me, Rosalind." That was what she said to the Squire's horses when they acted skittish. Her words seemed to calm the doe, as well. The deer visibly relaxed and turned to face Rosalind again. Rosalind smiled. "Good girl." She took another slow step forward. "It's just me. I won't hurt you."
Following her lead, the doe moved out of the thicket.
Step by step, Rosalind and the doe came closer, Rosalind with her hand still outstretched. Finally, the doe was in reach of her hand. The doe stretched her neck and sniffed at the proffered hand.
Rosalind felt the soft warmth of the deer's breath. "Good girl. There you go."
The doe licked her palm.
"See? I'm not dangerous. I won't hurt you--"
Thunder crashed, startling Rosalind. Only a step away, the deer staggered and red blood splashed on Rosalind's hand and on the front of her dress.
Behind her, Elizabeth screamed.
In front of her, the deer turned away and tried to bolt, but its left foreleg buckled and it collapsed to the ground, back legs thrashing.
"Oh, expertly done!" A young man's voice came across the pasture, breaking the silence that had fallen after the crash of the shot.
Rosalind became aware of two shapes that had emerged from the thicket further down the pasture, young men exchanging rifles as they walked, but she could not take her eyes off the deer. The doe had forced itself into a three-legged stand and was limping away, its fear pushing it forward, its injury causing it to stumble with every step. Rosalind could feel the doe's life pumping from the wound in its left flank.
Another gunshot crashed across the pasture. The doe reared slightly then plunged forward, front legs sprawling, rear legs twitching.
The deer tried to stand again, but failed, its limbs grown too awkward and weak. The doe swiveled its head and its eyes met Rosalind's. Rosalind turned away. She could not face the accusation in the brown eyes. Then the deer lost even the strength to hold its head up. The legs still thrashed and struggled, trampling the grass as the red stain of its blood spread, but the doe could do nothing else.
"Damn. I missed the heart with that shot."
Rosalind looked up and saw William Phillips, the squire's son, walking with his cousin, Robert Phillips. William was the one who had spoken. Robert carried both rifles now, the one in his right hand still smoking. Neither was more than two years older than Rosalind, but they had reached a grown man's height already.
"It was a difficult shot," Robert said. "The beast was trying to run away."
"You bastards!" Rosalind shouted. She charged at William, her fists clenched. Her skirt impeded her speed, restricted her stride and threatened to trip her, but she refused to let that stop her.
William laughed as she ran at him, which incensed her more. She launched herself across the last few strides, flying at him with her right fist cocked.
He stopped laughing as she crashed into him and unleashed the heat of her anger through her fist. The blow hit him in the chest, knocking out his wind and pushing him backward. He grabbed her, his fingers gripping her blouse, and dragged her with him as he fell. He struggled to regain his breath, but he did not relinquish his hold as she twisted and kicked and tried to hit him again.
She felt another set of hands on her, hands that grabbed her around the waist and pulled her off William. She tried to spin to face Robert, but could not. She kicked at Robert's shins and instep and swung her elbows back at him. Robert grunted as he lifted her off her feet and pulled her close, taking an elbow in the abdomen. After that, all she could do was kick. Her right arm was pinned by his right arm across her chest, smashing her breasts, the fingers of his right hand digging into the flesh of her left armpit. His left arm held her left arm to her side and extended across her stomach to grab her right hip.
"I have her," Robert called out, the words loud in her ears.
Rosalind tried hit him with the back of her head, but he pulled his head out of her way. Her heels could only kick him on the leather of his boots.
"Come on, William," he said. "I have the witch."
In front of her, William made it back to his feet, strands of grass clinging to his hair and shirt. He was not laughing now, but he was still smiling. He brushed the grass off his shirt as he looked at her.
"We watched you come over the fence," William said. "If the cobbler's son only knew what shapely legs you had, maybe your betrothal would still be set."
Rosalind spit at him, but missed.
"We thought we might have a bit of sport with you," he went on. "Didn't we Robert? We had no luck all morning with more regular sport. Then you lured that doe out where we could see it." William stepped closer. She kicked, but he caught her legs and held them, one under each arm. "And suddenly, we realized we could have both. A witch isn't as useful as a deer, of course." He ran the back of his right hand along her thigh. "But a witch with such legs and an easily removable skirt--"
"You let her go!"
Elizabeth's shout drew the young men's attention. Rosalind, still held tightly between the two men, could see that Elizabeth had climbed the fence and now had her head and chest over the top railing. One hand held the post. The other was pointing at the three of them in the pasture.
"My my," William said. "Both the eligible Bainbridge girls trespassing on my land. You keep hold of the witch," he said to Robert, "and I'll fetch the other."
"Run!" Rosalind shouted. Elizabeth hesitated. "Elizabeth, run!" Rosalind tried to wrap her legs around William to keep him there, but he twisted free. He charged toward the fence. "Run!" she shouted again.
Robert shifted his right hand to cover her mouth. Rosalind struck at him with her newly freed right hand, and bit his hand.
Elizabeth climbed down from the fence, one rung of the fence at a time, working within the confines of her long skirt.
Robert's hand came away from Rosalind's mouth as she tried to take his index finger off at the knuckle. She spit and shouted, "This is no time to be a lady! Run, you stupid cow!"
Rosalind twisted, but Robert brought his right arm back into play and pinned her to his chest, making her helpless again. She watched as William reached the fence.
Elizabeth finally stopped trying to be prim and proper and leaped down the last two beams of the fence. When she landed, though, her long skirts tripped her up and she fell. William was up the fence and over it, landing on his feet beside her before she could stand again.
He held out a hand. "May I offer you my assistance, Miss Bainbridge?"
He did not wait for a reply. William scooped Elizabeth up and draped her over one shoulder. She shouted and pumped her fists and legs, but William just laughed and carried her up the fence, which creaked under their combined weight, and over to the other side.
"Tsk tsk," William said. "Trespassing is a crime. And a crime requires punishment." With his free hand he spanked Elizabeth's bottom twice, hard enough to make Rosalind wince. Elizabeth's shouts became a whimper.
"Let her go!" Rosalind shouted.
"I will do no such thing," William said, almost shouting in reply. He calmed himself and smiled again. "I caught you trespassing. You are both mine to do with as I please."
"Take me," Rosalind said. "Do whatever you want with me. But let her go, William. Please."
William paused as if considering it. Then he laughed. "Come along, Robert." William squatted and scooped up the two rifles from where Robert had dropped them in the grass. "Let's find us a more comfortable and cozy spot where we can entertain our good friends, the Bainbridge girls."
Rosalind renewed her struggle. She slowed Robert as he walked, but she could not stop him. William led the way into the shade of the trees. Elizabeth looked back at Rosalind, eyes swollen, tears streaking her face, lower lip trembling.
They reached a small clearing.
"Sadly, we don't have any rope," William said. "So Robert will have to hold you while I prepare Miss Elizabeth for her wedding day. Robert enjoys watching, though. Maybe you can help him with that Rosalind. If not, I'll hold you so you can watch as he takes his release with your sister."
Rosalind became aware of Robert's erection pressing against the small of her back. She tried to twist away, but he held her tighter than before.
In front of her, William dropped the rifles and threw Elizabeth so she fell on her back in front of him. Elizabeth turned over and started to crawl away, but William caught her by the back of her blouse. He pulled out his hunting knife and ran the dull side down the line of her waist to her hip. "Upsides or downsides, Miss Bainbridge," he said. "I will be happy either way." Then he flicked the knife and sliced her skirt and blouse in a single motion. He pulled and tore the clothes off her such that she was flipped on her back again.
Elizabeth cried out and covered her small breasts with her crossed arms. She tried to cross her legs and turn away from William, but he stopped her. He used his knife again to slice her underclothes before ripping them off. He laughed at Elizabeth's sobbing.
On the edge of the clearing Robert squeezed Rosalind closer, rubbing himself against her, but she no longer cared. She could see only the naked, crying figure of her sister. She could feel only her own helplessness and shame. First the deer, then herself, and now her sister, she had led them all into William's clutches. From the helplessness in her heart came a painful cold, a chill that wrapped itself around her stomach, and pushed into her limbs.
William pulled down his breeches and stroked himself as he looked at Elizabeth on the ground in front of him.
"Please," Rosalind said, choking as her stomach threatened to throw up at the sight of William and the pressure of that painful chill. Gooseflesh erupted down her arms and legs. "Don't do this."
William glanced at Rosalind, showing her a toothy grin, then he got down on his knees in front of Elizabeth, gripped her thighs and pulled them apart. She squirmed and twisted but he was too strong. He pulled her to him.
The cold stabbed into Rosalind's eyes and exploded in her chest. She tilted her head back and screamed as her entire body became as rigid as ice.
She did not feel Robert drop her, only noticed that she stumbled as her feet hit the grass. The pain and the cold hammered in her heart and her head. She paid no attention to Robert shouting behind her. She hardly noticed the cold streams of fog that dripped from her hands. She caught her balance and ran at William.
"GET OFF HER YOU BASTARD!" The words came out as only another scream.
William looked over his shoulder and started to stand as she reached him. Her outstretched hands grabbed him and twisted in his wool hunting cloak. Flowers of frost bloomed around her fingers. William's mouth moved, and his breath fogged the air between them, but she did not hear what he said. She was past hearing. Past understanding anything he could say.
He tried to pull away from her, but she kept her grip, stood planted as if roots of ice secured her to the earth. Then it was her turn to pull.
She spun on her left foot and threw him away from Elizabeth. She watched him fly away from her opened hands, twisting as he flew from the vertical to the horizontal. Her breath came hard, her chest a bellows, cold fog issuing from her mouth and curling in the wake of William's passage. She could not see his face. She regretted that.
William struck a birch, the force of her throw wrapping him around the narrow trunk. She watched his body slide then flip over as he bounced off the trunk. He landed, sprawled among the moss-covered roots, his arms and legs and erection limp, then he convulsed as he struggled to breathe again.
She felt her lips pull back in a smile that bared her teeth. She turned around, looking for Robert, but he was gone. She brought her gaze back to William. He had curled into a ball and lay coughing and wheezing. She watched as he vomited.
A whimper penetrated the frozen silence around her.
Forgetting William, Rosalind dropped to her knees. A quick glance, fearing the worst, but Rosalind saw no blood. Perhaps she had been able to stop William before he could-- Before there was any damage done. She pulled the sobbing Elizabeth to her chest. The little girl's flesh burned against her touch. "It's over now," she said. She stroked her sister's hair. "It's over. We can go home--"
Elizabeth cried out and pushed Rosalind away. She curled into the fetal position, her back to Rosalind.
"Elsie," Rosalind said. "It's me, Rosalind." She reached out and put a hand on Elizabeth's shoulder. Elizabeth cried out again at her touch, and Rosalind drew her hand back. An icy impression of her hand remained on the bare skin. And ice had formed in Elizabeth's hair where she had stroked.
Rosalind looked at her hands. They were white with cold. For the first time, the cold inside her caused her to shiver. She blew on her hands, but she hardly felt it. When her breath touched her fingers, it became fog. She slapped her hands together and hugged herself, but she could not get warm.
Her teeth chattered as she gathered the torn remnants of Elizabeth's clothes and laid them across her sister's shoulders and legs. She tried to hold the garments with just her fingertips, so they would not get too icy. She had thought to give Elizabeth her own clothes, because hers were not torn, but she was covered in a lace of frost. Her clothes hung on her damp and frosted, as if she had been swimming in the stream in the heart of winter.
She remembered William's hunting cloak. He had pushed himself up against the tree, staring at them with glazed eyes. Vomit showed on his chin and down his shirt. He shrank from her as Rosalind walked over. He resisted when she tried to pull off his cloak, then he unclasped it and threw the garment at her.
"Take it!" he said. "Get away! Witch!"
Rosalind ignored him and picked up the cloak. She took the cloak to Elizabeth.
"You--you have to--to get dressed," she said. She struggled against the muscles in her jaw, trying to force down the effects of the chill. "I--I--can't--get warm."
Elizabeth did not respond.
"Elsie!" she shouted. "Eliza--be--beth! Please. You have to--to get--dressed."
She clenched her hands, hoping they would warm each other. But her fingers were cold even to her. Behind her she was vaguely aware of William standing and staggering away.
"We--we need to get home. To Father--and Mu--Mum."
Finally, Elizabeth moved. She did not look at Rosalind, but she pushed herself to a sitting position. She grasped the pieces of her blouse and pulled them close. Then she picked up William's cloak and wrapped that around her.
"Good--good," Rosalind managed. "Letnd mvs--home." The shivering kept her from saying anything else. She tried to help Elizabeth, but the girl refused to allow her to get close. Elizabeth never looked at Rosalind. Rosalind understood. The worst was over, though. They would go home and Father and Mum would take care of both girls, their little Rosie and Elsie. And maybe Rosalind could get warm again.
\*
Outrage led to accusations and scandal. William Phillips did not appear in the village to contest the story told by Rosalind and verified by Elizabeth with her eyes downcast. William and Robert were known in Phillips on the Birchwood as "strapping young men", "lusty and full of life", and the villagers were only surprised that the girls had managed to fend them off. Other fathers whose daughters had lost their honor to the "lustiness" of the two boys spoke up, and there was talk of a public flogging.
Since she had somehow healed the cobbler's wife three years before, Rosalind had not been a topic of kind conversation, nor even many kind words from her parents. She had been a child the last time she could walk through Phillips on the Birchwood without hearing the whispers behind her back. For a brief time, though, from the end of May to the middle of June, as a result of the incident in the pasture, she felt once again a part of the village where she had been born. Old friends talked to her in the street, invited her to tea and accepted her invitations to the same. And if their conversation was a bit strained, ignoring without apology the past few years of avoidance and abuse, Rosalind did not mind.
Then the county sheriff arrived and questioned William Phillips, the Squire's son, and Robert Phillips, son of the Squire's younger brother, and the sense of the scandal changed. The tea parties came to an end. Rumors of Rosalind rekindled, more detailed than before, and her role in the stories and accusations shifted from "brave girl, protecting the honor of her sister" to "meddling witch". There was still talk of a public flogging, but the name of the person under the whip changed. Preparations for the summer solstice festival on the village green suddenly included collecting a huge pile of dry wood for a bonfire, and erecting a stake in the middle of the pile.
Only as part of the festival, of course. Because burning witches had been made illegal by an act of Parliament more than fifty years before. London was a long way away, though, and no act of King or Parliament could stop neighbors from talking and looking back on the "old ways" with a fondness they no longer expressed for the eldest daughter of the once-respectable Bainbridge family.
In the Bainbridge home, Father and Mum did what they could to bring their little Elsie back to her old self. They encouraged Rosalind's increased social interaction, and thanked her again and again for bringing Elsie home with her honor intact. Then, because Elizabeth requested it, they asked Rosalind to move her things out of the bedroom the two girls had shared for eleven years, and had been Rosalind's bedroom for her entire life, into one of the unused servants quarters.
The week before the summer solstice, once again the invisible Bainbridge daughter, Rosalind came down from her remote bedroom to find the rest of the family eating dinner.
She had heard Elizabeth laughing, and burst into the dining room, excited, because she had not heard that sweet sound in too long. When she came in, though, Elizabeth stopped laughing and looked away from her.
Father met her gaze, but looked uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry, dear," Mum said. "Did Cook forget to tell you it was dinner time?"
\*
"Why aren't you getting ready, Rosalind?" Mum asked from the door of her new bedroom.
Rosalind did not look up from her needlework. "I was certain that my presence was not wanted," she said. She pushed the needle through the material and pulled the thread. "By the--by everyone." She swallowed against the lump in her throat, and paused to regain control of her voice. "Or by you."
"That's not true, dear," Mum said. She moved into the bedroom and stood over Rosalind. "We want you to come."
"Really?" Rosalind still did not look up.
"Of course we do. I know," she went on, "it's been hard these past few weeks. But we're just doing what we think is best for Elizabeth. And for you. For all of us."
Rosalind could hear the apology in Mum's voice. And something else. A beseeching, maybe, beyond the typically unspoken request for forgiveness. She wanted to forgive Mum, and Father. And she desperately wanted Elizabeth to talk to her again. But that something else in Mum's voice made her stubborn.
She pushed the needle through hard enough to tink! against the thimble on her finger. "I believe I will stay in," she said.
"You will do no such thing," Mum said, the beseeching taking on an air of desperation. "It would not be right to--to have you in the house tonight." Mum paused, then continued in a less frantic tone, "You will not sit in here, whiling your life away. You will get dressed for the festival tonight. And you will meet us downstairs after tea."
"So I am not invited to tea?"
"Don't be impertinent, Rosalind."
Rosalind nodded. "Yes, Mum." She gripped the point of the needle with her fingers and pulled it through.
"Well don't just sit there, Rosalind," Mum said. "Get dressed, and be down. After tea."
"Of course, Mum," Rosalind said, but Mum had already turned and left the room. As she continued her needlework, she wondered why Mum would insist to such a degree. Her lips pulled into a tight smile when she considered that maybe Mum and Father had agreed to deliver her for burning at the stake, and would be so embarrassed if she stayed home and missed the appointment.
"Rosie?"
She looked up, her heart in her throat. "Elizabeth!" she said and stood. She threw the needlework on her bed and rushed to her sister.
Elizabeth stood at the door, head down. She did not respond to Rosalind's hug and did not lift her cheek for the kiss Rosalind wanted to give her. But she did not push Rosalind away, and that was almost as good to a lonely big sister.
"Don't go," Elizabeth said, her face turned so she was speaking to Rosalind's arm.
"What?" Rosalind asked.
"To the festival tonight."
Rosalind put her hands on Elizabeth's shoulders and held her at arms length. Now Elizabeth met her eyes. Rosalind could see the girl had been crying. "What's the matter?"
"Don't go to the festival tonight. Stay ... stay home."
"Why?"
"I can't ...," Elizabeth looked down. "Just don't go." She brought her eyes up to Rosalind's again. "For me. Please."
First Mum insisting she go, now Elizabeth insisting she not go. Irritation set the muscles of Rosalind's jaw. "What? Is this another part of making Mum's Little Elsie happy again?"
"No," Elizabeth said. She looked away from the angry glare in Rosalind's eyes. "It's not ... I can't ..." She shrugged off Rosalind's hands and stepped back out of reach when Rosalind tried to grab her again. "Just don't go. Please. I'm sorry, Rosie." Then she was gone, running down the hall.
Rosalind stared after her sister. Mum had seemed insincere. Elizabeth had seemed earnest. Elizabeth had looked at her. For the first time in weeks.
The stubbornness rose in Rosalind, and she decided she would go to the summer solstice festival. With her family. Because it was her family. And her village. She could go if she chose. And she so chose.
During tea, dressed and ready with Cook's reluctant help, but refusing to be where she had not been invited, Rosalind sat in her bedroom torturing her needlework. She thought she heard her mother shouting, and maybe Elizabeth. That Mum and dear little Elsie were arguing gave her another cold smile. She heard the carriage being brought around from the back of the house.
When she came down half an hour later, giving both the argument and tea service plenty of time to be put away, she found only Cook and Agnes, the maid, sitting in the kitchen sharing a pot of tea.
"Oh, they left already, Miss Rosalind," Agnes said. "They left word you should catch them up there."
Almost Rosalind went back up to her room. Almost. But if her family could be cold, she could be colder still. She would meet them at the festival and be the dutiful daughter. Polite, dignified--
She sniffed to cover the tightness in her throat. Whatever she was going to do at the festival--and she had not decided yet--it would not be considered polite. She would have time on the way there to consider her options. And to not cry. The family had taken the carriage. She would have to walk the whole way to the green.
She nodded her good-bye to Agnes and Cook, not trusting her voice with words, and left through the front door.
The late afternoon was quiet around the Bainbridge house. Rosalind took a deep breath to calm herself. Then she adjusted her bonnet against the brightness of the sun and set out along the path to the front gate.
She heard the running footsteps on the far side of the front hedge before she reached the gate. Then a man's voice yelling, "Stop!" and a girl's scream.
"Rosie!"
Elizabeth.
Rosalind grabbed her skirts and lifted them so she could run to the gate. She hit the gate with her shoulder and it opened, spilling her into the lane.
A man in the uniform of the King's Army held a kicking and shouting Elizabeth by the arms, keeping her from running to Rosalind.
Before Rosalind could regain her balance, hands grabbed her arms and pulled her backward, off her feet. A smelly bag was pulled over her head. Rosalind pulled against the restraining hands, but they held her fast. She shook her head to get rid of the bag, but a drawstring was pulled, cinching it closed around her neck.
The hands pulled her arms behind her. She drew in a breath to scream, but the bag covered her mouth, blocking her mouth. She gagged and coughed.
She felt cold metal bands on her wrists, and the clicks of multiple locks. The hands let go of her and she staggered because she could not move her arms to catch her balance. She could still hear Elizabeth's screams. She lowered her head and charged toward her sister.
More hands grabbed her and her legs were pulled out from under her. She hit the ground roughly on her left side. She felt the weight of a man across her hips and more hands on her legs.
"Rosalind Bainbridge," a man's voice said, "you have been accused of the crime of witchcraft. In lieu of a trial, in accordance with the laws of England, you have been conscripted into the King's Army to serve at his decree."
"Is all this really necessary, Leftenant?" Father's voice. "You are upsetting my wife and daughter."
Rosalind wanted to scream that he had more than one daughter upset, but she could not get the words past the bag pushed into her mouth. She choked.
"We are doing the King's duty, sir." A different man's voice. "Please stand back. And please control your daughter."
She tried to kick at the hands grabbing her legs, but could only bend her knees a little.
"She has been properly served as required by the law," the first man's voice said.
"Very good, Sergeant." The Leftenant again. "Give her the sap and let us be on our way, if you please."
"No!" Mum's voice. "You can't take--"
"Rosie--!"
Something hard and heavy struck Rosalind in the back of the head, right at the top of her neck, and Mum's plea and Elizabeth's scream were cut off.
Fort Gunter
1742 A.D.
Thomas Ducoed resisted the urge to smile at the combined looks of disbelief and disgust Rose sent him across the table. How many years had it been since they last saw each other? Fifteen? Nothing had changed. She still hated him, and he still found her stubbornness amusing, almost endearing. The muscles of her jaw tensed as they always did when she was refusing to admit he was right. She would come around, but not if he smiled and showed that he knew.
"No," he said, "I'm not suggesting a march across sixty miles of swamp, or what you so quaintly call 'bayuk'." He glanced at the native girl. Rose had given the girl's name as Chal and said nothing more about her. Ducoed did not like unknowns. He hoped to draw the girl out, learn something about her. "Bayuk" was a native word, from one of their numerous languages and dialects. Chal returned his glance. But if the word and his patronizing tone meant anything to her, she showed nothing on her face. He turned his attention back to Rose. "I will admit you have the advantage of tramping through the brush several years longer than myself, but I'm not a colonist just off the boat." He risked a tight smile.
Rose ignored the smile. "The river is the fastest route to the fort," she said, repeating the point she had made before. "If we left tomorrow, we would pass the contingent of reinforcements within three days and be at the fort by sundown on the fourth."
"If we were moving an army, or a gaggle of colonists, I would agree."
"These girls are hardly seasoned travelers." Rose gestured to where Janett and Margaret still sat. At the mention of the girls, Janett started to say something, but Rose continued. "You can't expect them to slog sixty miles through the mud."
"We are willing to pass through the gates of Hell itself if we have to," Janett insisted. Beside her, Margaret nodded.
Ducoed looked at the girls and flashed his most winning smile. "Of course, my dears. No one questions your loyalty and dedication to your father." He turned back to Rose, without the smile. "If we were moving an army, I'd agree. But we're not moving an army. Nor colonists with all their attendant supplies and baggage that the river and its roads would help us carry. There will be fewer than a dozen of us, with only such necessities as will fit in our packs, moving quickly. If we follow my path, we arrive in three days, and with no one the wiser about our whereabouts until we set foot in Fort Russell."
"It's hard to move quickly through the mud."
It was almost over now. Rose was running out of arguments. "But you know where there is no mud," he said. "Nine years you've spent in these swamps. You know where the water is deep enough for a canoe--"
"Pirogue," Rose interrupted.
"--and where the ground is firm enough to walk. You know the dangers and how to avoid them. Between the two of us, I have no doubt that we could find a path that brings the girls to the waiting arms of their father with hardly any signs of the road on their shoes or even the hems of their skirts."
"Skirts?" Rose looked at Janett. "In the bayuk?"
"It's just an expression, Rose," Ducoed said.
Janett met Rose's gambit, though. "What else would you have us wear, Miss Bainbridge?" she asked. "Trousers? Like common laborers?"
The matching looks of shock and disgust that the two women exchanged, and Rose's quick glance down at the trousers and knee-high moccasins she wore, almost made Ducoed laugh. He pressed his lips together and made not a sound. Beside him, Major Haley coughed to suppress a chuckle. Even the general's normally impassive face showed a touch of amusement.
"This is the route I propose," Ducoed said, leaning over the map to hide his face as Rose turned back to the table. He placed his finger atop New Venezia on the map. "We will go by boat across Lake Patrizio." His finger traced a straight line to the lake's westernmost shore. "We can use the larger streams to reach Lake Mancino, carrying the canoes--" He held up his hand forestall Rose's correction--"pirogues, of course, when we must bridge a gap between waters. Then we will proceed across Mancino to this north channel, the Amicizia."
Now Rose leaned over the map. "And then to the Comite, here," she said, pointing to the junction of the two rivers. "I see where you're going. That might get us there faster." The admission did not come out easy, Ducoed noticed. "Though," she added, "we would be rowing against the current almost the entire way."
"That is true even if we stick to the Misi-ziibi," Ducoed said.
"And rowing against the current is not always so difficult," Chal said, the only words she had said since being introduced.
Ducoed watched Rose look at Chal, but he could not read what passed between them. Not for the first time that morning, watching the two women, he wondered if they were more than companions. All word he had received of Rose since he had come to the New World had included talk of the native girl that accompanied her. For five years or more the two of them had been inseparable. He put the question aside. His curiosity would be sated soon enough. He did not know Chal, but he did know Rose.
As if he pulled a string controlling her, Rose turned back to the map and said--Ducoed could almost mouth the words as she said them--"Fine. We will follow your path. But I am with you as a guide only," she added, looking Ducoed in the eyes. "I'm not under your command. And Chal is coming with me."
Finally, Ducoed allowed himself to smile. "Of course. Bring whoever you think is necessary."
\*
Ducoed kept the preparations to a minimum, both to reduce unwanted attention and because there was little preparation needed. He restricted the girls to one trunk each since he did not want more than six infantry regulars with them. The regulars would carry most of their provisions, including shot and powder, in addition to lugging the girls' trunks. They might even be useful if the party ran into something unexpected in the swamp, but all Ducoed cared about was that they could march and carry as only English infantry regulars could, and that they could row a canoe.
Ducoed tried to exclude Major Haley from the trip, declaring that between him and Rose and the regulars, the girls would be quite safe. Both the general and the major, though, insisted that Major Haley would be going along.
"I have escorted the girls from the docks of Bristol and across the Atlantic Ocean," the major said. "I will not abandon them now."
"And we would not think of leaving behind our noble champion," Janett said.
Major Haley gave Janett an appreciative bow, then glanced sideways at Rose. Ducoed almost laughed at the look of disappointment on the major's face. Rose was still staring at the surveyors map and had not noticed the exchange.
Ducoed shrugged and acquiesced. "You can help row," he told the major.
He also agreed with the general about using one of the Army's gunboats to transport them across the Lake Patrizio. The gunboat was hardly inconspicuous with its tall smokestack, large outboard paddles and the heavy guns mounted on its deck, but it would get them on their way faster than the fishing vessel Ducoed had planned to use. He would have their canoes sent across the lake tonight.
Rose and Chal left not long after the girls had been sent off to pack by the general, leaving Ducoed, General Tendring and Major Haley alone in the briefing room.
Ducoed took a seat and smiled at the major who still stood by the table, looking at the door where Rose had just exited. "She not what you expected, Major?" Ducoed asked.
"Only insofar as my expectations were inadequate," the major said without turning. "It is not often one meets the subject of the stories you hear as a child. My first thought when I saw her was how small she looked. How could such a tiny woman be the famous gunwitch, Rose Bainbridge?"
"Have no doubt," Ducoed said. "That is Rose Bainbridge."
"And do not doubt the stories told of her," added the general. The general followed Ducoed's lead and returned to his chair. He looked at Ducoed. "Do not doubt any of the stories you've heard of the 101st Pistoleers."
Ducoed detected something in General Tendring's voice, and he wondered what the general might have heard about him. And what the general might have passed on to the major.
"She is younger than I expected," Major Haley continued, as if neither of the other men had said anything. "And still as pretty as a--" He stopped, and noticed that he stood alone at the table now, with its maps and lists. He walked to the chair next to the general and sat.
"She is older than me," Ducoed said. "By as much as a year, if I recall correctly. And I would say I'm old enough to be your uncle, though not your father."
The major looked across the general at Ducoed. "You have known her a long time?"
"Two decades and a bit." Then he added, "Off and on."
"If you do not mind my asking, sir, there is a question that has been pressing on my mind." When Ducoed gestured for him to go ahead, the major asked, "Why did Sergeant--I mean Miss--Bainbridge pull her pistol on you?"
Ducoed forced himself not to smile at the memory, pushing his lips into a thin line that he hoped the young man would construe as regretful. "We had a disagreement," he said. "A long time ago. About the nature of things."
"Surely there was more than just a disagreement?"
Ducoed shook his head. "No. That was about the gist of it." He let himself smile now, relishing the taste of the memory. He leaned forward in his chair, propping himself with his hands on his knees. "Women have long memories," he said, "of the wrongs done to them by men. While young men quickly forget being held them on the point of a rifle, if the hand on the rifle belongs to a pretty young woman."
Major Haley looked uncomfortable for an instant, then recovered his composure. "I recall that none of us seemed ready for the onslaught of Rose Bainbridge."
The smile left Ducoed's face and his long hatred of officers and men of privilege surged in of his gut and fought against his self-control. He could kill both the major and the general right now. His pistols, on the rack by the door, could come to him with just a thought, then he could bring about the very loud, very messy ends of officers Tendring and Haley. He visualized their bodies torn apart and left bleeding in this room while he walked out of the fort. The shots would bring sentries, of course, but he could deal with those too, even without reloading. He would be back in the swamp, impossible to find, in less than an hour.
But his self-control worked in service of larger goals than petty, self-indulgent killings, and he reasserted his will over his impulses. His goals required the temporary cooperation of the general and the major. Ultimately, the men were expendable--and he would enjoy the expending. Especially the expending of Major Haley. For now, though, he had to have them. He forced himself to smile again. "Too true, Major. Too true. Fortunately, we will have Rose--I mean, Miss Bainbridge--with us on our journey, where her onslaughts will be in our service. Instead of in our faces."
Ducoed stood, watching the major decipher his comment. "Now, though, I must go see to our provisions and the loading of the gunboat. I will also send word to have our canoes ready for us on the far side. Good afternoon, gentlemen. I will see you both in the morning."
\*
The gray coolness of the predawn morning covered the docks when Ducoed reached the pier where Puncher waited. The gunboat General Tendring had put at his disposal was ready to go, having been loaded with their provisions and the girls' trunks the night before. The trunks and rucksacks were visible, strapped in place on the flat deck. The Puncher's crew stood around the provisions, talking and breathing clouds of tobacco smoke to rival the dark smoke leaking from the boat's smokestack.
Despite the early hour the docks were already busy. Men shouted as steamgrunzers hissed and stomped, moving bales of cargo. Boilers flamed and smoked while sails slapped in the light wind and ships and boats cast away. A cacophony of noises that only the son of a longshoreman could enjoy. That longshoreman, a big man with big hands that he had used more than once to express his displeasure in his bosses, his friends, his wife, and his son, had met his end--a gruesome end, and never solved--a long time ago. But his estranged son, spit on and beaten and sent inland half dead, still could not help feeling almost at home here. Almost. Ducoed spit at the memory of home and the memory of his father.
As Ducoed reached Puncher's gangplank, Rose came out of the shadows with Chal behind her. Both carried packs and had outfitted themselves for the trip with rifles on their backs, powder horns and bags of shot hung on long leather straps, and sheathed hunting knives on their belts. They had both braided their hair in two plaits, one on each side, native-style. By their clothes and the rifles on their backs, they were scouts. Only their small statures and slight frames announced them as women. And only the lighter shade of Rose's skin and hair showed her European heritage.
Ducoed smiled at Rose, enjoying this image of her, so visibly unlike the girl he had first met. Rose looked back at him without expression.
"No ambush?" he asked.
"I thought about it," Rose said.
He continued smiling to keep the surprise from his face. Surprise, not that she had not ambushed him, but that she might have considered it. That was unlike Rose Bainbridge. Just as she had surprised him yesterday, pulling her pistol on him as soon as she recognized him. Perhaps her years as a scout, fighting against and among the Amerigon natives had rubbed off on her. Perhaps she had changed more than her outward appearance. Probing, he asked, "And?"
"Maybe later," Rose said, her voice flat, "when the general isn't around to be disappointed at my lack of trust in the King's officers. And my lack of decorum in shooting a comrade in the back."
Ducoed laughed. Because Rose had not changed after all. More willing to imagine what she could do now, but still hesitating to seize the opportunity when it arrived. Too reliant on the approval of authority. And too civilized, even in this wild land. She was still the Rose he had known. And, therefore, he knew she would be most annoyed by his laughter, as if they had shared a joke or experienced a renewed bit of intimacy.
Rose looked away, her face still impassive. But Ducoed could see the tight muscles of her jaw and how her fingers clenched.
The general had suggested Rose for their expedition, but Ducoed had planned all along for her to come. General Tendring was certain to have heard some of the rumors about him, even if the older man had the good taste not to mention them and to treat Ducoed as if his official military service record were the true one. Rose, though, the general trusted in spite of her official record. Having her on the expedition would offset the general's concerns, reassure him about the safety of Janett and Margaret. For Ducoed, having her along was a risk, but also too enticing a situation not to take advantage of. Because unlike Rose, Ducoed never hesitated to seize an opportunity.
The sound of boots marching in step along the wood of the docks announced the arrival of the general, Major Haley, the Misses Janett and Margaret Laxton, and the infantry regulars. The girls walked with the officers, Janett on the arm of General Tendring and Margaret escorted by the major. Both girls attracted attention, but especially Janett. The cut of her dress was simple, and the colors muted, as Ducoed had suggested, but she wore the dress with all the elegance of a lady of the court. She had fixed her hair as if attending a ball, and she carried a fan. As she walked along the pier, the sun broke over the eastern horizon, illuminating her. All work paused as she went by, and the men stared.
How the unhandsome countenance of Leftenant--now Colonel--Laxton had sired such beauties, Ducoed could not imagine. As he watched Janett approach, his fingers twitched, and he fought to maintain his self-control in the face of such delicious temptation. He smiled and bowed as Janett caught his eye, imagining what they could do together. What he could do to her. Or to her awkward little sister while Janett watched, bound and unable to turn away. Would she scream? Plead? Cry? Or would she enjoy it all, moaning with pleasure? He would not do any of those things, of course. This expedition, and especially these girls, were meant to feed a different lust.
Janett smiled back at him, innocent, unaware of the thoughts behind his eyes.
Behind him, he heard Rose whispering to Chal, "Perhaps she expects an audience with the Alligator King?" Chal's laughter was like a bubbling brook.
The infantrymen filed past Ducoed, up the gangplank to the deck of Puncher. The officers and the girls stopped in front of him.
Janett went up on tiptoes to kiss the cheek of the General. "Good-bye, Uncle," she said. "Do not enjoy the silence of our absence too keenly, for it will not last. We will see you again on our return."
"Off with you," the general said. "And perhaps for that short time you are gone I will have some success keeping my men focused on their tasks."
Ducoed extended his left hand and Janett took it. Her fingers felt so tiny in his hand. So fragile. He extended his right hand to Margaret. "Come along, Margaret," he said. "Our adventure begins."
Margaret let go of Major Haley's arm, but she skipped past Ducoed's hand and went to Rose. "Miss Rose," she said, "look!" She bent over at the waist, grabbed the hem of her dress and raised her skirt. "Trousers! One of the boys in the fort gave them to me." A pair of small men's trousers, bunched at the top from being cinched with a belt, covered Margaret's legs. The cuffs had been rolled to make them short enough but they still covered her black shoes.
"Margaret!" Janett shouted, raising her free hand to cover her mouth with her fan. "How could you?"
Ducoed laughed. At Margaret's standing there looking like an exhibiting show girl, and at the surprise on Rose's face.
"I would've worn just trousers," Margaret said, "but Janett wouldn't let me."
"At least one of you has some sense," Rose said, her impassive look returning. Then she turned her back on the girl. Without another word, she and Chal boarded the gunboat.
Margaret looked pleased, then confused as Rose turned away, as if she could not figure out which of the sisters Rose had meant, then hurt at the rebuff. The girl let her skirt drop back into place. The hem hung unevenly, caught on the bulky cuffs.
"Don't be sad, Margaret," Ducoed said. "You have impressed the famous Rose Bainbridge, I assure you." He saw Major Haley look at him, but he kept his eyes on Margaret. "She has a difficult time showing her approval."
"Give your uncle a kiss, Margaret," Janett said.
Margaret walked over to the general, who bent down so she could reach his cheek. "I know you're not my uncle," she said. "But you've been very kind."
"Take care of your sister," General Tendring said.
"I don't think she'll let me," Margaret said.
General Tendring stood straight again and faced Major Haley. "Take care of them both, Major."
The major saluted. "Yes, sir. It will be my pleasure, sir."
The general returned the salute. He turned to face Ducoed, but then looked past him, to the gunboat, and nodded.
Ducoed glanced over his shoulder and saw Rose turning away. When Ducoed turned back to the general, the older man looked into Ducoed's eyes, taking his time, as if searching for a hidden purpose. Ducoed let him look.
"And you," the general said after a long minute, "take care of them all."
Ducoed smiled as he took Margaret's hand. Her fingers, even smaller than Janett's, felt warm in his palm. He gave both girls' hands a squeeze. "It will be my pleasure, sir."
Puncher, Lake Patrizio
1742 A.D.
Margaret Laxton stood in the bow, leaning against the forward rail as Puncher chugged and splashed its way across the lake. Once she had stepped on board Puncher, she had decided two things. First, she would spend the entire time of their short trip across the lake on deck, looking at the water and the sky and the trees of the distant shorelines. And, second, she would spend none of that time with Janett.
On their trip from England she had been confined to the tiny cabin she shared with Janett, with only brief walks on deck just after dawn and before sunset. She loved her sister, but after weeks together on the sail schooner Maryanna Rose, which had been packed to the brim with cargo, sailors and soldiers, followed by further weeks inside a fort filled with soldiers and grunzers, and only her sister for company and, when he could be spared from his duties, Major Haley, she felt a bit of time apart was called for. Even if that time apart encompassed only a few hours and a few square yards, she would make the most of both.
She had become fond of the little gunboat they rode as soon as she heard its name. After all, the two of them, boat and girl, shared a name. "Father's Little Puncher" Da had called his baby Margaret in her early years, before his command took him to the Continent, then further away to New World. Also, Puncher looked short, squat and awkward compared to the stately beauty of Maryanna Rose. Margaret thought she fared much the same way beside Janett. Mother had assured Margaret time and again that she was just as pretty as Janett, or would be someday. But Margaret had now spent too many months beside her sister in the company of men to continue to believe Mother's assurances.
Behind her she could hear Janett talking and laughing, entertaining both Mr. Thomas and Major Haley. Margaret had once asked her sister if she would ever attract so many admirers. "Of course, darling," Janett had said. "But first we must get your hair brushed. And please do not lean against the wall like that. Stand up straight..." The next two weeks had seen Janett fussing over Margaret, dressing her and instructing her how to "properly walk". Then, fortunately for Margaret's sanity and the continuing love of sisters, a new suitor had come along. Master Jonathan had had eyes for Janett only, but it was Margaret who called him "my champion" for saving her. Margaret had not asked Janett that question again.
Puncher's course across Lake Patrizio bore west by northwest. The weeks on the Maryanna Rose had taught Margaret about the compass and headings and how to judge direction from the position of the sun. Over Margaret's right shoulder the sun finally rose clear of the eastern horizon and illuminated the far shore of the lake. Though it was still miles away, she could see the morning fog lurking around the trunks of the trees, and straggling snakes of vapor retreating from the surface of the lake into the shade of the--
She paused in her thoughts and tried to remember the word Miss Rose had used.
"Bayuk," she said out loud, surprising herself. She looked around to see if anyone had heard, but she was still alone in the bow.
Before they had cast off, she had asked the officer in charge of Puncher how long their trip would be. In the process she made the mistake of calling him "Captain".
He had let forth a loud, raucous laugh, and she had slumped and started to turn away. He had put a big, dirty hand on her shoulder to stop her. "Don't be glum, lass," he had said. "It's a common enough mistake you're making. It might even be considered a compliment," he added, though his expression had shown that he was not one who considered it such. "Do you think a noble captain of His Majesty's Navy would be commanding a peppy little boat like Puncher?" He had leaned over the side and spat into the dirty water of the docks. "But do you know what?" he had asked, squatting on his heels so their eyes met. "The joke's on them." He gave her a lopsided smile and a wink. "'Cause little Puncher can run circles around those big, beautiful ships with their high airs captains and their prissy first mates."
Margaret had giggled. He had looked so funny, and so proud of his Puncher. He reminded her of Da when he was at home and not wearing his uniform. She had liked him immediately.
The man had then told her, "On board Puncher, lass, I am Master Ezekiel Gallows. A bella bambina like yourself, though, may call me Mister Zeek and I will proudly answer. And speaking of answers," he went on, "we will be arriving on the far side before the noon sun reaches its zenith."
Margaret hoped the trip would take longer. She did not want to leave Puncher or Mister Zeek any sooner than she had to. She liked the way the boat moved over the surface of the lake, just as she had enjoyed the motions of the Maryanna Rose. Unlike Janett, who had spent the first days out of Bristol miserable and hungry. But this was different. Like the ocean in miniature.
"You like being on the waters?"
Margaret jumped at the sound of a woman's voice and turned to see the native girl, Rose's friend, stood beside her. She tried to remember the girl's name.
The girl smiled, displaying straight, white teeth. "You may call me Chal."
"Yes," Margaret said, still surprised. She had heard no footsteps. And now it seemed like Chal had read her thoughts. Twice. "Yes," she again. "I do. I mean, I like being on the water." She remembered her manners then--or Janett's manners, anyway--and gave a quick curtsy, pulling at her skirt just enough to display the cuffs of her trousers before letting it settle back into place. "A pleasure to meet you--Miss Chal. I'm--my name is--Margaret. Margaret Laxton."
Chal nodded. "You may call me Chal, Margaret Laxton."
Margaret had never really looked at the girl before. The girl had a darker skin tone than the other natives she had seen in New Venezia. Not the black of the slaves, though. Just a deep, rich red-brown. Her eyes were brown, nearly as dark as the braids of her hair that framed her face. And, Margaret noticed, the girl was young. At most only a year or two older than Janett's seventeen years. And pretty too. Maybe, in her own way, as pretty as Janett.
Chal laughed, a sound like fountain, then said, "My years under the sun have been kind to me."
Margaret's look became an open stare.
"Do not be astonished, Margaret Laxton." Chal smiled. "Your questions are plain on your face."
Margaret felt her face become warm with embarrassment, and she turned back to look across the water again. "I'm--I'm sorry," she forced out. "I didn't mean to stare--to be rude."
"You were not being rude, Margaret Laxton. Just open."
"Janett--and Mother--would call that being rude," Margaret said. "And you can call me Margaret. Just Margaret."
Chal nodded again. "I am pleased that you like the waters, Margaret. We will ride the waters much over the next few days. Lakes and rivers, and the ponds and slow streams of the bayuk."
"Are you from the bayuk?" Margaret asked.
Chal looked at her.
"I mean, is that your home? Where you were born? I've never met a native before," she added. She felt her face go red again as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Both Mother and Janett had tried to teach her to be less direct. She only seemed to remember their admonishments, though, after she opened her big mouth. She had heard that the natives were a proud race, and easily offended. She hoped she had not offended Chal.
Chal's laugh, this one like a small waterfall, did not sound offended. Margaret risked a look, and found Chal's eyes waiting for hers.
"You have not offended me, Margaret," Chal said, leaning on the rail so she could face Margaret. Then she looked past Margaret, looked across the water of the lake, in a direction not quite perpendicular to their travel, and it seemed to Margaret as if the brown eyes were focused hundreds or thousands of miles away. "I am at home in the bayuk, as I am at home wherever the waters take me, but I was born far from here. In the south."
"Do you miss your home?" Margaret asked.
"Yes, I do." Chal sighed. Margaret felt a slight breeze brush across her face, even over the wind of their progress, as if the air of the lake sighed with Chal. "It has been a long time since the waters brought me north."
"Why don't you go home then?"
Chal's smile looked rueful to Margaret, but still lit up her face. "Because there is still too much of the world I have not seen."
"Chal." Miss Rose's gruff voice called from behind them.
Chal turned around, facing aft. Margaret did not turn around. She was not sure she could face Miss Rose's impassive gaze again. Not just yet. Chal nodded to something Margaret did not hear, then she placed a hand on Margaret's arm. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Margaret, but I have been told I am talking too much."
Now Margaret turned to give a quick glare at Miss Rose. Then she turned around again. "Janett tells me the same thing," she said.
As Chal walked away, her laughter faded into the soft pattering of the spray from Puncher's wake.
\*
Margaret eyed the narrow, flat-bottomed boat warily. Though the bow was up on dry land, where Major Haley waited for her to step into the boat, the stern was in the water. One of the soldiers, wearing his red uniform, sat in the stern, his oar held across his knees.
"Just step in, Miss," the man said. "I'll keep her steady for you."
"Between Corporal Higgs and myself," Major Haley said, "it will be like entering a carriage." Margaret's expression must have betrayed her thoughts on that comparison. "I thought you liked rowboats," he added.
"This isn't a rowboat," Margaret said.
"That's right," Mr. Thomas said from where he stood nearby, overseeing the loading of the other boats. "It's a pirogue. Even better than a canoe, I have been told, for the waters of this swamp."
Pirogue or canoe or misshapen rowboat, Margaret thought it looked too overloaded to safely accommodate herself, Janett, Corporal Higgs and Major Haley. And the bench she would be sharing with Janett made the cramped cabin of the Maryanna Rose look palatial by comparison.
"I would feel safer, I think," Margaret said, "if Janett were to be in a different boat. Pirogue."
"The two of you girls hardly make any load at all," Mr. Thomas said, walking over. "You'll be perfectly safe." He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. "Trust me."
Margaret looked up into Mr. Thomas' eyes, and he smiled down at her. "You're sure that Janett cannot be in her own pirogue?" she asked.
Mr. Thomas laughed, his hands still on her shoulders. "Now I see," he said, "that it's not only the safety of our crafts that concerns you."
"Stop being a pest, Margaret," Janett said, and pushed past Margaret and Mr. Thomas. "Here, I'll get on and show you it's completely safe. Major Haley, if you would give me a hand?"
"It would be my honor," the major said. He put his hands on Janett's waist, then lifted her easily into the pirogue.
"Thank you, Major," Janett said, her face showing a slight flush. She positioned herself on the plank of wood that served as a support and a bench, and made a show of arranging her skirts to take up only half the available space.
Mr. Thomas' grip on Margaret's shoulders tightened for just a second as they watched this display, then he took his hands away. Margaret rolled her eyes. Janett always had that effect on men. They fell over one another to help her sister into carriages, out of carriages, through doors--even to walk, sit, and stand. And they got jealous if they did not reach her first. On the boat, and in the fort, Janett had scarcely had to raise her hand unaided. Margaret thought it was a wonder men let Janett breath on her own--though she now recalled there had been one or two who had taken it into their heads that Janett needed their assistance with that, as well. Da, and then Mother in Da's absence, had put a stop to that.
"See?" Janett said. "There is plenty of room for you, Margaret."
Margaret looked at the other three pirogues pulled up on the bank of the river. Mister Zeek and Puncher had headed back across the lake as soon as Mr. Thomas and the soldiers had unloaded the crates and barrels to the lakeshore. Then the men had split the supplies across all of the pirogues that had been waiting for them. "What about Miss Rose and Chal's? Could I ride with them?"
"No," Mr. Thomas said, his voice less cheerful now. "The other boats bear a greater load of supplies. You must ride with your sister."
"Fine," Margaret said. She walked up to the pirogue. She ignored the hand that Major Haley offered. She hiked her skirt up and stepped into the pirogue.
"Margaret!" Janett said.
Margaret ignored her sister, and positioned herself on what was left of the narrow bench.
"Move 'em out," Mr. Thomas shouted.
Miss Rose pushed the pirogue she shared with Chal away from the bank and jumped into the bow. Her feet never touched the water.
After Miss Rose and Chal had their boat facing upstream and were rowing, Major Haley pushed the pirogue with Margaret and Janet into the water. His boots splashed in the water, and as he jumped in the pirogue tilted enough to make Janett cry out. And to push Janett against Margaret.
Margaret braced herself on the side of the boat and pushed back against Janett, hoping they would not capsize. It was going to be a long trip.
\*
The afternoon was divided between hours spent in the boat, cramped against Janett while Major Haley and Corporal Higgs rowed or poled, and even longer hours spent walking beside Janett as the men lifted and carried or dragged the pirogues like sledges between channels or around small cataracts.
It might not have been hours. The trees of the bayuk blocked the sun in most places, making it difficult to reckon time. But it felt like hours, Margaret thought. Even without direct sunlight, the temperature climbed until Margaret regretted wearing her skirt over the trousers. She considered taking off the superfluous skirt, but dreaded Janett's reaction.
Janett had spent the first hour in the pirogue talking. Incessantly. First to Major Haley, until the constant rowing had reduced his replies to monosyllables, then to Margaret, while Margaret stared longingly at the pirogue in front of them where Chal and Miss Rose picked the party's path. Janett talked about the trees and plants they passed, exclaiming at the flowers and birds, ruining Margaret's more silent appreciation of the same. Janett's voice became like the drone of the flies and mosquitoes that hovered in the humid air around them. Margaret amused herself with thoughts of swatting her sister.
Her eyes kept returning to Miss Rose. Both Miss Rose and Chal handled their oars, and their pirogue, as competently as the men. More so, it seemed, since their rowing and steering appeared effortless. Chal's skill with the pirogue did not seem surprising. Probably because Chal was a native and Margaret had heard the natives of North Amerigon were second to none as woodsmen. Or as woodswomen, it seemed. But Miss Rose was an Englishwoman. Margaret had never thought that such an Englishwoman as Miss Rose existed anywhere. Or could exist.
When they had to get out of the pirogues, Miss Rose and Chal helped carry their own. Their example made Margaret feel useless, walking beside Janett with no burden to carry.
"Let me lean on you, Margaret," Janett said. She placed her hand on Margaret's shoulder, not waiting for a reply.
No burden, Margaret amended, except her sister. Looking down, she saw that the hems of both of their skirts had become damp and muddy from the walking, and from getting into and out of the boats. She decided she would risk Janett's outrage tomorrow and pack her skirt away for the rest of the trip. Miss Rose had been right. Skirts were not made for walking through the bayuk.
The bayuk ended abruptly, the trees and underbrush parting like a curtain to reveal the sun nearly setting on the far side of another lake.
"That's Lake Mancino," Major Haley said, as he and Corporal Higgs dragged their pirogue to the bank and pushed it into the water. Showing his fatigue, Major Haley let the boat slip away from them. Corporal Higgs grabbed at the rope that trailed from the bow, snagging it before the pirogue could get too far out. "My apologies, Corporal."
"Weren't nothing, sir."
"We're not stopping here?" Janett asked.
Margaret, still supporting her sister, looked up. "The sun is almost down," she said. "Shouldn't we be finding a camp?"
"Not yet," Mr. Thomas said. "Rose and ... her friend ... have chosen the location for our first night's repose."
"It'll take us about two hours to get there," Miss Rose said. She glanced at Chal, then added, "Maybe less. We should be able to make good time on the lake."
"The sun will be down in two hours," Mr. Thomas said.
"Then we shouldn't waste more time," Miss Rose said, and turned her back on Mr. Thomas.
As she sat in the boat and watched the ripples of their travel on the surface of the lake, Margaret remembered seeing Miss Rose for the first time, pistol drawn and ready to fire, threatening Mr. Thomas. She had thought at first that it must be a joke. Mr. Thomas had told her and Janett that he and Rose Bainbridge were old friends. Perhaps this was a prank such as old friends played on each other, like the mischief she and Janett sometimes got into. But the look in Miss Rose's eyes had not been that of an old friend. For the first time in her life Margaret had considered the possibility that a man would die--maybe be murdered--right in front of her. Then Miss Rose had noticed her and Janett, and backed down, putting the pistol away and eventually agreeing to come with them on this trip.
She noticed that Mr. Thomas' pirogue, which he shared with two of the soldiers, was slowly coming alongside hers. After a few more minutes, Mr. Thomas was even with her.
"Why so serious, Margaret?" he asked, spacing his words between his strokes with the oar.
She smiled at him.
"That's better," he said, and gave her a big grin in return. Then he focused on his rowing again.
She trusted Mr. Thomas. She and Janett had first met him in the week after their arrival in New Venezia. He had been at the fort, running messages for General Tendring. He had said that he had seen Da at Fort Russell, and that Da was looking forward to their arrival. Mr. Thomas had said that he would do everything in his power to help them reach Fort Russell and see their father. He had helped persuade General Tendring. He had planned the trip and here they were, on their way.
Still, there was something about Miss Rose that she trusted, as well. Or, maybe trust was the wrong word. Margaret respected Miss Rose, and envied her. Her direct manner. Her willingness to challenge the men as if she were their equal. That was what had prompted Margaret to acquire the bulky trousers from the young man in the stables. She had no doubt now that the trousers had been a good idea. But Miss Rose hardly looked at her.
"Are you going to let us pass you by, Major Haley?" Mr. Thomas said. His pirogue now paralleled theirs, and he and the major were side by side, separated by ten feet of water.
"You have three rowers to my two," the major replied. "That's hardly sporting."
"But you have the fairer cargo, Major Haley. Perhaps tomorrow we can trade. I will gladly give up Corporal Tishman and Private Cummings for the lovely Janett and Margaret Laxton."
"Nay," Major Haley said. "They are a burden I readily choose."
"As any good Englishman would, sir!"
"Gentlemen," Janett said, "we are right here. Please do not speak of us as if we were absent. Or are baggage. Give us paddles, Major Haley, and you will see we are not merely cargo."
Mr. Thomas laughed. "Well spoken, Janett."
The muscles of Major Haley's back tensed as he sat up straighter than before. "I would sooner collapse of exhaustion bearing you, Miss Laxton, than suffer the humiliation of your hand on an oar handle."
He did not turn around, but Margaret could imagine his face showing a flush. Janett had provoked him to similar embarrassments many times over the past weeks, even more since they had arrived at New Venezia. Margaret did not understand why he put up with her.
The men became silent again. In the west, the sun touched the tops of the trees and turned the surface of the lake into a mirror of the deepening blue sky above them. The only sounds were the deep breathing of the men, and the water splashing on their oars.
Margaret reached over the side of the pirogue and brushed the surface of the water with her fingertips. As she looked at the water streaming around her fingers, she thought of Chal's laugh. Feeling someone's eyes on her, she looked up again and saw the native girl had turned to glance at her over one shoulder. The setting sun made a silhouette of Chal, and Margaret could not see the girl's eyes. She thought she saw Chal's teeth exposed in a smile, but she could not be sure. Margaret blinked against the brightness, and when she could see again, she saw only Chal's back. Had she imagined the whole thing?
The sun continued to set, its light now at a level above their heads. It was too early to see stars yet, but Margaret thought she could see one reflected near the bank of the lake. As she watched, the star moved closer and resolved into a point of light. Another point of light appeared near the first. Then another. The three lights formed a line like Orion's Belt across the surface of the lake.
"Are we nearly there, Mr. Thomas?" Janett asked beside her. "Surely it's becoming too dark to safely travel like this?"
Before Mr. Thomas could reply, Margaret said, "Look!" She half-stood and pointed. "They're putting out lights for us."
"Sit down, Margaret!" Janett said, and grabbed Margaret's arm.
The pirogue rocked as Margaret lost her balance and fell against Janett. "Stop it! Lay off!"
Various shouts of, "Girls!" rang out. Margaret sought to pull away from Janett, as the boat see-sawed back and forth. But Janett's eyes had grown huge with fright and her grip on Margaret was tight. Margaret saw Major Haley turning around, probably hoping to help, but he shifted his weight to the wrong side and the pirogue tilted further. Margaret, immobilized by her older, stronger sister, braced herself for the cold chill of the lake.
A shot thundered and Margaret saw a bullet strike the surface of the water below her, where she expected to be dumped with the screaming Janet, the startled and apologetic Major Haley, and poor Corporal Higgs.
But she did not fall. The pirogue and all its passengers became completely still as the air around them stiffened and became as hard as metal. Margaret would have screamed then, but she found she could not force her mouth open. Or move her arms. Janett's screaming became muffled as something forced her jaws together. She could not see Corporal Higgs, but in front of her Major Haley seemed stopped in midfall, hovering just off the boat.
They were no longer moving, Margaret noticed. Past the suspended form of the major, she saw the other pirogues, dozens of yards away. Mr. Thomas was beginning to turn his pirogue to come back to them. The pirogue with Miss Rose and Chal, though, was perfectly still, despite Miss Rose standing in the bow, her right arm extended toward Margaret's half-capsized boat, a smoking pistol in her hand.
Margaret wanted to scream again, but still could not. Miss Rose had shot at them!
"If everyone could please calm themselves," Miss Rose said, her voice carrying clearly across the water. "Then I can set you down and we can continue on our way." She still looked down the barrel at them. And she still stood. "I hate wasting a shot," she went on, "but I decided it was better to lose one shot rather than risk your safety."
Margaret wanted to say that shooting at them risked their safety much more than a cold dunking, but all that came out was a frustrated grunting. Janett's muffled screams started again.
Mr. Thomas' pirogue glided across the lake toward them and came alongside. He smiled, but it was hard to see in the fading light. "Calm yourself, girls. And you too, Corporal Higgs. Major Haley, how do you like this first demonstration from the gunwitch Rose Bainbridge?"
Margaret's eyes leaped back to Miss Rose. The woman still stood there with her pistol outstretched, but Margaret could not see her face. Janett moaned beside Margaret.
"Gently," Mr. Thomas said. He was beside them now, and he reached out a hand and took hold of the railing of the titled pirogue.
His first pull did nothing. Then Margaret felt a shift and the pirogue settled back to an even keel, guided by Mr. Thomas.
"Ducoed?" Miss Rose's voice sounded strained.
"Major Haley is suspended in midair," Mr. Thomas said. "Perhaps he can be placed once more into his seat?"
Margaret thought she heard a low growl from Miss Rose, but her attention was drawn to Major Haley. The young man's immobilized form moved down until his feet touched the bottom of the pirogue. His posture changed slowly, with sudden jerks, until he was seated, if a bit unnaturally. Fear and wonder flickered across his face.
"Very good," Mr. Thomas said. "Now, if everyone can please be still, we will trust you once again under your own power."
Miss Rose let out an exclamation of exertion that might have contained an oath, and the bonds of air that had held Margaret evaporated. She started, then clutched at Janett. For comfort and to keep her sister from panicking again.
In front of them, Major Haley flexed his limbs, as if making sure they were still his to command. His eyes met Margaret's once as he did this, but he looked away quickly. He turned his back and retook his seat in the bow. Without a word, he resumed rowing.
Margaret looked at Mr. Thomas. He gave her a big smile. "That was an adventure, wasn't it?" Then his smile changed, as he leaned close to Margaret. "Miss Rose will never admit it," he whispered, "but I taught her how to do that. Long ago."
Margaret started to smile back, but something on Ducoed's face made her stop.
\*
The lights Margaret had seen became lanterns illuminating a wooden dock that extended into the lake from a long, low house on the shore. A handful of empty pirogues and fishing boats, were tied to the dock. No one was visible. Some of the windows of the house glowed with light, but Margaret saw no movement there either.
She and Janett no longer clutched each other, but Margaret held her sister's left hand with both of hers. The events they had just lived through already seemed unreal, as if the lights of the docks drove a nightmare back into the darkness. But a receding nightmare lingers even in the full light of day, and this had been real. Margaret kept her knees together, to prevent them from shaking.
Da had worked with gunwitches, Margaret knew, though that had been before she was born. She had even seen gunwitches, in their red uniforms, faced with black and jagged lines of yellow thread, like long lightning bolts down their chests. When other children had told her what they had heard about gunwitches and their magic, she had quoted Da with confidence: "Don't believe everything you hear." But she had never had a gun pointed at her before. And she had never felt the touch of magic before. All the horrible, half-whispered stories came back to her. She could not stop the trembling.
In front of her, Major Haley leaped out of the pirogue and onto the dock, holding the tie line. He secured the line then gestured to the girls. "Come along," he said. "If what I have heard is true, you'll have one more night of sleeping in a bed before you have to nestle down under the stars."
"You go first," Janett said to Margaret. "I'll--I'll hold the boat steady for you."
Margaret stared at her sister. After a long second, though, she mastered her limbs enough to let go of Janett's hand and scoot to the bow. She took the hand that Major Haley offered, and stepped on the dock. She moved to the side, to let Janett follow her.
She looked at the house again. There was still no sign of movement. She looked back along the dock and saw Miss Rose stepping out of her pirogue. She saw the woman catch her rifle, check it, then set it butt first on the dock and lean on it. Miss Rose saw Margaret looking at her, and straightened, slinging the rifle over her shoulder. Margaret turned away before their eyes met.
"Where is everyone?" she asked Major Haley.
"They heard the shot," Miss Rose said behind her. "So they're making sure we're friendly before they show themselves."
"Why would we not be friendly?" Janett asked.
Miss Rose moved past them toward the house. "Why should they think we are?" She faced the house then. "Chico!" she shouted. "It's me, you bue grande stupido. Stop hiding behind your bambinos and come see to your guests."
Margaret let out a yell of surprise as men and women seemed to materialize from the shadows around the dock and in the windows of the house. They were all dressed in drab, shabby clothes, most of it worn leather. The women's heads were bare, their hair pulled back. The men wore wide-brimmed hats. All of them had weapons. The light of the lanterns reflected on pistol barrels and long rifles and the flat sides of knives. Not all of them were full grown, Margaret saw. Some were hardly older than herself.
The door of the house opened and Margaret took a step back, pressing against Janett. The largest man she had ever seen stood silhouetted in the door frame.
"Rosa!" a voice bellowed from out of the silhouette. "Benvenuto!" The arms opened wide and the figure stepped forward.
The man's features were at once terrifying and cheerful. His eyes gleamed under his craggy eyebrows and his beard split in a huge smile. He walked up to Miss Rose and took her in his arms. Margaret wondered that Miss Rose's rifle, or her back, did not break under the pressure. "We didn't know you were coming back so soon, Rosa."
"I sent you word we were coming, you big ox," Miss Rose said, levering and twisting her way out of the embrace.
"Maybe you outran the messenger?" Chico offered. "You are always in such a hurry, mio dolce. Rushing in, rushing out. Mama complains to me that I let you go too soon." He looked around at the travelers. "Where is the lovely Chal-choot? Is she hiding from me again?" His eyes alighted on Margaret and Janett. "And who are these lovely ones?" he asked. "I understand now why my sons were so quick to show themselves."
Margaret's eyes darted to other faces and saw that many of the younger men and boys were looking at her and Janett. One of the boys, maybe fifteen, caught her eye and winked. She looked away and edged closer to Janett.
Miss Rose introduced the girls, including the name of their father. If the name of Colonel Laxton of Fort Russell impressed the listeners, none of them showed it. Then she introduced Major Haley and Mr. Thomas. She did not introduce the soldiers.
"I am Chico Mancino," the man said, bowing to the girls. He stood tall then and threw out his arms. "Welcome to my lake, young ladies."
Margaret cowered, fearing an embrace, but Chico only laughed. "And you too, gentlemen. Come inside, come inside." He turned and gestured to the door, which remained open. "Mama awaits, and she will be pleased to see you all."
\*
The house seemed larger inside. Margaret was not sure how all the travelers and Chico Mancino's extensive family fit. The weapons had disappeared, and she had no idea where they had gone. Inside, the faces were all smiles. She and Janett found themselves seated at a table while a woman nearly as large as Chico, who introduced herself as "Mama Mancino", proceeded to fuss over the girls.
A flood of introductions washed over Margaret, leaving her clueless which name--Ugo, Alanso, Fico, Chico, Rinaldo, Emilio, and more--went to which of the young men and boys who bowed over her hand and exclaimed about her eyes. The older ones focused on Janett--of course--but there were more than enough that Margaret felt the room beginning to spin around her. She was saved when Mama Mancino came back. Mama shooed the boys away and set plates of food in front of the girls. "Eat up, eat up. You must have your strength for such a journey."
"How did you know--?" Margaret started to ask, but Mama silenced her with a finger on her mouth.
"What are those?" Janett asked, pointing to a plate with a pile of ... of ... bugs? Margaret had no words for what was on the plates. Bugs like she had never seen, four inches longer and more, with long antenna and pincer claws.
"Kraveys," Mama said. "Eat like this." She picked up one of the bugs and put its head in her mouth and slurped. Then she pulled it out and cracked open the tail. "Then you eat the tail."
Janett shook with revulsion. "I see," she said.
"I'll ... I'll try one," Margaret said. She relished the look of nausea that crossed Janett's face more than the feel of bug's head in her mouth, but the taste was pleasing. Mama Mancino helped her with the tail. She laughed as Janett almost fainted. She picked up one of the kraveys and thrust it at Janett to see her sister's face become even paler. "Try one. You'll like it."
\*
For the second day in a row, Margaret was awakened before dawn. Today, though, she did not wake in the comfortable but sparsely furnished room she had shared with Janett in New Venezia. Instead, she found herself miles away from New Venezia, and still further from England, in a room filled with olive-skinned women and girls who smelled of Italian spices and native Amerigon herbs. Mama Mancino and her girls already bustled about, dressed and alert, when Margaret untangled herself from Janett.
Margaret pulled on her borrowed trousers, and folded her skirt. She would not need the skirt again until their trip was over. Which should be in less than three days. After the months of their trip, Da seemed impossibly close, only just out of reach. As if he were in the next room.
Suddenly, she felt afraid of seeing Da again. How long had it been? Nearly four years? Would he still recognize his Little Puncher? Would she still recognize him?
"Where is your skirt?" Janett asked, distracting her from her distress.
Margaret looked at Janett, who was still groggy and pale and disheveled. She could not remember when Janett had looked so out of sorts, even in the morning. Mama Mancino's spicy food had not been kind to her older sister.
Margaret smiled at her sister, and took in a huge breath through her nose. "It's time for breakfast," she said. "Can't you smell it?" She laughed when Janett turned away. "You need to get ready."
Janett did not show herself until breakfast was finished, much to the disappointment of the Mancino men, young and old. But they seemed to feel adequately rewarded when Janett finally came out of the shared bedroom. Even the younger boys stopped what they were doing and watched Janett make her entrance.
Margaret shook her head as she saw her sister. The disheveled hair had been brushed to a sheen and arranged to best present the perfect face--which, though still pale, showed none of the puffy eyes nor other evidence of poor sleep. Janett wore the same dress as yesterday, but it had--somehow--been cleaned and straightened. Margaret wondered, as she had wondered most of her life, how Janett could create such a transformation. Miss Rose had her guns and her magic. Janett made magic with a hair brush and a corset.
"Always you rush rush rush," Mama Mancino said to Miss Rose as they gathered on the dock and prepared to leave. "The sun, she is not even fully awake and you go."
"You were up before we were, Mama," Miss Rose said.
Mama Mancino snorted. "With so many lazy kids, and a lazy husband, what else is a good wife to do?"
Chico's hearty laugh drowned out everyone else's. He squeezed his wife and spun her around. "It is you, Rosa, that makes her like this, my Mama Mancino. When you are away, she is gentle and loving and quiet as a mouse."
Now it was Mama Mancino's laugh that echoed off the lake.
Margaret could still hear the couple's laughter as she and Janett sped across the brightening lake, once again sharing the small bench in their pirogue.
\*
In the middle of the morning, they reached the mouth of what Mr. Thomas announced as the Amicizia River. They took a short break, eating some of the food Mama Mancino had insisted they accept. Janett declined to partake despite Margaret's insisting. Once they had eaten, they pointed their boats into the river's current and continued.
The Amicizia's channel twisted back and forth, and twice during the afternoon, the girls had to walk as the pirogues were dragged across the land from one bend in the river to the next.
Margaret noticed the nature of the bayuk changing as they traveled, becoming less swamp-like. The trees grew taller and further apart. The river became wider, with fewer side channels and sandbars.
Again, Margaret found herself looking at Miss Rose, wondering how an Englishwoman could seem so at home in such a wild place. In the light of day, even in the soft gray-green light of the bayuk, the events of the night before faded. Miss Rose looked like nothing so much as a scout, a woman of the woods.
When they stopped for lunch, Margaret made herself sit down near Miss Rose. Neither Miss Rose nor Chal talked as they ate. Instead, they kept a constant watch, the two of them covering opposite directions, looking past each other and peering into the trees and underbrush. Both women had their rifles near to hand.
"Will we see any natives?" Margaret asked.
Miss Rose chewed and swallowed a spoonful of the spicy rice dish Mama Mancino had sent along before answering. "You've met the Mancinos."
"But they're Italian," Margaret said, then took a much smaller, more cautious spoonful of her own serving.
"Every one you met last night was born right here," Miss Rose said, gesturing around her. "And their parents, as well."
"I meant ... I mean ... like Chal. Natives."
Miss Rose gave her a quick look, then resumed her scrutiny of the forest around them. "We may. This area has been rather well trampled by us Europeans, though, so there aren't as many natives in this region as they're used to be. Those that are still here tend to stay out of the way, in the bayuk." She paused, and Margaret followed the woman's gaze. All Margaret saw was leaves and branches and trees and the colorful flowers and stems of underbrush.
"We may," Miss Rose again. "But it would likely be best if we didn't."
No large house full of cheerful Italian-Amerigons waited for them when the sun set this day. The soldiers pulled the pirogues up the bank and into the cover of the underbrush. Then Miss Rose led them to a clearing a short distance from the riverbank.
Janett protested the primitive conditions and the rough meal. Then confronted Miss Rose about having no place to change, and no separate sleeping quarters. Janett looked aghast at Miss Rose when the woman said, "It's best if you just sleep in your clothes. We may have to move at a moment's notice."
Margaret exercised years of practice and shut out her sister's complaints as she curled up in the blankets Major Haley laid out for her. Just before she drifted off, she heard Mr. Thomas setting the watch around the camp.
"I'll take the first watch," he said.
Feeling safe, Margaret went to sleep.
\*
Shouts and someone nearly stepping on her head woke Margaret. She sat up, trying to make sense of what was going on, and bumped into whomever it was that had almost stepped on her. A man's hand on her shoulder stopped her, and pushed her down again.
"Stay down." Major Haley's voice, whispering.
In the darkness she could not see him clearly, even as close as he was, almost on top of her. It was still full night, and the canopy of trees blocked the light of the stars and the Moon. He squatted beside her, holding a rifle.
Margaret twisted to look at Janett and she could her sister's eyes wide.
"What's going--"
"Shh!" Major Haley insisted.
Gunshots exploded around them, louder than Margaret had ever heard before, more like cannon than rifles. The night became day and Margaret thought she saw Miss Rose, standing back to back with Chal, with white-hot lightning erupting out of Miss Rose's small pistol to consume a black monster straight out of Margaret's nightmares, all long claws and exposed teeth. The flash of the lightning faded, leaving only the image of the creature it had ripped apart burned into Margaret's eyes and memory. Janett screamed and grabbed for Margaret. Margaret returned her desperate embrace and found herself screaming as well.
"Stand!" the major shouted, and he did, towering above the girls with his rifle held in both hands. "Aim!" He brought his rifle up to his eye and extended it parallel to the ground. Janett stopped screaming and buried her face against Margaret's neck. Janett's hand tried to force Margaret's head close, but she twisted to see what the major was aiming at. There could not possibly be two of--of--whatever that had been. "Fire!"
The blast of multiple guns in a ring around the girls startled Margaret and made Janett whimper. The flash of his gun illuminated Major Haley's face for an instant. Margaret had never seen him look so serious.
Still standing tall, Major Haley began to reload his rifle, every movement precise, as if he were back on the parade ground at the fort. Margaret saw the other soldiers doing the same. She only counted four of the solders, though. She hoped Corporal Higgs was not hurt, but she could not identify the men in the dark.
A hissing patch of blackness launched itself out of the night and struck one of the soldiers with a crunching wet sound. The man gave a startled cry and stumbled back, dropping his rifle. He tripped over the prone forms of the girls.
The major's rifled fire again. For that instant, Margaret saw the huge wound in the soldier's chest and the black axe still embedded there, saw the axe handled quivering and the blood spraying out of his ruptured heart. She screamed again.
The night became a writhing, hissing blackness around the girls and the soldiers. Several of the soldiers got off one more shot, then the attackers--whatever they were--were too close. Hisses and grunts and the sounds of metal on metal became Margaret's universe. She and Janett huddled even closer together and hid their faces against each other. Boots stepped on her, and a cold, clawed foot tripped on her. She did not want to scream, but she could not help herself. At least if she screamed, she could not hear the sounds of bodies being hacked and torn apart.
Another explosion like a cannon and a wave of heat washed over Margaret. The smell of burnt powder and burnt flesh followed the heat and she gagged. There were more shouts and sounds of struggle, but she hardly noticed as she tried not to throw up into Janett's bosom.
Hands, warm hands Margaret noticed, without claws, grabbed her and pulled her away from Janett. Neither girl wished to let go of the other, but the hands insisted. Someone lifted her to her feet and said, "We have to go, Margaret." Chal's voice, whispered into her ear. "Quickly."
Margaret opened her eyes and let out her breath in relief that she could not see anything. Only Chal, and one of the soldiers, either Tishman or Cummings, who helped Janett to her feet. Janett seemed unable to stand, so the soldier hefted her over his shoulder and balanced her there with both hands. He looked at Chal and Margaret, then said, "Where to?"
"To the boats," Major Haley said from behind Margaret, his voice sounding strained. "We'll lose them downriver."
Margaret turned around and saw Major Haley. The left side of his face and head was covered in blood, and he held his left arm close to his chest. In his right hand he held his officer's sword, the blade covered with black and red gore. Her stomach revolted and this time she could not stop the nausea. She threw up on the ground in front of her. Chal put an arm around her waist, preventing her from falling to her knees.
They moved toward the river, Margaret stumbling along, still held up by Chal. Margaret tried to wipe the vomit off her face with her free hand. A figure came out of the darkness in front of them and Margaret almost screamed, but she choked it down to a sob when she saw it was Miss Rose. The woman had blood on her trousers, and carried her pistol.
"The pirogues have been holed," she said. "We'll have to run for it." She looked at the group. "Where's Ducoed?"
"I saw him pursue our attackers into the trees," Chal said.
A sound like a distant cannon boomed.
"Stupid bastard," Miss Rose said. "He'll have to catch up. Let's go."
"We should ... not leave him," Major Haley said. "He alerted us to the attack."
"We can't wait for him. Let's go. Now."
There was no further argument.
They did not run. They could not. Major Haley limped beside the soldier carrying Janett, with his sword still held in his good hand. Margaret kept her feet only because Chal held her up. Eventually, Miss Rose put an arm around Margaret as well, and the two women dragged her along.
Margaret wished she could faint like Janett had. Just go unconscious and forget. Or just close her eyes against the menacing darkness and plant life they pushed through. But if she closed her eyes, she saw the monster again, it's half-metal, half-human form being ripped apart by lighting. Or she saw the soldier die, his exposed heart and lungs leaking blood around the black axe. Or Major Haley's face, his left ear hacked away. She wondered if she would be able to close her eyes again.
Her legs felt as if they would fall off, but Miss Rose would not let them stop. Not when the darkness gave way to the gray of dawn. Not even when Major Haley requested it. "We're leaving a trail an idiot could follow," Miss Rose said. "Even with Chal's help."
Margaret looked up at Chal, her eyes resisting the command to focus. She wished Chal did not need to help her. She did not want to be a burden.
"Shh," Chal said, and kissed Margaret on the forehead.
The kiss surprised Margaret, because of the familiarity, and because a warmth spread over her from the still-tingling point on her brow.
Margaret stared at Chal, who only laughed at her. She still hurt, especially her legs, but she felt she might be able to continue. Which was good, because Miss Rose pushed them forward again.
"I know a place," Miss Rose was saying to Major Haley. "If we can reach there, maybe we can lose them. Or at least take some time to rest and figure out another way to the fort."
English Countryside
1718 A.D.
Rosalind awoke, but her nightmare did not end. She was still in the carriage, still lying on her side on the rough, wooden floor. Her head was still covered by the foul-smelling black bag and her arms still shackled behind her. She screamed. For Mum. For Father. For Elizabeth. For anyone. The bag and the stench choked her and made her gag, but she did not stop screaming until her throat was raw and she could only whimper.
No one came.
If the driver of the carriage heard her, he made no mention of it nor gave any indication. She could hear him on his bench at the front of the carriage, the planks of the bench creaking as he shifted his weight, occasionally snapping a command to the team of horses.
It was as if Rosalind Bainbridge did not exist anymore. As if she had become a blind and powerless ghost adrift in a barrel.
In desperation, she tried to reach into herself again, to touch the awful coldness that had helped her against William Phillips. And ... nothing. Nor could she summon the warmth that had filled her the day she touched Cobbler Stevens' wife and healed the woman of consumption in the lungs. The warmth and the cold were there, inside her, she could sense them, but out of reach. An invisible wall separated her from that part of herself. Her mind could not concentrate, her heart could not open. She had been shackled more completely than she had known was possible.
She did not know how much time passed before she felt that first, soft touch on her shoulder and a man's voice asked, "Would you like a spot of tea, missy?"
Her throat tight and raw, she could only whisper, "Take me home."
"That I can't do, missy, but if you'll take a sip of this tea, I can take those irons off."
She wished she could cry. But like her voice, her tears were long gone. "Please, mister. Take me home."
"You'll feel better after you have a spot of tea."
Hands sat her up, leaned her back against the inside wall of the carriage, then gently removed the mask. Rosalind closed her eyes against the brightness.
"Here, drink this," the man's voice said, and something warm and pungent was pushed close to her face.
Rosalind turned her face away from the drink, but the warmth and the bitter smell moved with her.
"If you don't drink this," the man said, "I can't let you out of the irons. We've a long trip ahead of us, and you'll be much more comfortable."
Rosalind opened her eyes, squinting, and could see the cup of tea in front of her face. And the man who held it up to her. He met her eyes. He did not smile at her, but he looked nonthreatening. Just an older man in a rumpled red uniform. Behind him she could see an empty stable yard in the first light of day. Had it been only a single night since she had been taken from her family? Since her family had pushed her away?
"I just want to go home."
The man shook his head. "There's no going home again, missy. The army's your home now. It's a rum go you've had the past day and night, but the army can be a good home if you give it a chance."
Rosalind sobbed, but the man looked unmoved. He pulled the cup back and waited for her to finish. Then he held the cup close to her lips again. For the first time, she realized she was thirsty. But she turned her face away again.
"The Leftenant will be here soon," he said. "If you haven't drunk your tea, I'll have to put the bag back on your face, and leave you in the irons."
The thought of being alone in the darkness again, and her thirst, made Rosalind face the man and open her lips.
"That's a girl," the man said, and he held the cup to her lips as she took a sip. The tea was lukewarm, and bitter. She wrinkled her nose. Even Elizabeth made better tea. "Drink it all, you'll feel better." Rosalind suppressed a sob at the thought of her sister, and forced herself to drink the entire cup.
She felt sleepy even before the man put the empty cup away. Thoughts of escaping drifted through her mind as the man moved her around and took the cold shackles from her arms. But her mind could not hold the thoughts, and her arms and legs felt so very, very heavy. If the man had not helped her sit on one of the benches, she would have remained on the floor of the carriage. Then she slept.
\*
The carriage was a simple box on wheels, longer than it was wide, with a single door and benches to the front and back. Built of thick wood planks, with no windows and only narrow slits for air near the ceiling, the carriage was a more than adequate prison for Rosalind Bainbridge, formerly of Phillips on the Birchwood. Like its driver, the carriage was neither friendly nor unfriendly. It just rolled along, taking her inexorably toward whatever destination awaited her.
The driver gave his name as Sergeant Morris. When Rosalind asked him where he was taking her, he said, "First, we're going to get you some company for the ride. Then it's off to the King's Coven with the lot of you." Most of her questions, though, over the two days since she had first awakened in the carriage, he did not answer. He never got upset with her, even when she screamed and threw his tea back at him. He would just shrug and make her another cup, and remind her that it was either the tea or the irons. Sergeant Morris mentioned the Leftenant sometimes, as well, as an added inducement, and a few times Rosalind had heard Sergeant Morris talking with another man, but she had not seen anyone else.
She still wore the dress she had put on to attend the summer solstice festival. The material of the dress was rumpled, from her struggles the day of the festival, and from being slept in since then, and was now accumulating stains around the hem. She shifted her position, trying to find a comfortable position on the uncomfortable bench. She still wore her corset, as well, and it was still laced up the back and tied. The stiff undergarment made sleeping--and sometimes breathing--even more difficult, but she refused to ask the sergeant to help her with it. It would not be proper. Besides, the dress and the corset were all she had left. She refused to give up either of them.
The carriage stopped, rocking her forward. Rosalind opened her eyes. Then the horses started forward again with a shout from Sergeant Morris. Rosalind closed her eyes again. The stopping and starting continued, and she noticed she could hear other horses and wagons and people shouting around the carriage. They must have entered a city.
Rosalind sighed. She did not even bother to open her eyes. She had finally left Phillips on the Birchwood. Here she was in a city, maybe even London itself. But the city was still as impossibly far away as it had been her entire life.
Rosalind's world had been reduced to just this carriage, Sergeant Morris, an unseen Leftenant, and brief glimpses of English countryside. Though maybe now she would get a brief glimpse of an English city.
The carriage continued its lurching, bumping progress, sometimes enough to rattle her teeth together. When it came to another stop, Rosalind hardly noticed, until she felt the carriage lean as Sergeant Morris climbed down from his high seat. She heard Sergeant Morris say, "Good day, governor. I heard you have a package for me." As he spoke, his voice faded into the sounds of the city until she could no longer make him out.
Rosalind looked at the slits at the top of carriage. If she stood on the bench and pressed her cheek against the ceiling, she could see out with one eye. If she were lucky, she could even catch a few breaths of fresh air. She had done that a few times over the past two days, but only when the carriage was stopped. She had tried it once while in motion and had lost her balance from the constant bumps. She had fallen and hurt her wrist and nearly split her head open against the edge of the rear bench.
Her eyes fell to the door. There was no latch on the inside, and Sergeant Morris had never left it unlocked. Still, she had to try. She could not even budge it.
She climbed on her bench, pressed her left cheek against the ceiling and looked out. From the sunlight, she judged it to be late morning. Or early afternoon. She could see the fronts of buildings, some of them with large windows. She could not see through the windows. Men's heads moved across her field of vision in front of the windows. A few times she saw a woman's hat among the men, but never their faces. Wagons piled with cargo going both directions cut off her view time and time again.
Turning to see out the other side with her right eye, she could see faces, both men and women, and the fronts and backs of wagons as they came toward her or went away from her along the street she looked down. The faces disappeared beneath her vantage when they came too close.
With a start, Rosalind realized she could scream for help and be heard. Her voice was still scratchy from screaming herself hoarse before, and it hurt, but she opened her mouth and let forth. She pounded on the door hard enough to shake the whole carriage.
No one came.
Once someone banged on the door. "Shut it up in there," a man's voice yelled. She started again, even louder than before.
Her voice gave out again, leaving her leaning against the unmoving door, wishing she could cry, her breathing sounding like a ruptured bellows. She could hear voices around the carriage. Men laughing and someone saying, "It's a loony, I'm telling you."
"Simply dreadful." A woman's voice. "I can not believe they brought such a creature into town."
Her dry sobs drowned out the rest.
She was still leaning against the door when it vibrated with three rapid knocks. She started, and would have screamed, but all that came out was a hoarse, "Help me ..."
"Sit back, missy, and don't be thinking of running," Sergeant Morris said through the door. "We got some company for you."
Rosalind sat on the front bench, but she prepared herself to run if the chance presented. Maybe she could lose herself in the city, whatever city it was, hide from Sergeant Morris. Then maybe she could make her way back to Phillips on the Birchwood. She had no money, but surely she could do something to earn a few coins--
Her plans died as the door opened and revealed a line of red uniforms behind Sergeant Morris. The soldiers stood at attention, all of them watching the door.
The sergeant looked at her as she slumped on her bench. "Aye, missy. That's a good girl." Then he reached down and grabbed something out of sight on the ground. He bent his knees and heaved the hooded, shackled form of a boy into the carriage. The boy groaned, but otherwise made no sound as Sergeant Morris arranged him on the floor so he lay curled up on his side, hooded head toward to the front.
"They told me his name is Tommie," the sergeant said. "But I'm doubting he'll wake up before we stop for the night." Then he closed the door, leaving Rosalind in the semidarkness with the bound boy.
The boy smelled of sweat and blood and ... something else. A metallic odor that burned in Rosalind's nostrils. His breaths came with a rattle that did not sound good. It reminded her of Mrs. Stevens, as that woman's lungs had filled with phlegm.
Rosalind leaned over and reached out her hand. She hesitated before touching him, then put her hand on his shoulder. He groaned again, but that was all. She found herself reaching for the warmth in her chest, wanting to ease his suffering, but she could do nothing. Whatever had blocked her for the past days continued to do so. She squeezed his shoulder to let him know that she had tried, then she took her hand back and sat up.
Curled up on the floor like that, with his face covered, Rosalind could not see how old he might be. She doubted he could be as old as she was. Maybe as young as twelve.
Elizabeth was twelve. The thought of Elizabeth bound and hooded made her chest heave with a sob.
\*
As Sergeant Morris predicted, the boy remained unconscious throughout the day. His shallow, rattling breathing wore on Rosalind's nerves. Finally, she pulled off his hood, as gently as she could, to see if that would help. The sight of his face made her draw back to her bench and wrap her arms around her legs. Purple bruises and welts covered his cheeks and forehead, and his left eye was invisible beneath the swelling. His lip had been split against his teeth. His nose seemed intact, strangely untouched by whoever had attacked him.
Had the soldiers done this to the boy? They had treated Rosalind with rough disregard, but not this. Nothing like this.
Though it seemed he was breathing easier now without the hood, the rattling in his chest was louder. And the metallic smell became stronger, making Rosalind's eyes water. She almost put the hood back on the boy, but did not. Could not. She did not want to do that to anyone.
She realized she still held the hood, and dropped it to the floor.
The carriage hit a pothole, shaking her and making the boy's head knock against the wooden floorboards. Rosalind winced at the heavy sound. She slipped off her bench and picked up the hood again. She folded it, and went to put it under his head, like a pillow. Unsure how to lift his head, not wanting to touch his bruises, she hesitated. She moved to the other side of him, behind him, and slipped her fingers under his head. Slipping the folded hood under him, she drew back, to the rear bench this time.
The boy moaned, and tried to roll to his back. His arms, still shackled behind him, prevented him. He coughed.
She could not see his face from the rear bench, so she did not know if he woke. She held her breath.
He coughed again, then he resumed his deep, congested breathing.
Rosalind resumed her own breathing.
Her eyes fell on the shackles that held the boy's wrists. She had never had a clear view of the shackles Sergeant Morris had taken off her.
She had seen shackles on a man once before, a wanted man the sheriff had captured hiding in the woods near the village. The sheriff had paraded the man, bound hand and foot, through the main street of Phillips on the Birchwood, prodded along by a deputy using the butt end of a spear. Those had been iron bracelets connected by a short length of chain. These on the boy, though, were two pieces of metal, flat in the middle with c-shaped ends that wrapped around the wrists, hinged at one end and held together with thick bolts at the other.
Rosalind squinted, then leaned forward. The light was dim, and she was not sure what she was seeing. But the shackles seemed to ... glow?
The dark metal gave off no light, but still her eyes detected a faint aura around them. Where the metal bent around the boy's wrists, the aura was more distinct. As she continued to look at the shackles, faint sparks traced lines and curves on the flat part and formed into runes. She had seen runes carved into standing stones before, but not like these. And the runes in the rock had not glowed or given off sparks.
The runes faded back into the metal.
She blinked and stared, but the runes did not reappear. The shackles retained their lightless aura, though, so she knew she had not imagined the letters. At least, she did not think she did.
\*
"Kind of you, missy, taking his hood off," Sergeant Morris said when they stopped. He held the end of the long leather belt that had been looped around her waist, his back turned as she relieved herself on the side of the road. "Not strictly regulation, you understand, but kind of you just the same."
"What happened to him?" she asked. The road they were parked beside twisted between low hills, little more than two ruts in the grass. The sun had already gone down, but twilight still held back the darkness. She had thought of running, as she always did, but the sergeant had pulled the belt snug and secured it. She could not undo it fast enough. She had tried that the first time he put it on her. And his grip was too strong on the other end. She had tried that the second time. Both times, the man had simply yanked her off her feet, then stood there while she regained her feet, her face flushed red, his face showing neither irritation nor anger. She had screamed at him. He had worn the same expression through that, as well. She finished and stood.
"I asked the same thing, I did," the sergeant said, turning to face her again. "And the boys back in town swear it wasn't them. They just put the irons on him." He shrugged. "Not my concern, really. I just hauls them from here to there. Still, I don't care if he is a witch--or whatever you want to call him, being a boy, still a witch to me--but that's no way to treat a child."
"I'm not a witch," Rosalind said. Her throat tightened but she refused to cry. "I'm not."
"I'm afraid you are, missy. I'm afraid you are." The sergeant gestured that she was to step back into the carriage. She complied. "Not that I'm afraid of you, mind," he went on. "Not while you're doing what you're told. But if there had been any doubt you was a witch, you and me would never have taken this ride together. The irons would have told the tale, and you'd be still at home nestled between your mum and da."
She loosened the belt and let it slip down past her waist to the floor. She stepped out of the loop. "Can I ever go home?" she asked.
"Can't say I know, missy," Sergeant Morris said, shaking his head as he reeled in the long belt. "Can't say I know that at all."
\*
The boy woke before dawn, screaming and cursing, his shouts painfully loud in the enclosed space.
Rosalind had curled up beside him to sleep, her back to his. He thrashed his head and struck her in the back, his hands found her and grabbed her skirt, his feet kicked.
"Let me go!" he shouted. "Help! Get these off me, you bastards! Help! Help!"
Rosalind tried to stand, to get away, but the cramped carriage and the boy's struggles and his grip on her pulled her back down, almost on top of him.
His cursing and shouting got louder. "Get off me, bitch! I'll kill you!"
He pulled harder as she tried again to stand. The material of her skirt resisted, then began to tear as he pulled. She tried to grab her skirt, as well, to stop the tearing, and lost her balance. Now she fell on him, her legs over his torso, her bottom hitting the floor in front of him, her back and the back of her head slamming against the bolted door.
"Stop it!" she screamed. "Stop stop stop stop stop!"
He did not stop. "Bitch! Stupid whore!" He tried to bite her hand when she placed it on the floor to push herself up. He brought his knees up, battering her twice in the side before she could put her other arm in the way. She pushed against the door behind her, leveraging herself up.
Someone pounded on the other side of the door.
"You'd best be calming down in there," Sergeant Morris said, loudly enough to be heard, but not shouting.
The boy kept trying to kick her or smash her fingers with his knees. "Who are you? Where are you taking me, bitch?"
"I'm not taking you anywhere," Rosalind shouted back at him. She pushed away from the door, and managed to stand.
The boy now tried to roll over on his back. When that failed he tried to push himself against the back of her legs, his hands grabbing at her feet.
"Leave off," she shouted, and did some kicking of her own. Her heels hit against his fingers and the metal of his shackles. "I'm a prisoner too, you stupid pig."
He screamed as she stepped on his fingers, and he arched away from her feet. She took the opportunity and leaped for the rear bench. She pulled herself up on the bench, out of his reach.
He continued to thrash about with his head and kick with his legs and scream. He called her bitch and whore and worse names that she had never even heard before.
"Tommie," she said, remembering the name Sergeant Morris had told her. "Tommie, stop. I'm a prisoner too."
He ignored her. "You did this to me, you stupid bitch! I'll kill you!" His voice was getting hoarse, but no quieter.
She found she was crying. "Please, Tommie, stop. It wasn't me."
The bolt on the door turned, and Tommie stopped shouting. The door opened and revealed Sergeant Morris. He was shaking his head.
"Now you've done it, lad," he said. "You've woke the Leftenant."
\*
Sergeant Morris grabbed Tommie by the front of his shirt, and pulled the boy out of the carriage, ignoring the renewed kicks and shouts. The shouts ended with a startled grunt as Tommie was dropped to the ground.
"You too, missy," Sergeant Morris said, holding his hand out to her. "The Leftenant will insist."
Rose hesitated, then took his hand. He took both her hands in his as she stepped out of the carriage. As if she were a lady and he a coachman.
She tried to take her hands back, but he held them in a firm grip.
A man she had never seen stepped from beside the carriage door and closed cold metal shackles around her wrists. She saw an aura bloom around the shackles as they clicked closed, and for a second she could see the runes glowing in the dark. Then Sergeant Morris let go of her hands and grabbed the middle of the shackles. He forced her to turn around, to face the carriage again. She thought he was going to push her back into the carriage, but he did not. He pulled her arms up and hooked the shackles over a wooden peg on the side of the carriage so she hung there by her arms, face against the wood.
"I'm sorry about this, missy," he said. "I really am."
She felt his fingers on her neck and shoulders, then he pulled, hard, and ripped off the back of her dress. She screamed and tried to kick backward. He pressed her against the carriage, forcing the breath out of her lungs. With the other hand he removed her corset, which he dropped on the ground, and ripped the thin fabric of her undergarment. The night air chilled her. When the pressure let up, she took in another lungful of air and resumed screaming.
As she screamed, she struggled against the shackles, but she was on tiptoes already and could not lift them off the peg. She twisted around, and saw three men around the boy. Two of the men held the boy while the other, younger than the other two and wearing a uniform, refastened the shackles in front. Then they lifted the boy and brought him to the carriage and hung him on a peg beside her. Sergeant Morris ripped open the back of Tommie's shirt.
Rosalind felt again the desperation that had fueled her rescue of Elizabeth, but the cold magic remained out of her reach. The shackles on her wrists grew warm and tightened. She looked up at them and saw that the metal's aura and the etched runes glowed now, casting a soft light on her hands and into her face.
"Your sorceries will not avail you, witch," a man said behind her. She remembered the voice. From when she had been captured. She twisted again, trying to see who it was. The young man in an officer's uniform smiled at her, and brought his hands up where she could see them. He held a whip. "But perhaps a touch of the lash can help you learn to listen."
"I didn't do anything," she said.
"Silence," the man said.
Sergeant Morris stepped up and pushed something into her mouth. "Bite down on this," he said. Then he did the same to Tommie.
"It's best if you turn around, missy," Sergeant Morris said as he walked into the darkness. "Don't want to put an eye out."
Rosalind turned back around and squeezed her eyes shut and bit down on the folded leather. She shivered with the cold and the fear of the whip against her skin.
"You are part of the King's army now," the officer said. "Both of you. And subject to the King's discipline. You will follow orders. Or you will face punishment."
She heard the man draw a breath, then let it out as the whip whistled. Her muscles clenched and she cried out, but it was Tommie, beside her, that took the blow. He grunted, but did not cry out.
Another breath, the sound of the whip through the air, and this time red hot pain traced a line across her back. Her scream caught in her throat, stopped by her clenched jaw. All she could do was whimper.
They received three lashes each, the whip alternating between them, Tommie then Rosalind. She sobbed and whimpered. Tommie never cried out.
"Now," the officer said, "let's see if we can finish the night in peace."
When Sergeant Morris and other man took Tommie by the arms and let him down, he spit the leather strip into Sergeant Morris' face. The sergeant made no comment.
Rosalind was still sobbing when the men came for her. She let the leather guard fall out of her mouth into Sergeant Morris' hand. Then the men let her down, hands on her shoulders and waist, avoiding the burning stripes on her back. They pushed her into the carriage and closed and bolted the door behind her.
She slumped to the floor and lay on her side. When she saw her face was next to Tommie's, his right eye open and looking at her, she said, "I ... I told you ... I'm a prisoner too ..."
He did not respond.
"I just want to go home," she said.
He sat up and turned his back to her, then laid back down again. In the dim grayness of the carriage, the three welts that crossed his spine between his shoulder blades showed black against his pale skin.
Comite Bayuk
1742 A.D.
Rose helped Chal settle Margaret into a sitting position against a fallen tree trunk. Then Rose propped her rifle beside the girl, and slipped the pack off her shoulders. She let the pack fall to the ground at her feet. She picked up the rifle again, checked it out of habit, and looked back down at Margaret.
The girl's head lolled to one side, and she slumped against the pack, eyes closed. Margaret's eyes popped open and she seemed about to scream. Rose reached forward, but the girl recovered herself and visibly swallowed the scream.
Rose gave the girl a curt nod of respect, and thanks. The girl had surprised her several times over the past couple of days. First with the trousers, then with a quiet determination that was very much at odds with the girl's sister.
"Where are we, Major Haley?" Janett asked behind her. "Does anyone even know? And where is Mr. Thomas?"
Janett had come to, screaming and struggling, several hours before, causing the tired Private Tishman to stumble and fall. And, of course, to drop her. Which had made Janett scream more, indignation edging out panic, a screeching siren in the middle of the bayuk, beckoning their enemies to them. Rose had wanted to throttle her. Major Haley managed to catch Janett before she ran away into the woods, and calm her. That is, once she had stopped screaming about the blood on his face, then weeping over his missing ear. Since Private Tishman had already been almost dead on his feet from carrying the girl, Rose had resisted the urge to have her tied and gagged and carried still further. Neither of the men was up to that task. Not without some rest.
The pace of their forced march, once they had been able to resume it, had kept the older Laxton girl from talking--much--and Rose had pushed them all further than she might otherwise have done just to keep the girl quiet. She had also hoped that maybe tiring Janett out would grant them silence when they did stop.
Fortune had deserted Rose Bainbridge, it seemed. First had been the general's summons. Then Ducoed, emerging from the shadows of her past to smirk at her again. Then the ambush. Now this.
"How are we supposed to make a camp here? No one brought any of the ... the ... camping equipment. I am quite literally starving, Major Haley. Why are we even following Miss Bainbridge? You are the ranking officer here."
"Janett, please," Major Haley said. "Sergeant Bainbridge knows what she is doing."
"She is not even a sergeant anymore, Major Haley. She is a civilian, like me, and a ... a ... woman."
Rose ignored Janett, and Major Haley's attempts to answer her, and focused on Chal. "How much further, do you think?"
Chal took in a deep breath, breathing with both her mouth and her nose, and let it out slowly, as if both tasting and smelling everything the air had to offer. Then she looked at the ground at her feet and at the scrub grass and bushes and trees around them. Rose could feel Chal's awareness swell around her, past her. It made her skin tingle. More than once she had asked Chal to teach her how to do that. And Chal had tried, each time Rose asked. But Rose might as well have been a pirogue attempting to learn grunzer mechanics from a German engineer. She knew it could be done, but the how had never occurred to her, in spite of Chal's efforts.
"Three hours," Chal said. She pointed almost due north.
Rose nodded. Her own estimates had predicted about the same. "Any sign of pursuit?"
Chal closed her eyes and hummed in her throat. The tingling on Rose's skin changed timbre to match the girl's hum. After several minutes, Chal stopped humming and opened her eyes. "Maybe two hours behind us. I could feel the stirrings of their passing, but it was ... different."
"Different, yes." Rose suppressed a shudder. "Have you seen anything like them before?"
Chal bowed her head, then said, "Not in such a way." She looked up again, met Rose's eyes. "They were once men. They are not men any longer."
"No, they're not. How many?"
"Counting was impossible. Too many echoes and ... I do not know what. I am only certain that there are too many for us to face."
"If there are so many," Rose said, "why didn't they all attack us last night? Why send so few?"
Chal shrugged. "Scouts before the main body? War parties spread out and now rejoined?"
"Could be either of those," Rose agreed, rubbing her hands over her face, trying to wipe away the fatigue. She failed. "Or worse. All that matters is we're still alive, and still able to move forward." She paused. "Did you sense any sign of Ducoed?"
"No," Chal said. "I cast back along our route, and I found no sign of him."
Rose considered her emotions and came to no conclusion. She set aside thoughts of Ducoed and looked up at what parts of the sky could be seen through the branches overhead. It was nearly noon. Three hours to get there, and maybe as much as an hour to muddy their trail a bit. They would be cutting it close. She wanted to press on immediately, but the girls needed to eat, and the major and the private needed to rest.
"You need to rest too," Chal said.
Rose realized she was still standing, and still holding her rifle. She sat down on the trunk beside Margaret, leaning her rifle against her leg.
"We all need rest," Rose said. "But there's just no time for it." She pulled her pack over and opened it, taking out a smaller pouch. "Eat this," she said, offering a strip of jerked venison from the pouch to Margaret. "Or chew it, anyway," she added as she saw the girl's teeth clamp down, trying to tear off a chunk.
Chal sat down on the trunk on the other side of Margaret, but facing the opposite direction. Rose handed Chal a strip of the jerky as well.
Janett seemed to materialize in front of Rose. "I have been starving for hours, Miss Bainbridge," she said. "We all have been, I'm certain, since there was no breakfast. Margaret! Get that revolting thing out of your mouth."
"No," Margaret said around the jerky, and continued to chew and tug. "I like it," she added.
Rose pulled out another strip and held it out to Janett. "Here's yours," she said. "Miss Laxton."
Janett took the dried meat with two fingers and looked at it as if she held a dead rat.
"Perhaps Miss Laxton would prefer to eat from the food in her own pack?" Rose asked.
Janett sniffed, but made no reply. Still holding the jerky in front of her, she turned away. "Major Haley," she said, "can you tell me how one ... eats ... this?"
Rose looked down and caught Margaret looking up at her. She winked at the girl and gave her a quick smile. She removed a piece for herself and threw the rest to Private Tishman. "Eat up, Private. It might not be the King's salted pork, but it'll keep you going. And don't forget to share with the major," she added. She saw Major Haley remove his red overcoat and spread it on the ground for Janett to sit on. "Maybe give him an extra ration for onerous duty."
Janett lowered herself to the major's jacket, spreading her skirts as she did, the picture of the English lady on a picnic.
Major Haley noticed Rose's attention, and she saw a flush come to his cheeks. "I thought it more fitting," he said. "Her being a lady ..." His voice drifted off as he took in Margaret sitting on the ground against the log where Rose and Chal sat. "I did not mean to imply ..."
"Carry on, Major," Rose said.
"What if Mr. Thomas is hurt?" Margaret asked, pulling Rose's attention from Major Haley. "Will he be able to catch up to us? We've been walking for hours. If he was hurt ..."
"I don't know," Rose said. "If he wasn't hurt too bad, he could fix himself up. Some. Then he would be able to follow us."
"I hope he is well."
Rose said nothing.
"Do you not also hope Mr. Thomas is well, Miss Bainbridge?" Janett asked. Rose looked at the girl and met her eyes, but still said nothing. "He promised Margaret and I that he would see us safely to our father," Janett continued. "I cannot believe he would go back on his word."
"Then he shouldn't have rushed off into the dark," Rose said. "The safety of you girls was his first priority--"
"I am certain," Janett replied, "that if he had but known you would abandon him, he would not have done so."
Rose felt the fingers of her right hand clenching. "Perhaps," she said, and looked away.
She never knew how to argue with women, especially young women. Girls like Margaret she thought she understood. She could remember being a girl. But she had never been a young woman--certainly nothing like Janett. The 101st Pistoleers was mostly women, but they had all been trained by the King's Army to be military men. Femininity, like the ability to bear children, was not considered a useful quality in a gunwitch.
You ever seen a pregnant gunwitch? Rose clenched her jaw, but was too tired now to stop the memories. She remembered the day the King's Policy had been writ on her womb. She remembered the night when she had finally realized what that meant. More bitter dregs to swallow from her years in the King's Coven, these only discovered in her first years in the bayuk. Poor Nicholas. He had so wanted children.
She had only been married to Nicholas a year. Nicholas had seemed to appreciate her blunt approach to life, so much like his own. He had loved her, and stayed with her, even after the wisewoman removed her wrinkled hands from Rose's belly and told them that they would have no offspring, and no future past twelve moons. The other married women of the bayuk village, who had begun to grudgingly accept her, the outsider, now treated her as an object of pity, someone who could never be one of them. She had no longer been able to bear their pity after Nicholas died. And none of them seemed unhappy when she left.
"Stop it, Janett," Margaret said. "You're being awful."
Rose kept her eyes on the trees around them, refusing to look at Janett again, letting the conversation die. Letting the memories fade into the humid air. She thought she saw Major Haley looking at her, but she kept her gaze away from him too.
Ten minutes later, she got everyone up. Tishman had gone to sleep with the jerky in his mouth, his jaws idle but clamped tightly on the bit of food. He resumed chewing when she woke him, as if he had never stopped. Rose almost chuckled. English infantry regulars could sleep anywhere, and they never wasted food. She had been like that herself for--
For too long. She had no time for further reminiscing.
"I have not finished my ... my breakfast," Janett protested, still sitting on the major's jacket. She waved her partially chewed stick of jerky like a baton. "And my feet have not yet stopped hurting."
"Take it as a good sign," Rose said. "If your feet hurt, at least you're still alive to feel them. Now, on your feet, Miss Laxton." When everyone was standing, she said, "Follow Chal. I'll bring up the rear and see if I can't make our trail a bit less obvious. Or at least slow them down some."
"That way is north," Major Haley said. "Fort Russell should be northwest from here," he added. "Should we not make the straightest path to the fort?"
Rose nodded, pleased. He might be a young officer, and had probably spent less time in forts than even little Margaret, but he had a head on his shoulders that carried more than just a handsome face. Or what had been a handsome face. If he survived this, his first stretch of duty in the rough, and if Janett did not break him or get them all killed, he might make a good officer.
"This is the bayuk, Major," Rose said. "The straightest path is seldom the best path, and we have no boats in any case. Further, if they expect us to head to the fort--and right now I don't know if they do or they don't--they can try to get ahead of us along that direct path, and wait to ambush us again."
"I see," the major said.
The fatigue on his face, his injuries, almost caused Rose to reach out and touch his shoulder, to reassure him. She could heal him, even his lost ear if she took care of him right away--
She cut off that line of thought. So long as he could move under his own power, she had other, more important uses for her limited gunwitch abilities than making a man handsome again. Especially a man who was too young for her.
"Right then, off with you. I'll catch up."
Chal gave her an amused look, then took the heavy pack and led off, holding Margaret's hand.
Janett looked back at Rose. "I wish I had a native girl to carry my burdens for me," she said.
Rose felt her fingers twitch, but she kept her expression blank. She only looked back at the girl.
"Janett, please," Major Haley said, "The sergeant--Miss Bainbridge--is doing what she can. For all of us."
Janett sniffed and she followed Chal with the major and Private Tishman in tow.
Once she was alone, Rose took one more close look around. Then she leaned her rifle against a tree and stood in the center of the small clearing. She knelt and pulled out her pistol. The ornate metalwork that wrapped around the wooden stock and the barrel came alive with runes, then faded.
For that instant, she thought of setting an ambush of her own. She was alone, but she was a pistoleer, a gunwitch. And their pursuers were ...
She did not know what they were. At least they could be killed.
She had seen men welded to machines on Continental battlefields. But those men had still possessed beating hearts and at least one working lung. And a shot through that heart, or the head if the heart was too heavily armored, would bring their gears and mechanisms and the weapons they wielded to a grinding, lurching halt.
That first thing that had attacked her, though, had looked more like the hacked torso of a corpse propped on mechanical legs. She had unloaded both shot and lightning into it, and separated man and machine. The mechanical legs, blasted backward, had kicked a few times and stopped. The torso, though, reduced to a head, one arm and the section of shoulder and chest connecting those had not stopped. She had watched it pull itself along, back toward her, her eyes fixed by the unexpectedness of the sight. Until even worse had come out of the darkness and started killing the soldiers.
Whatever those had been, they had moved too fast for her to see clearly in the dark. Lean, long legs and arms and too-long fingers, carrying axes and swords or just tearing with their hooked fingers. Too many, coming too quickly. And she had had no time to reload.
Pushing magic through an unloaded pistol, even the pistol that she had carried for so long and used innumerable times, was tiring. And she had pushed herself to the limit. Four of those creatures had been consumed in the fire that sprayed out of her pistol. And so had Corporal Higgs, struggling, not dead yet, but only because he had refused to die. One of the creatures held him from behind while another ripped the flesh from his chest and abdomen, exposing shredded organs. Rose was not sure death by fire was the better way for Higgs to die. Disemboweling or burning, either way was going to hurt like hell. Either way, he was going to die. She had just taken advantage of that fact.
The other attackers had broken off then, and fled. And Ducoed had followed them into the darkness, the arrogant, stupid bastard. He had always assumed his own immortality. She and the other survivors had heard one of his lightning bolts, so at least he had lived long enough for one good strike. Maybe he was following them now, trying to catch up. Maybe he had been injured and could not move as fast.
Maybe she wanted him to die, mutilated and screaming. Maybe she was taking advantage of another established fact. There had been a lot of water under the bridge since the King's Coven. Once she was over the shock of seeing him, she had not wanted to kill him. And, at the moment, ambushed, on the run, with very little food, and less powder and shot, she would welcome him as an ally.
With Ducoed, she could set an ambush, a crossfire of magical energies that would rip apart whatever it was that followed them. Two members of the 101st Pistoleers were a formidable force. But Chal had detected no sign of Ducoed, so Rose had to assume that he was dead.
She unloaded her pistol, being careful with the powder.
Pointing the now empty pistol at the ground, she took a deep breath and let it out slow. She kept her eyes open and concentrated on the magic she needed. The pistol became cold in her grip. She traced a triggering circle that enclosed the entire clearing where they had stopped and rested. The energies came out of her, directed by the gun and her thoughts, and adhered to the ground as she took each step. She could not see the energies, not with her eyes. But she could sense them.
She paused, to let her breathing become regular again. The strain of holding the pistol and maintaining the magic caused the muscles in her back to tense and ache. By working the magic slowly, she could be more precise, more powerful, but it took more effort.
She went back over the triggering circle, weaving in the interdiction to keep animals from tripping the trigger, and an inversion to make the circle invisible to anyone but her. Then she traced two blast direction lines that crossed in the center of the triggering circle. And a flare line up from the cross point, to as high as she could reach.
The knuckles of her right hand showed white. She had to hold the gun with both hands to keep it steady.
No more weaving and tracing now. She aimed the muzzle where the blast lines crossed and pushed raw, cold magic out of her, piling fire and lightning into a single point that pulsed with the pounding of her heart.
When she had sacrificed as much of herself as she deemed advisable, she stopped the flow. The jolt was like a hard fist to her solar plexus, but she maintained her grip on the gun, and on the energies. In the 101st, this kind of trap was built with two pistoleers working together, sharing the burden and reducing the risk. One pistoleer alone might trip or stumble or suffer a lapse of concentration, and set the trap off on top of themselves. Rose tried not to think about failing.
She backed away from the blast point, staying between the blast direction lines. She paused when she got close to the triggering line. She blinked her eyes to clear them, and focused on the circle, so she could step over it. Not until she was more than ten feet from the circle did she squeeze the trigger and let go the magic, severing the connection between her and the trap with the flash of the flint on iron.
Another blow to the solar plexus, harder than the first, staggered her, knocked out her wind and forced her to take a step back. In front of her, as she struggled to breathe again, the air rippled and churned, then settled down. If she concentrated, she could still see the circle. In a few minutes, though, the inversion would be complete, and even she would not be able to sense the trap.
She could have made the trap more powerful by finishing with a shot into the center, or at least recovered some of her own strength from the energy of the exploding powder. But they had no powder that could be wasted. The trap would have to do as it was.
She leaned against a tree, still watching the circle, catching her breath, and trying not to get her hopes up. The trap would probably hit only scouts, and most likely just one scout. But maybe it would put the fear of the gunwitch into the pursuers, and make them more cautious, slower in their pursuit. The sound of the explosion, though, and the flare, would let her know when the pursuers reached this point.
Her legs protested when she forced them to carry her weight again. Her back ached, and her arms. She ignored all her pains and reloaded her pistol.
She looked at the bits of sky the trees let through. Nearly thirty minutes gone. It would be close.
\*
She set two smaller traps as she followed the trail left by Chal and the others. The fatigue of the first trap, and the continued walking, meant that these traps would be little more than fireworks and flares. There was no help for it. She desperately needed to know how far behind her was the enemy. And how fast they were proceeding.
She estimated she was an hour behind Chal and the others when she heard the distant boom of the first trap going off. Two hours after they had left that point, their pursuers had reached it. Even allowing for a more cautious approach now, they would be lucky if they had time to set up false trails.
Rose picked up her pace.
Just another forced march, she told herself. How many had she endured in the infantry? On even less sleep? With a pack heavier than she had handed off to Chal? Forced march? This? She could almost hear her soldier self sneering at her from her past. No, this was more like a leisurely run.
She could only run so fast, though, without leaving an obvious trail. Her eyes sought the signs of passage by her companions. The Major's bootprints in the mud, or Private Tishman's, or grass bent by the Janett's passage. To these places she directed her feet, leaving only a slight smudging caused by her moccasins. Chal left no footprints. She never did. And as long as Margaret walked with Chal, the girl would leave no sign of passage either. Another little trick of magic Rose had not been able to master. So she relied on the more mundane skills Chal and others, like poor Nicholas, had taught her in her years since leaving the King's army.
She reached the twin cataracts about twenty minutes behind Chal. A tributary stream of the Comite river split its course around a small island of rock. A single, ancient tree twisted up from the rocks, with a collection of equally ancient and twisted bushes around its roots. On each side of the tree, the waters of the stream fell fifteen feet in a continuous low roar. The rock jutted past the waterfalls, dividing the falls and another forty feet of river, sloping like a giant stone arrowhead driven into the earth. Near the rushing water, the rocks were brown and green with mud and moss, but nothing else grew.
Rose was pleased to see that the group had continued walking upstream, away from the cataracts, without stopping. She wanted no unnecessary sign of their interest in the location.
Behind her, she heard another of her traps boom. That confirmed it. Their pursuers had slowed, but not much. Rose forced herself to run.
Ten minutes later, she jogged up behind Private Tishman, just as Chal said, "Rose returns. Do not be frightened."
"Stop," Rose said as she passed Tishman and went between the major and Janett to fall in beside Chal and Margaret. "But don't move out of your places." Everyone came to a stop. "And don't sit down, Janett," she added. "You either, Margaret. Major Haley, please keep Miss Laxton on her feet." She looked at Chal. "You heard?"
Chal nodded.
"We have less than an hour. Major Haley," she said, looking up at the man, "continue walking with Miss Laxton, as you have been, another twenty paces. That way." She pointed. "Then assist Miss Laxton in removing her shoes, and send her back along your path. Miss Laxton, you'll need to carry your shoes and walk on your own footsteps--"
"Take off my shoes? In this?" The girl gestured at the undergrowth and the damp, bare dirt.
"Yes. In this. Your bare feet leave a very different imprint. Once you've sent her back, Major, continue another thirty paces, then take off your own boots and come back along your path. Do it."
"I will do no such thing!" Janett said, but Major Haley took her arm with his good arm and pulled her along. "Major Haley! How dare you--"
"Now is not the time, Janett."
Rose turned to Private Tishman. "Go with them, Private," she said, "following just like you have been. Go thirty paces past Major Haley, take off your boots and get back here."
"Right, mum."
Janett came back first, disgust on her face, wincing with each step. "Why doesn't Margaret have to take off her shoes?"
"I'm sure I have no idea," Rose said. "Chal, if you would?"
Chal, still propping Margaret on her left side, extended her right hand to Janett. The older girl hesitated, then took Chal's hand, her fingers looking even paler next to Chal's. Chal led the girls back toward the cataracts.
Fifteen minutes later, both the major and the private returned. The private had his boots tied together and wrapped around his neck like a scarf. "Stay in single file," Rose said. "Walk in the footsteps of the person in front of you."
Rose led the men on their own trail until they were even with the top of the waterfalls, then she carefully picked a course to the bank of the river, just above the waterfalls. There was no sign of Chal and the girls, except a series of larger rocks which had not been there before. The rocks formed a path that stretched from the bank to the island. The top surfaces of the rocks were completely dry. Rose shook her head, but made no comment.
At that moment, Chal stuck her head out of the bushes on the island and gestured for them to hurry.
Rose pointed to the rocks and gestured for Major Haley and Private Tishman to precede her. While they leaped from rock to rock, she looked at the signs they had left behind. She could not get rid of everything, but what she could, she obscured. She wanted their pursuers to continue following their old trail and waste as much time as possible trying to find it again.
Then she came back to the stream and used the rocks to cross to the small island. Chal crouched in the bushes, waiting for her. Once she had reached the island, Chal put her hands on the rock at her feet. Rose felt a trembling through the soles of her feet, more than just the waterfall, and watched the rocks disappear below the surface of stream. She leaned over, putting her lips near Chal's right ear to be heard over the sound of the falls. "Someday," she said, "you're going to have no choice but to get your feet wet."
Chal smiled, but said nothing.
Hidden from the shore by the bushes and the knobby "knees" of the tree's roots, the rock of the island had been cracked and gouged by the water in eons past, forming a narrow passage. Rose crawled through with Chal coming behind her. The roar of the waterfall diminished, but remained. What she could not hear, she could feel in the rock itself. The passageway opened into a small cave behind the western half of the twin cataracts. Between the two openings, the cave had a dim, gray light, growing dimmer as the sun outside continued to set. The cave was roomy for three, but crowded with six.
Margaret sat by the far opening where the water streamed down, looking out. Janett sat beside Margaret, saying something that Rose could not hear to Major Haley next to her, struggling to put his boots back on with one hand. Private Tishman had found a nook across from the girls and had his eyes closed. He still had his boots off, using them as a pillow.
Rose handed out more of the jerky and some bits of bread and told each of them, "Get some sleep. We'll be moving out after midnight." She had to wake the private to give him his share.
She came back to Major Haley and leaned over him. "Show me your arm."
"It's just a scratch," he said, having to shout to be heard.
"You're an idiot, Major," she shouted back. "Show me your damn arm."
Surprised at her manner, he turned so she could see the cut across his triceps. The cut was deep, but not to the bone. She could not heat the cut completely, but maybe she could make the arm usable again. Her eyes went to the gash on his face, and his missing ear. Such a horrible thing to happen to his pretty, young face. If they got to the fort soon enough, maybe she could--
But there was no time, and she had no energy. She was just a tired, old soldier, not even fully trained as a healer.
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again she focused on the cut muscle. She put her right hand on his shoulder and wrapped her left hand around his wrist. Nearly twelve hours had passed since the wound was made. The longer the wait, the more of the body's natural healing had to be undone, and then redone. No help for it, though.
"This is going to hurt," she yelled into his ear. The healers of the 102nd Pistoleers always downplayed the discomfort of their methods. This might pinch a bit, they would say. Being more soldier than healer, Rose preferred the opposite approach. "A lot."
He clenched his jaw and gave her a nod to show that he was ready.
Rose closed her eyes again. She did not want to do this. She was so tired. But hurt as he was, the major was little more than a nursemaid for Janett. He could not load a rifle or even properly use a sword. She needed him whole enough to fight. That was all. He did not need an ear for that.
Opening her eyes, she concentrated on what she needed to do. Her pistol became warm against her stomach, matching the warmth inside her. She shifted her grip from his wrist to his hand. His hand was warm, and his grip just as firm as the first time he shook her hand. Was it really less than three days ago?
She pulled his arm straight just as she unleashed her magic into his flesh, the heat of her magic surging between her two hands. The muscles of his jaw bulged at the renewed pain, and the blood began to flow as if the muscle had just been cut. She forced herself to ignore his pain, pain she shared with him as her awareness spread through him, and focused on knitting his muscles back together by force of wills, hers and his together.
She kept her eyes open, staring at the wound, watching her progress from both within and without. She felt herself reaching her limits before the wound had completely closed. A chill touched her behind the eyes and in the pit of her stomach, but she persisted. She could not fix his ear, but she would be damned if his arm was not going to be as good as it had been. Gritting her teeth against the cold, she could feel the magic pumped out of her with the rhythm of her own heartbeat.
She let go. Or she tried to. As the remnants of her magic subsided, as the cold retreated, she realized that Major Haley still held her hand. They were standing now, their left hands clenched between them. She did not remember standing.
He leaned over so his mouth was close to her ear. "You had led me to believe that would hurt more than it did," he said.
She nodded, panting, resisting the urge to look at his face. Resisting the desire to pull him the rest of the way to her and to kiss him--
She managed to let go of his hand, and nearly fell as her legs gave out. His grip had been all that held her up.
He caught her, his hands on her forearms. "Let me help you."
Where was Chal? Chal usually helped her when she overextended herself. "Just need to ... sit down." She did not think she said it loud enough for him to hear, but he shifted his grip. He picked her up, like a child, his left arm around her shoulders, right arm under her knees. She started to protest, but none of her limbs wanted to move. She forced her eyes open, forced herself to look up at him, to tell him to put her down, this instant, and let her alone. She just needed to rest--
And saw the left side of his face. The gash had disappeared, and a new, perfect ear had grown out.
She tried to shake her head at her own stupidity, but only managed to hold her head up for another second, then her head fell against his shoulder. No wonder she was exhausted. She was a bigger idiot than even Janett. Of course, she had known that since her first day at the King's Coven.
The cavern moved around her, threatening to make her nauseous. Then she was sitting on cold stone next to Chal, who wrapped her in a blanket just before everything went black.
English Countryside
1718 A.D.
Breakfast was hard bread and a drink of water. Rosalind and Thomas had to eat with their shackles still on. When they had finished, the sergeant locked them in the carriage again, and they continued on their way. Rosalind and Tommie sat on opposite benches, leaning forward, keeping the still-tender skin of their backs away from the wood of the carriage walls.
Rosalind pressed the remains of her dress and undergarment to her chest to keep from exposing herself. She could not cross her arms because of the shackles, so she had them folded in front of her. The sergeant had not given her back the corset, and even if he had, she could not have put it on unassisted. Nor would she want the stiff material rubbing against her back. She imagined the corset still lying in the dirt, waiting for its whalebone ribs to be cracked under the hooves and wheels of the next horse or wagon to come along.
She tried not to think about what had happened to her, but the lurches of the carriage made her tense up, and the muscles in her back awoke in pain time after time. Or she would feel the air move against the bare skin, where her dress had been ripped open, and she would remember the sergeant's hands on her and the shock of the tearing. And remember how he had talked to her and Tommie this morning as if nothing had happened, accepting their helpless glares--and Tommie's spit in his face--as if those were not only normal behavior, but completely unworthy of mention.
As they rode, she moved her gaze from corner to corner in the carriage, trying not to look at Tommie. He was the only thing to look at, though, and her eyes kept returning to him. He kept his face down, looking at the floor. His torn shirt exposed bony shoulders, and more bruises. She still could not tell how old he was. Last night, strung up beside her, he had been as tall as she was, so he was at most a year or two younger than her. Unless he was short. She wondered what he had looked like before he had been beaten. As far as she could tell, he never looked at her. The morning passed very slowly.
It was midmorning when the sound of distant thunder made the boy look up. The thunder repeated maybe ten seconds later, but longer this time, less intense. Then a third time, even more spread out than the second.
"Gunshots," the boy said. She saw him glance at her, then look down again.
"It sounded like thunder," she said.
The boy shook his head, but did not look up. "It was gunshots. A lot of them, all at once. Like a broadside."
"It didn't sound like a cannon." She had never heard a cannon before, but Rosalind assumed such large guns would have large, booming sounds. It only made sense.
"I didn't say they were cannon. Just listen."
They both cocked their heads, listening for the next thunder or gunshots. Five minutes later, louder now, the thunder boomed again. Like before, there were two more bursts, neither as loud as the first, about ten seconds apart.
"The first one might've been cannon," she said.
Tommie grunted in frustration. "Those aren't cannon. They're probably rifles. All firing at once. And then firing again, and again." He met her eyes now, his right eye open, his left eye just a slit, defiant, daring her to disagree with him.
Rosalind shrugged, and he looked away.
Her arms ached from holding up her dress the entire morning. She cautiously let her arms down, making sure her dress remained in place. If she did not move, or breath too deeply--
The material slipped, exposing her neck and shoulders, and she quickly brought her arms back up.
Tommie was looking at her now, she saw. Maybe he was not as young as she had thought. She almost smiled, then tried to stay calm, to meet his gaze, but she could not. She looked away as the warmth flooding her face grew too much.
"I'm--I'm sorry," Tommie said.
She risked a look at him. He was looking down again. She shifted, trying to adjust the dress so it covered her properly again. She thought she saw him looking at her, out of the top of his eyes, trying to be inconspicuous.
Another three rounds of thunder-gunfire came and went uncommented as the two of them sat there in silence, not looking at each other. Then again, a few minutes later, even louder.
"You're right, Tommie," Rosalind said. "It is gunfire."
The boy looked up and met her eyes. She expected him to say, I told you so. But he just nodded. After a long minute, he said, "My name is Thomas."
"Rosalind," she replied. "Rosalind Bainbridge." She paused, then added, "Sergeant Morris told me your name was--"
Anger flashed on the boy's face as he cut her off. "Sergeant Morris was wrong. My name is Thomas. Thomas Ducoed."
Startled by the sudden transformation, Rosalind said, "I'm sorry--"
The boy cut her off again. "Don't be."
Rosalind stared at him, and felt her own anger building. "There is no reason to take your ire out on me," she said. Then added, "Thomas. Or Tommie. Whoever you are." She held his gaze, daring him this time.
To her surprise again, Thomas only sighed and looked away. The anger gone from his face. "He wasn't wrong. The sergeant. But--" He paused and swallowed hard. "Call me Thomas. Not--" His mouth twisted, and she saw his hands clench in their shackles in front of him. "My father called me that."
"Too grown up now for 'Tommie'?" she asked.
Thomas turned to look at her again, and she wished she had not asked. He was not angry. He was cold, and so was his voice as he said, "My father is dead now."
In the gloom of the carriage, she thought she saw his shackles glow briefly, and she caught a new whiff of the metallic odor. "I'm--" she started, but she stopped. She did not want him to reject her apology again.
The chill of his expression, the tension in his muscles, slowly dissipated until he was again slumped against the side of the carriage, head down.
In the silence, Rosalind heard the sounds of other wagons and horses and men's voices. No more gunshots, though.
Then she heard Sergeant Morris shouting, "Whoa!" The carriage came to a painful, lurching stop. Before the sergeant could get down from his perch, the carriage door was unbolted and opened.
The brightness silhouetted a man dressed in a uniform much like Sergeant Morris'. "Good morning," he said, almost shouting. "How about you two step on out of there." Before Rosalind or Thomas could move, though, the man added, drawing the word out, "Right. I see." He looked up at Sergeant Morris. "A bit of trouble were they?"
"No trouble at all," Sergeant Morris said. Rosalind felt the carriage shift as the sergeant came down.
"Right then," the man at the door said, backing away. "If the Mister and Miss No Trouble At All would kindly step down, we can get on with it."
Rosalind, still holding her torn dress to her bosom, stooped to pass through the door and jumped. Without her arms for balance, she stumbled when she landed. She would have fallen except that the man steadied her with a hand on her bare shoulder. His fingers were rough with calluses, but his touch did not linger. He made sure she would not fall, then he let go.
Rosalind looked around. Dirty white tents, arranged in neat rows, surrounded the dusty clearing where they had stopped. Other enclosed carriages like theirs were lined up with more traditional carriages and empty wagons. Everywhere were men and women in the red uniforms of the infantry, but with black-and-yellow facings instead of white. They led horses, they marched in cadence carrying rifles, they pushed carts with burdens, they stirred the contents of large cauldrons suspended over fires. Some of them looked at her and Thomas as he stepped down, but only for an instant before they went on about their tasks. Standing only a few yards away were a woman and a man, both in uniform, both with pistols in their belts, and both rigidly at attention, their arms at their sides, their eyes facing directly forward. Neither of the two looked at Rosalind or Thomas.
The man's voice boomed again, just as loud as it had been in the carriage, pulling her attention back to him.
"My name," the man said, "is Staff Sergeant Emory Strauss." He snapped his heels together and nodded at them. "And I would like to be the first to welcome you to the King's Coven North, the blasting grounds of the 101st Pistoleers. Here we'll make soldiers out of you. Or," he went on, showing them a smile that reminded Rosalind of a wolf, "you'll die from our trying."
\*
The woman soldier, introduced as Corporal Edwards, saluted Sergeant Strauss, spun on her heel, and led Rosalind into the ordered maze of tents. Rosalind struggled to keep up, hindered by her skirt nearly as much as by the need to hold up her dress. At least she did not have the shackles on anymore.
She had had to stand there, her dress and undergarment hanging to her waist, breasts exposed to the world, arms extended. She could have been fully clothed for all the interest Sergeant Strauss showed. She had kept her eyes forward, not wanting to see if Thomas was looking, or Sergeant Morris, until Sergeant Strauss twisted the bolt. The shackles popped open and fell to the ground. She had not had time to even rub her wrists, though, or pull her dress back up, before Sergeant Strauss fitted an iron bracelet around her left wrist and snapped it closed. She was not sure, but she thought she saw runes flash against the black metal. Then--and she was sure about this--she saw the bracelet shrink to fit her perfectly. She stared at the bracelet, now a perfectly smooth band of iron showing neither runes nor even the seam where it had been joined. "You would best be covering yourself again, Miss Bainbridge," the sergeant had told her, and she had.
Corporal Edwards stopped in front of a large tent and gestured for Rosalind to precede her through the canvas door. Inside, Rosalind was made to sit while a woman cut her hair. She tried to protest, but neither the corporal nor the woman paid her any attention, except to order her to be still. When she refused, and tried to stand, the corporal sat on her lap and held her arms to her sides. She submitted, finally, crying as her hair was cut off to just below her ears and chin.
Then her dress was removed by two more women using scissors. The remains of her underclothes were cut off the same way and her shoes taken off. The shoes and the scraps of clothing were then stuffed into a bag and tossed aside, leaving her naked.
"This is your uniform," Corporal Edwards said, and one of the other women handed Rosalind a stack of folded clothes. "Put it on."
She did, wincing at the feel of the materials, rough cotton trousers and shirt, yellow waistcoat, red woolen buffcoat, stiff leather shoes with silver buckles and white gaiters. Finally allowed to wear pants, she thought, and they itched where they did not feel indecent. Her shirt chafed against the lashes on her back. There were no undergarments, and no socks. Her toes felt squeezed by the shoes. And all of it topped by a peaked, bearskin hat that pushed her hair down so it covered her eyes.
Corporal Edwards looked her over. Except for adjusting the angle of the hat and telling her to keep her hair out of her eyes, the corporal's only reaction was a curt nod. Then the corporal said, "You are now Pistoleer Private Bainbridge, of the King's Infantry. Forget your old name. It is entirely possible that you will never hear it again." She paused, as if waiting for Rosalind to say something. Then, before Rosalind could think of a question, added, "Follow me, Private."
The corporal led Rosalind out of the tent again. Rosalind tried to match the stride and bearing of the corporal, but it felt awkward. Like she was trying to walk like a man. Or was rushing to keep up with one. A question had occurred to her.
"Corporal," she said, "will I see Thomas again?"
The woman stopped, and Rosalind almost ran into her back. Corporal Edwards turned around and leaned in so her face was close to Rosalind's. "The private," she said, "will only speak when spoken to. And when she speaks to a superior, she will say, 'sir'." Her face showed no emotion, but her eyes seemed to be telling--ordering--Rosalind not to be so stupid as to point out her gender.
"I'm sorry," Rosalind said. The corporal stared at her. "I mean, I am sorry, sir."
Another curt nod, and the corporal was again leading her forward.
The next tent was long and open on two sides, north and east. The open sides looked over a wide, flat field. Men and women in uniform clustered around two tables near the west wall. Looking at the other uniforms, Rosalind noticed a difference. Everyone wore a peaked hat like hers, but most, including Corporal Edwards, had badges on the front of their hat. The badges were black metal with a bright red circle. In the circle were a lightning bolt and a musket, crossed.
Corporal Edwards took her to the southernmost table where only a woman sat. The woman sat with her hands steepled in front of her, elbows on the arms of her chair, looking at nothing. She had her hat on the table near to hand, revealing her close-cropped gray hair, cut like a man's, even shorter than Rosalind's new coiffure. The badge on her hat had a white circle instead of a red one, but the crossed lightning bolt and musket were still there. A musket pistol lay on the table in front of the woman, pointing to her right, due north. Perpendicular to the musket lay a long knife, it's tip pointing east, directly at Rosalind. She saw that the packed dirt of the floor had a darker tint in front of the woman's table. She wanted to ask why, but kept her mouth closed.
As they approached the table, the soldiers around the northern table turned to look at Corporal Edwards, then at Rosalind. Their faces showed only curiosity. No malice nor ill will.
Not until they stood directly in front of the woman's table, and Corporal Edwards had saluted--Rosalind considered saluting, decided she did not know how, and just stood there--did the woman seem to see them. Her eyes, as gray as her hair, focused on Rosalind, who felt goosebumps run down her back.
"Pistoleer Bainbridge," Corporal Edwards said, "is rumored to have the gift of healing. The rumor must be--" She paused. "The rumor must be confirmed."
The woman at the table nodded to indicate she had heard the corporal, but she did not take her eyes off Rosalind. Rosalind wanted to blink or look away, but found she could not. The woman's gray eyes pinned hers. The goosebumps became a trembling chill and Rosalind felt more naked than she had in front of Sergeant Strauss. This woman saw her, inside and out, top to toes.
Rosalind felt as if her bones and her organs were being pulled out one by one and examined. Then her mind and her heart. She relived the Leftenant's lashes, her capture, the day in the woods with William Phillips, the broken betrothal, Mother Stevens restored breathing, her first issuance of blood ...
With a start, she found herself back in the tent, standing in front of the table beside Corporal Edwards. The woman still sat across from her, her hands steepled again. She only looked at Rosalind now, not into her. The woman gave a nod.
Corporal Edwards tensed, then picked up the musket and presented it, grip first, to Rosalind. "Take it, Pistoleer," the corporal said. "It is not loaded," she added when Rosalind hesitated.
Rosalind took the musket in her right hand, wrapping her fingers around the grip. As she did, she felt a jolt run up her arm, through her chest, to the bracelet on her left wrist. Runes flashed on the bracelet, and along the black metal barrel of the pistol.
"Do not drop it," the corporal said.
The other woman sat up now, and handed the long knife to Corporal Edwards hilt first.
Rosalind stared at the corporal, and at the woman behind the table. The gun felt heavy in her hand. She did not like the way Corporal Edwards' face tensed up.
The corporal hefted the knife, as she met Rosalind's eye. Her tight, unfriendly smile made Rosalind take a step back. She held the gun in front of her, though she was not sure what she would do with it if the corporal attacked her. She noticed that all of the other soldiers in the tent stood, watching and waiting.
"Stand ready, Pistoleer," Corporal Edwards said. She held up her left hand, palm facing Rosalind. Then she turned her hand and put the point of the knife against her palm.
"What are you doing?" Rosalind asked. "Sir?"
Corporal Edwards did not answer. Instead she plunged the knife into her palm, six inches of bloody blade stabbing out the back of her hand. Rosalind had only begun to cry out when the corporal pulled the blade back, and turned the gashed palm to face Rosalind again. Only a tightness around the corporal's eyes betrayed any sign of pain.
"Pistoleer," the corporal said, "heal my hand."
Shocked past words, Rosalind could only stare.
"Remember the hand whole," the woman across the table said, her first words. Her voice was calm, steady, as if she had seen many hands stabbed in front of her.
Rosalind stared at the woman, then looked back at the corporal's hand again, which seemed to hover in front of her, disembodied. Blood dripped from the wound to splash on the dirt floor, adding another stain to the ground. She opened her mouth, but all she could manage was, "What ... ?"
"Remember the hand whole," the woman said again. "Feel your own hand. Then touch the wound."
"Touch ... ?"
"Use your left hand," the woman said. Her voice was still calm, still steady, unmoved by either the violence or the blood or Rosalind's growing panic. "Your left hand is closer to your heart, making the touch more powerful. And," she added, "you are holding a gun in your right hand. If you would prefer, though, you can touch her hand with the gun."
Rosalind wanted to drop the gun and run away from the bloody hand, the tent, and the whole bloody King's infantry.
"Hold yourself together, Pistoleer," the woman said, as if she had read Rosalind's thoughts. "Blood is not the problem. The blood is not even important, to a point. All that is important is that you remember Corporal Edwards' hand as it was before."
Before she stabbed it with a knife! Rosalind wanted to shout, but she could only shake her head.
"And that you touch her wound," the woman finished.
Rosalind continued to shake her head. "No," she said.
"But you must."
Rosalind started, surprised to hear the words whispered in her ear. Surprised to find the woman now stood behind her. The woman put one hand on Rosalind's right shoulder, and one under her left elbow.
"Remember the corporal's hand as it was before." Whispering, soft, in control. The hand on her shoulder gently pushed her forward, closer to Corporal Edwards. The hand on her elbow then, also gently, pushed and caused her to extend her left hand.
Rosalind felt the warmth in her chest, but she hesitated to reach for it. Instead she resisted, pushed back against the woman's urgings. She wanted to help the corporal. But the eyes. Of the corporal. Of the woman behind her. Of all the soldiers now watching. Then she saw Thomas. She hardly recognized him in his hat and uniform. And he was watching her too, with his one good eye, the other still swollen shut. She had been unable to help him. She did not want to fail again. Not with so many people--and Thomas--watching. "I ... I can't."
"You can, Pistoleer. And," the whisper added, "once you heal the corporal's wound, you can heal your own hurts. The process is more tiring when done on yourself, and the results often less complete, but it is something to consider. Or perhaps you would rather heal the hurts of your traveling companion?"
Rosalind felt her face grow warm and she bit her lip, but she stopped resisting. She remembered the corporal's palm, open toward her--
"Do not close your eyes," the woman said.
Rosalind opened her eyes again.
"Fix the memory in your mind. Feel your own hand. Now ..."
The woman's grip on her elbow loosened. Rosalind could feel the warmth inside her, pulsing with the beat of her heart. She reached forward with her left hand, fingers together. She hesitated before touching the wound. She could feel the wound, the damage, the pain, radiating, brushing against her fingertips. She did not want to touch the wound. Because it was wrong.
A gentle nudge on her shoulder pushed her forward the last fraction of an inch. Her fingers touched the open, bleeding palm of Corporal Edwards and the warmth in her chest surged into the gun she held, the bracelet on her wrist, and out of her through her fingertips.
"I'm so sorry!" she said, as the corporal's face twisted in pain. "I'm so sorry!"
But even as she watched, the wound closed, from within, the muscles and skin knitting themselves back together. The blood remained, but in less than two breaths only a thin white scar was still visible. Rosalind looked closer. How many thin white scars were there? How many times had the corporal stabbed her hand? Before she could be sure that there was more than the one scar, Corporal Edwards clenched her fist and unclenched.
"Thank you, Pistoleer," Corporal Edwards said, and saluted her.
\*
Once the shock wore off, from the salute and the thanks and the healing and the self-inflicted wound, Rosalind sought Thomas' eyes again. Most of the other soldiers had gone back to their earlier duties, but Thomas still looked at her. She could not read his expression.
"Did you see that, Thomas?" she said. She rushed to him. Someone might have said, "Stay back, Pistoleer!" but Rosalind ignored them.
When she reached Thomas, he held a pistol too, like hers, but with the hammer back. The gun, his expression, made her hesitate, then she forced herself to touch his face. He caught his breath and clenched his teeth, but he did not pull away. She became aware again of the gun in her right hand, and the bracelet on her arm, and--for the first time--the feel of Thomas' face. Under her fingertips, the bruises disappeared, and the swelling around his left eye deflated. His face looked even younger now, and she pulled her hand back, suddenly shy.
Thomas blinked both eyes, and for the first time he smiled at her. "Thank you, Rosalind," he said.
Rosalind's heart leaped and she smiled back.
"That should certainly improve my aim," he said. "Stand back, I'm supposed to be shooting at that target."
He raised his arm level with his shoulder, parallel to the ground and sighted along the pistol barrel. Rosalind followed his aim and saw a wood and straw figure posed fifty yards away in front of a tall stack of baled hay.
Voices shouted, and a hand grabbed Rosalind and pulled her back.
"Don't fire in the tent!"
"Stand back, Pistoleer!"
Thomas squeezed the trigger. The powder exploded and smoke poured out of the pistol. White-hot lightning arced from the muzzle of the pistol, ripped through the air and blasted the target dummy.
The smell of burnt powder and the metallic odor Rosalind had caught from Thomas before seemed to hit her in the face and she coughed, eyes watering. When she could see again, half the target dummy burned, leaning against its now broken stand. The rest ... was gone. Behind it, the bales of hay had been pushed backward. Some of bales smoked.
"Bloody hell, Pistoleer!" a man was shouting at Thomas. "You do not discharge your weapon in a tent."
Thomas, his smile still on his freshly restored face, looked at the man but did not respond.
The hand that had pulled Rosalind away from Thomas was still there, she realized, tugging on her arm. "Come along, Pistoleer. You've had your fun, you and your boyfriend. I hope you took the chance to tell him good-bye."
Corporal Edwards took the pistol from Rosalind and led her back to the table where the gray-haired woman sat.
Still in a daze from what Thomas had done--and what she had done; the fingers of her left hand still tingled; she put them to her lips--she hardly heard the corporal. But one part did sink in. "Good-bye? We just got here. Sir."
"You will be leaving in the morning," Corporal Edwards said, placing the pistol back on the table. "The 102nd trains at different camp."
"I'll never see Thomas again?"
The corporal just looked at her.
"The 102nd are healers," the woman behind the table said, pulling Rosalind's attention to her. As she talked, her hands moved the pistol so it again pointed north, and arranged the knife beside it, perpendicular. "You have a gift, Pistoleer, but you have no idea of what you are capable, of what you could do with the proper--"
"But I don't want to leave--" Rosalind bit her lip, fearing the response from interrupting, then continued when the woman only gave her a patient look, not a reprimand. "He's the only person I know here. Sir."
"The 101st is only interested in power," the woman said. "The raw might of the universe unleashed to crush and destroy. Brute force, if you will." She paused and smiled at Corporal Edwards. "No offense." The corporal's face showed amusement, but she only nodded. "The 102nd is about finesse, elegance. We seek to understand what is we do, and to build on that knowledge."
"If I can shoot that target," Rosalind said, "or what's left of it, can I stay?"
The woman's patience showed the first signs of wearing thin. "Healing is a rare talent, Pistoleer. It should not be wasted--"
Rosalind stepped forward and picked up the pistol again. It became ice cold in her hand. The woman's gray eyes locked on Rosalind's, and she felt something stirring, building behind those eyes. She did not look away as she pulled back the hammer.
She raised the gun as she turned around, nearly clubbing Corporal Edwards across the jaw as she did. The corporal dodged out of the way, shouting at her to put the gun down. Rosalind ignored her.
Father had taken her shooting a few times, until she had showed an aptitude for firearms that he and Mum considered unladylike.
She closed her left eye so she could aim with her right and looked down her arm and along the barrel, lining up the muzzle with the still-smoking remains of the target dummy. The painful cold built up inside her. She drew a breath and squeezed the trigger at the same time.
The hammer slammed into place, the flint sparked, and there were shouts of surprise and fear and anger, but there was no explosion.
The gun was not loaded. Corporal Edwards had told her that.
Rosalind gasped as the cold bloomed inside her and wrapped itself around her heart and lungs. Her breath came out a heavy mist, and she felt beads of sweat freezing on her forehead.
Then the cold shot out of her, through the gun, creating frost crystals along the barrel and running back over her hand and wrist as a thin line of fog roiled to the target dummy and engulfed it.
The chill held her muscles rigid for a second longer, then it dissipated with the fog around the target dummy. Unlike the now-frozen target dummy, though, she had no wooden stake to hold her up, and she collapsed to her knees as if melting. Her right arm was numb from her fingertips to her elbow. She tried to drop the gun, but her hand had been frozen to the stock, her finger still squeezing the trigger.
Corporal Edwards grabbed Rosalind's shoulder to pull her back to her feet, but let go immediately. The corporal held her hand--the hand Rosalind had healed only minutes before--in front of her, looking at it in shock, her fingers leaving little streamers of fog in the air. The corporal's mouth was moving, but Rosalind heard only a roaring in her ears.
Past Corporal Edwards she could see the other soldiers, all of them moving slowly for two long heartbeats, Thomas in their midst, looking at her, smiling at her, just before movement and motion returned. Men and women rushed at her, impossibly fast. She tried to breathed, but it felt like a mountain pressed on her chest and she could only gasp.
Another hand on her shoulder, but this one was warm and stayed in place, a gentle pressure. The warmth from that hand spread into her flesh and around her bones and organs. She gasped as air burned into her lungs again.
She looked up and saw the gray-haired woman kneeling over her-- When had she fallen? She could not remember, but she lay on her back now, looking up at the woman.
The woman smiled a sad smile. "A pity, Pistoleer," she said. "You could have been ..." Her voice drifted off before she told Rosalind what could have been. She moved both her hands to Rosalind's right hand, which still held the frozen pistol. "But I see you have made your choice."
Comite River Cataracts
1742 A.D.
Rose felt arms holding her. She thought they were Major Haley's arms, and she smiled, but when she looked up to see his face, she saw Ducoed laughing down at her. She tried to push him away, but he held on. His embrace became a constriction, squeezing her close, smashing her body against his. She could hardly breathe, as he laughed and squeezed harder. She woke with a gasp, left arm flinging off her blanket, her right hand gripping her pistol, Ducoed's laughter fading into the roar of the waterfalls.
Chal sat next to her, eyes open. Rose saw Major Haley seated against the wall across the fire from her, sleeping, with Janett also asleep, her head on his left shoulder. Rose suppressed both the memory of her own cheek against that shoulder and a flicker of jealousy. Margaret was on the major's other side, curled up with her head on his leg. Blankets had been stretched across the cave's two openings, and a small fire had been lit. The sound of the waterfalls remained, but was much lower than it had been when they first arrived.
As if reading her mind, Chal smiled. "I grew tired of shouting," she said.
Rose sat up, still tense from the dream and the memory of Ducoed's laughter. "Was that safe?"
"In this place?" Chal asked. "With the waters all around me? I--we--could not be safer." She sighed. "The waters ... call to me, though. And they bring me news."
"Where's Private Tishman?" Rose asked.
Chal pointed to the entrance of the cave. Rose looked and saw the man's back. "He insisted on keeping watch after the Major finally went to sleep."
"How long did I sleep? What time is it?"
"Two hours have passed," Chal said. She added, "Since midnight."
Rose gaped at her. "You let me sleep more than six hours?"
"You needed the rest," Chal said.
"So do you. You said the water brought news. Have there been signs of our pursuers?"
"They passed us by just after you ... helped ... the handsome major and fell asleep. Since then, there have been parties with torches going up and down the riverbank. Once, someone came to the island."
Rose sat up. "You should have wakened me."
"There was no need. They saw nothing, and continued to the other side." Chal paused. "Many have passed through the river, fording upstream from here. I am certain that they have established two camps now, one on each side of the river."
"How many soldiers?"
"There are several hundred ... soldiers. I cannot be more precise."
Rose shook her head. So many. "That can't be. Where did they all come from?"
Chal shrugged.
"Are they Swedes? Or Italians? Natives? Could you tell?"
"No. I could not tell. They are not ... entirely ..." Chal trailed off.
"Human?" Rose suggested, thinking of the half-man, half-machine she had destroyed.
"Natural," Chal said. "They are wrong," she added. "And their wrongness makes them stand out to my senses, but also makes my senses recoil. Even the waters of the river protested at their touch and wanted to wash them away." She paused and Rose half expected her to spit. "I also sensed grunzers."
"Grunzers? In the bayuk?"
"At least one stomped through the river. Even this, though, felt ... wrong. Not like the grunzers we have seen at forts along the river."
"Bad news all around," Rose said, remembering again the dream of Ducoed.
Chal nodded. "Very bad. Very very bad."
\*
"We're going to have to cross the river one at a time," Rose said. "There will be rocks to make the crossing easier. Stay on those. I will go first, and Chal will come last, to get rid of our trail."
"How will we leave a trail on rocks across moving water?" Major Haley asked.
"There is more than one type of trail, Major."
They put out the fire, pushing the coals into the back of the waterfall to be swept away, and Chal retrieved the blankets. They crouched in the darkness of the cave, the sounds of the waterfalls again roaring at full volume.
Rose leaned close so she was speaking into Major Haley's newly restored ear. "Count thirty," she said, "then send Janett after me. Then count thirty again and send Margaret. Then you and the private. Thirty-second intervals," she added. "Got it?"
"Yes, sir," he said. "I mean, yes."
"It's been a while since a soldier called me 'sir'," Rose said. "And he wasn't an officer." She felt more than saw his lips pulled into a smile. Resisting the urge to kiss him on the cheek, she turned her back on him.
She crawled through the opening and looked to both the east and west banks of the river. A waxing gibbous moon cast gray light over everything. Not as bright as a full moon, but still more illumination than she preferred for making a run with little or no cover. She saw no movement or sign of torches, though. Private Tishman had reported that an hour had passed since his last glimpse of either, so maybe their pursuers had settled in for the night.
She considered the possibility that the enemy was even now waiting for her and the girls to make a move. She was sure that their pursuers did not know about the cave, or they would have already searched it. But they had to know she was somewhere nearby. She had known the trick with the disappearing trail would not fool them for long. And it had not. That they had crossed the river here was proof of that. But she could not sit still, not with enemies surrounding her. Tomorrow, there would be a more thorough search, and they had run out of food.
Pushing out of the bush that covered the entrance to the cave, she saw the rocks Chal had caused to rise. The rocks only just broke the surface of the water, so they were visible more as silver-lined darker spots in the stream than rocks. The rocks would be completely dry, of course. Chal thought of everything.
She crouched as she ran, holding her rifle in both hands in front of her, stepping from stone to stone, her moccasined feet making no sounds and leaving no marks on the rocks. On the bank, she knelt beside a bush and looked around again. The night remained still.
Rose waited. Thirty seconds became a minute, and there was still no sign of Janett. Two minutes.
She had just decided she would wait five full minutes before heading back over the river to see what had been so hard to understand about waiting thirty seconds when a small shadow emerged from the cave and started across the river. The figure was smaller than Janett, and wore trousers. Margaret.
Rose had her hand ready to cover the girl's mouth, but Margaret did not startle when Rose came out of the shadow of the bush. So Rose took the girl's hand and pulled her back into the shadow.
"What's going on?What's h she asked, whispering.
"Janett is scared," Margaret said. "Scared and tired and cranky. She's refusing to try to jump from rock to rock over a river at night."
Rose ground her teeth and her fingers twitched with a sudden urge to throttle Janett.
"Major Haley offered to carry her across on his back, but she said it wasn't dignified--"
"Shh! Someone else is coming."
A man, carrying a rifle and a pair of boots came across on the stones. He stood on the bank of the river, looking around.
"Over here, Private," Rose whispered.
She saw Private Tishman nod in acknowledgment, then he came to them. He sat beside Rose and started pulling his boots on.
"Are they coming?"
"The Major isn't making much headway with the lass, no, mum. She's a headstrong one, she is. Mum," he added after a short pause.
"You don't have to call me that, Private," Rose said. "I'm a civilian."
"Yes, mum."
Rose ignored the private and looked across to the island again. Nothing and no one. Only the water moved. After another three minutes, she gave up hope that Major Haley's backbone would prove stiff enough to stand up to Janett. The private was right: Janett was headstrong, and she had the poor major well in hand.
Poor major? Rose almost snorted. "Both of you stay here," Rose said. "Margaret, don't move, and do what Private Tishman says."
Margaret nodded, and the private repeated, "Yes, mum."
Rose let out a breath that hissed through her teeth. "I'll be right back."
She considered leaving her rifle, then took it because she did not want to leave it on the ground near the river, and because she might need it as a paddle for a stubborn girl's bottom. Rose ran across the rocks again, wondering if she and Chal could manage to carry Janett between them, trussed hand and foot.
She did not hear anything until she reached the island and pushed through the entrance of the cave. The three of them, Chal, Major Haley, and Janett stood with their faces mere inches from one another, shouting to be heard over the waterfall and each other. The major had to kneel to be at the level of the girls.
"... cannot stay here, Miss Laxton," Chal said.
"I will not leave," Janett said. "And I insist that you or Major Haley go and fetch my sister back here at once."
"Janett, you're being unreasonable."
"What is this then?" Rose asked, pushing her way between Chal and Janett, finding herself face to face with Major Haley. She turned to Chal.
Chal's face showed more annoyance than Rose had ever witnessed. Even when the men had been dunking her, that night they first met, Chal had been more amused--and exhausted and scared and resigned--than annoyed. Chal did not get annoyed easy.
"Janett--" the major started to say.
"That's Miss Laxton to you," Janett said, cutting him off. "Until you bring my sister back here."
The major looked hurt, taken aback.
Chal only stood there, her mouth tightly closed, her dark eyes smoldering.
Rose took a breath. "Miss Laxton," she said, "we can't stay here--"
"Yes, we can!" Janett shouted.
"It's not safe."
"Yes, it is," Janett insisted. "I heard her--" She pointed at Chal, as if threatening to impale Chal on her finger. "--tell you that we could not be safer than right here."
"Not forever--"
Janett pulled herself up. "I am not a child," she said. "We do not need to stay here forever. Only until you reach the fort, and my father, and come back with soldiers to rescue us."
Rose stared at Janett. "That is the stupidest--"
"No!" Janett cut her off. "You leading us tramping through the woods and the muck, that is stupid. While you were sleeping, our pursuers walked all around us and did not find us. This place is safe. So you go. You find my father and you bring him here."
"There's no food, and they--whoever or whatever they are--are all around us." Rose looked at Chal, but Chal's return look told her only that all these arguments had been made already.
"Then you had best be going quickly," Janett said. "Bring Margaret back to the safety of the cave, and be off."
"Rose! Are you out there, Rose?"
The impossibility of the words, audible over the sound of the falling water, jerked Rose's head up, and the voice sent a chill down her spine.
"Leave the native girl, of course," Janett was saying, "as a chaperone. Though they have proved themselves proper gentlemen, it would not be proper for us to be alone with just Major Haley and the private--"
"Surely, Rose, you didn't leave this little girl all alone?"
Ducoed's voice? Rose looked at Chal. Surprise had replaced annoyance in Chal's expression. Rose's left hand clamped over Janett's mouth. "Be silent," she said.
Janett pulled her head back and knocked Rose's hand away. "Do not touch--"
"Major," Rose said, "shut her up. Now."
"Oh! Here we are!" the voice continued. "You didn't leave her alone, after all. You left her a bit of a nursemaid."
Now even Janett heard the voice. "Mr. Thomas?" she said.
"But I'm afraid it's only a bit of him that is left. One of the soldiers, I see. Not the good major. A pity. Margaret is quite safe, though."
"Perhaps he shielded himself?" Chal said to Rose's unspoken question.
"Mr. Thomas has found us!" Janett said.
"Now, where is the pretty Janett? We mustn't breakup such a beautiful set of little English dolls."
"Here I am," Janett shouted. She pushed between Rose and Major Haley, heading for the entrance. "I'm in here--"
Rose caught her from behind and pinned the girl's arms to her side.
"Now see here, Miss Bainbridge," the major started. "Oh, I say, that's quite unnecessary," he added as Chal ripped a sleeve from Janett's dress and stuffed the material into the girl's mouth, gagging her.
"Shh!" Rose told him. Janett struggled against her, kicking and wiggling in her arms. She weighed less than a stone more than Janett, but the girl did not have a chance. A pity, Rose thought. The daughter of a colonel should know something about fighting. Rose saw Chal close her eyes, felt the first stirrings of power. "No, Chal," she said. "He'll feel that for sure. He hasn't seen the rocks yet, so maybe he won't see them. We'll just have to risk it."
"I know you're out there, Rose. I know you can hear me."
"Shouldn't we go out to him?" Major Haley said.
"No," Rose said. "We should not."
"Why?"
"Aren't you listening?"
"I'm impressed, Rose," Ducoed said, his voice still booming. "You really did go native. I wonder what that's like, in all its particulars."
"Miss Bainbridge, the leftenant hasn't said anything that would lead me to believe--"
"Our pursuers are all around us, Major," Rose said. "Thomas Ducoed is an arrogant son of a bitch, but even he would not be so oblivious to danger. Unless he is also part of the danger."
The major looked unsure.
Rose shook her head. Bloody officers. "He's already killed Private Tishman, or stood by while the private was killed. Now he's hoping to scare us out into the open."
"I'm going to go now, Rose. I'm taking Margaret to her father. If you don't mind, do try to get Janett to the fort on time. I did give my word I would bring them both to their father. You remember their father, don't you, Rose?"
Major Haley looked at Rose, and at Chal. "How can you be sure he doesn't already know where we are? What about Janett--Miss Laxton's shouts?"
"He could not have heard her shouting," Rose said. "Not over the waterfall."
"Imagine how surprised the good Colonel Laxton will be to see me and Margaret. Won't that be a ... pleasant reunion? Last chance, Rose. No? Perhaps I'll see you on the way then, or maybe at the fort. Good night, Rose."
Janett renewed her struggles, but Rose held her fast. "Shh," she said into the girl's ear. "Shh. Margaret is safe. For now. Ducoed won't hurt her. Not yet. And we'll get her back before he can." She doubted Janett believed her. She was not sure she believed herself.
"What is going on here?" the major asked. "If Leftenant Ducoed is with our enemies, why is he taking Margaret to the fort?"
"Because that's where Colonel Laxton is," Rose said. And for something else. There had to be something else. Ducoed was vengeful, but this went past simple vengeance. It had to. She had no idea what else was going on. Fortunately, the major did not press the issue.
The booming voice did not return. The water continued to fall over the cataract, drowning them in a loud silence.
Comite Riverbank
1742 A.D.
As they walked away from the river, Margaret held Mr. Thomas' hand with both of hers, still in shock. Her eyes were wide, her hair disheveled and smelling of bile. She was hardly conscious but she dared not close her eyes. The ringing in her ears drowned out the remembered sounds of Private Tishman's last few seconds. If she closed her eyes, though, she would see those seconds all over again.
\*
Cold hands, like long claws had come out of the darkness behind her, closed on her arms and pulled her away from Private Tishman. She screamed and screamed, calling out for Miss Rose, but the woman had already disappeared back into the cave in the middle of the river.
Private Tishman turned, bringing his rifle up, but that had been all he managed to do. Then the bush beside him came alive with claws that hooked into the flesh of his right leg and his stomach. Except it was not a bush. Something with thin arms and legs, like black sticks, with big hands that sported hands like curved pitchfork tines--which were now stuck in Private Tishman--rose from the riverbank and pulled the soldier off his feet so he dangled.
"Bloody fu--!" Private Tishman shouted.
Another of those creatures came from the private's left, her right, and stuck him from that direction, suspending the man between the two creatures as if he were a bug caught in a black spider web.
"Run, girly," the private said, looking straight at her. He coughed and gurgled as black points erupted from his chest. "Run!"
She tried to run, but the smell of death wrapped around her and cold fingers encircled her arms and lifted her off the ground. She struggled, but could only kick her legs. She could not hit anything. She looked up, to see what held her. The moonlight showed her a face with hollow eyes, pits in the face over a shriveled nose. The lipless mouth exposed rotten teeth.
She almost tore herself apart trying to get free, thrashing and kicking and pulling and screaming, but the black hands held her as tightly as iron bands. Where she kicked, her shoes rebounded as if she struck leather or wood. The creature that held her never made a sound.
Screams that were not hers pulled her attention.
Two more creatures had joined the two holding Private Tishman, one in front and one behind. Their long fingers were curved into hooks, and they dragged them through the man's flesh, starting at his shoulders and raking down. His shirt and trousers were shredded. As she watched, his flesh curled up like ribbons around the black fingertips and blood flowed from the grooves. White ribs peeked out of his chest. He screamed again, and his mouth was open wider than any Margaret had ever seen. Then she saw that his cheeks had been cut as far back as his ears and she could see his tongue moving between his teeth--
She closed her eyes, but the image remained. And she could not to stop the sound of his screams. Even her own screams were not enough.
Where was Miss Rose? How had she not heard? How could Miss Rose have left her to die like this?
"Put her down," said a man's voice. Not unfriendly. Familiar. "Now."
She noticed that Private Tishman no longer screamed. But she could still hear the gurgles that had been between his screams.
The hands put her down. Margaret did not dare open her eyes. She did not want to risk that she was mistaken. She would rather not know. She just ran toward the voice. "Mr. Thomas!" she shouted. "Mr. Thomas! It's me. It's me."
She ran into a body, warm not cold, and arms, warm not cold, wrapped around her. "There, there, Margaret," the body said, still sounding like Mr. Thomas. "I've got you now. You're safe."
Finally, Margaret opened her eyes and forced herself to look up. Mr. Thomas smiled down at her.
"Yes," he said. "It's really me. Did you think I had abandoned you?"
Margaret squeezed him around the chest. "Oh, Mr. Thomas ..." She wanted to tell him that she had thought he was dead, and what she had just seen, but nothing came out but sobs.
He held her, one hand stroking her hair. "It's going to be alright," he said. "Just calm down. Everything will be alright."
She did not know how long she cried like that. It might have been just a few minutes, but she felt better. She opened her eyes, and let go of him. "I--we--thought you were dead ..." Her voice trailed off as she saw that more of the black creatures now stood in the moonlight, ranged around the two of them.
"Don't you worry about these ugly brutes, Margaret," Mr. Thomas said. "I'll protect you from them." He smiled at her, and winked. Then he took his pistol from its place on his belt and pointed it up at the sky, as if he were going to shoot down the Moon. But he did not fire. He shouted, his voice louder than anything Margaret had ever heard.
"Rose!" he called. "Are you out there, Rose?" He paused, and spoke to Margaret again in his normal voice. "Rose is here, isn't she?"
Margaret did not know what to say. "Mr. Thomas ... ?"
"Don't you worry about a thing, Margaret," he said. "We'll find her." Then his voice boomed again. "Surely, Rose, you didn't leave this little girl all alone?" He looked around with exaggerated motion, gun still held above his head, and his eyes fixed on something behind Margaret. "Oh! Here we are!" His voice thundered, louder than the waterfalls. "You didn't leave her alone after all. You left her a bit of a nursemaid."
Her eyes moved from Mr. Thomas, turned around as she followed his gaze, and saw what was left of Private Tishman. He was little more than a skeleton now. Even his face had been shredded. His bones gleamed wet and black under the moonlight. Around the bones, scattered like fragments of clothing were the remains of the man's flesh and organs.
"But I'm afraid it's only a bit of him that is left. One of the soldiers, I see. Not the good major. A pity. Margaret is quite safe, though."
Margaret fell to her knees, her mouth opening and closing, silently protesting the sight and the horrible words of Mr. Thomas. Massive heaves threatened to turn her inside out as she emptied the meager contents of her stomach on her hands, and on the ground in front of her. Her hair hung around her face, fouled by spittle. Her hands shook as she wiped them on her shirt and pushed her hair back. She looked up at Mr. Thomas standing over her, and the creatures surrounding them. She looked down again, focusing on the ground in front of her. She did not feel safe.
Mr. Thomas continued talking but the words interfered with one another in her head. All she made out was Janett. "No," she whispered. "Don't answer him, Janett. Don't ..."
"Did you say something, Margaret?" Mr. Thomas asked. The words did not try to engulf her. He had squatted beside her, and put his left hand on her shoulder.
She shook her head. "No," she whispered. Not answering him. Still beseeching Janett to stay hidden. "Don't ..."
His hand squeezed her shoulder then let go. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face with his fingertips. "Everything will be just as it should be, Margaret," he said. "Just be patient." He stood again. To the sky, he shouted, "I know you're out there, Rose. I know you can hear me."
Movement around them had drawn Margaret's attention. A man with black skin that seemed to soak up the moonlight leaving only a shadow of his form suddenly appeared next to Mr. Thomas. Two red lights shown from his eyes should have been.
Mr. Thomas stood and faced the man. "Any sign of how they got here?"
"No, Duke Blackwood." The black man's voice was like dry paper crackling into flame. "I am certain they crossed the river, but the ithambofis have obscured any definite sign."
"Keep looking. They are around here somewhere." The black man faded into the shadows again without a word. To the sky, Mr. Thomas said, "I'm impressed, Rose. You really did go native. I wonder what that's like, in all its particulars." He held out his hand. "Take my hand, Margaret," he said softly.
Margaret stared at his hand in front of her face. She saw a man's hand, held out to her, a life rope cast to her. She felt as if she were drowning. Too much had happened. Bloody fights and lightning and fire and running, so much running. She was tired. But her memories would not stop. The creatures and Private Tishman dying. She was going under, too tired to stay above it anymore. But the rope in front of her, Mr. Thomas' hand, would not pull her out. It came from below, wanting to pull her down further.
In front of her, one of the thin black creatures reached down and picked up the wet and gristly bones that had once been Private Tishman. The creature slung the bones over its shoulder. Margaret expected the bones to fly apart and she almost screamed. But the private's skeleton held together, ribcage and head and arms and hands dangling down the back of the creature.
"Look at me, Margaret," Mr. Thomas said. When she continued to stare at the creature with the bones, he used his thumb and forefinger to grasp her chin and turn her face to look at him. He had squatted in front of her again, his face level with hers. "Trust me, Margaret. Everything will be as it should be." He smiled. "I promised I would take you to your father, didn't I? That's where we're going now." He held his hand out to her again.
"I'm going to go now, Rose." He still looked at Margaret. This close, the boom of his other voice brushed against her face and seemed to wrap around Margaret, engulfing her. The sounds of his words drove out the images in her head. She raised a tentative hand. He took her hand in his and pulled her to her feet as he stood. "I'm taking Margaret to her father," he continued. "If you don't mind, do try to get Janett to the fort on time. I did give my word I would bring them to their father. You remember their father, don't you, Rose?"
Mr. Thomas paused, and Margaret came back to herself. She still held his hand, but they were alone in the darkness now. The river flowed past them, splitting and falling and rejoining and continuing on its way. She looked at the single tree on the rock in the middle of the river.
As Mr. Thomas continued to speak, she kept hoping that Miss Rose and Chal and Major Haley would rush out to save her. But no one came.
"Good night, Rose," Mr. Thomas finished. He tugged on Margaret's hand, then stood beside her as she looked across the river. "Yes, she's still out there," he said in his normal voice. "Don't worry, Margaret. You'll see Miss Rose Bainbridge again. And your sister. And maybe even Major Haley." He paused. "Maybe. For now, though, you need to come with me."
With that, Mr. Thomas had pulled her along, away from the river, into the darkness of the forest. She held Mr. Thomas' hand with both of hers. She kept her eyes open. Not to see. But because if she closed them, she would see ... and she would hear ...
\*
The walking helped. She hung on the end of Mr. Thomas' arm like a weight, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other as if that was all that mattered. If she focused on her walking, she was not alone with a friend she no longer recognized, or surrounded by stick-like monsters that grabbed from the darkness and ripped a man to shreds, or abandoned by her protectors, or lost without her sister or her father. She was just walking. Step by step. Walking. To her father. Walking. To Da.
Mr. Thomas did not talk. That helped too. If he did not talk. If she did not look at him. She could be holding Da's hand. Or Major Haley's. And everything ... could be ... as it should be.
She screamed. Not words. Just a feral cry of pain and despair and a need for escape.
The hand holding hers tightened as she tried to let go. She tugged and pulled back, but the man who held her did not slow.
Her scream choked out of existence by her own fear, she stumbled forward again, trying not to be dragged.
Trying to regain control of her legs and feet. And trying to lose herself again in the rhythm of walking.
\*
Margaret followed Mr. Thomas out of the trees into a clearing that had been cut from the undergrowth. The moon had already sunk to the west, but the stars were bright, showing her a double ring of black lean-tos arranged around a black tent in the center of the clearing. She looked, she saw, but she made no attempt to comprehend.
A hiss of steam and red sparks showed the path of small grunzers around the perimeter of the camp. One of the grunzers stomped toward her and Mr. Thomas and the other creatures that slipped out of the forest. She had never seen a grunzer so small before, but she did not look. If she focused, she would see, and she did not want to see. Anything.
Mr. Thomas did not slow down, leading her, pulling her, between the lean-tos. The grunzer came close, a hemispherical blob, flat side to the front, with articulated legs and disproportionately long arms that carried an axe longer than Mr. Haley was tall. Steam hissed out of the grunzer, and its boiler glowed with heat, but Margaret saw no firebox, and no smokestack. She did not look closer. She only saw what she saw because it happened in front of her. The grunzer paused at a gesture from Mr. Thomas, then turned and stomped away.
The light around her changed as they moved into the camp. Night remained, but the darkness faded, and the stars shown less bright, as if viewed through an oily veil.
The lean-tos became half tents, made with black canvas stretched over rough poles, open toward the center of the camp. Men stood and sat in short ranks under the lean-tos, also facing the center. Or maybe they were not all men. Or not-men.
Margaret did not see, because she refused to see, the bones of Private Tishman thrown on a haystack of similar remains, with skeletal hands and feet sticking out in odd directions and skulls gleaming black. She kept her eyes unfocused, blurring everything into the grayness that built up around her.
The grayness became ... not brighter. More substantial, driving color away. The thick nonlight emanated from wood fires that burned, colorless, silver flames turning the wood black, five of them in a ring around the center tent. Over one of the fires a rabbit was being roasted, turned on the spit by a man who stood with one foot in the flames. Margaret refused to smell the cooking meat that penetrated the odor of death and bile that hovered around her, refused to speculate on which burning flesh she smelled.
Mr. Thomas led her to the center tent and pushed through the flaps, pulling her with him. Within the tent a more normal fire burned in a woodstove whose chimney poked up through the roof of the tent. The stove's grate glowed orange, illuminating a small table with a chair, two military cots and three naked female figures. One of the figures was a little girl with long blonde hair as disheveled as Margaret's. The girl's slack face and dead eyes penetrated Margaret's lack of focus. Then she saw the women clearly, their faces just as dead, and their bodies cut and mutilated, clotted blood showing black on their faces and torsos and between their legs.
Margaret screamed and tried to bury her face against Mr. Thomas.
"Take her clothes," Mr. Thomas said, and pushed Margaret toward the figures.
"No!" she screamed. "Mr. Thomas!"
Three sets of cold hands grabbed her. Margaret struggled. She screamed for Mr. Thomas to help her, but he only stood there, watching as the cold fingers unfastened her belt and undid the buttons of her blouse and pulled off her shoes.
"Don't struggle so much, Margaret," Mr. Thomas said. "You'll rip your clothes."
The two women held her while the girl pulled the trousers off her, leaving her in her underpants. The girl dropped the trousers to the ground beside the shoes, then took hold of Margaret's legs. Margaret kicked at the girl, the heel of her left foot smashing into the girl's cheek hard. Something cracked, and the cheek seemed to cave in, but the girl did not cry out. The girl grabbed Margaret's leg about the ankle and secured it under her arm.
"That wasn't very nice, Miss Laxton."
Margaret whimpered from the suddenly cool air and fear and realized she had wet herself as the women, one after the other, held her and removed her arms from her blouse. The blouse joined the pile on the floor.
The women and the girl still held her, parallel to the ground, naked except her underpants, trembling and crying. She tried again to get free, to cover herself, but the hands held her. She could not move.
Mr. Thomas stepped closer now, and leaned over her. His eyes traveled up her legs and her body and rested finally on her face. He smiled at her, a lopsided smile that seemed at once amused and possessive. He raised his left hand and she prepared to scream again if he touched her, but he placed the hand on the shoulder of the girl. "Put on her clothes," he said.
The girl released Margaret's legs, and they fell, banging her heels painfully into the hard-packed earth. Margaret tried to pull her legs under her, to stand, but the other women did not release their grips. The women stood there, holding Margaret as she and Mr. Thomas watched the girl put on Margaret's clothes. Blouse first, then the trousers, and finally sitting on the ground to pull on the shoes. When she finished, she stopped moving. She remained seated on the floor, staring at nothing, one leg pulled up, looking as if she had been frozen in that position.
"Lie on the cot," Mr. Ducoed said.
The girl pushed herself to hands and knees and crawled across the ground to the first cot. She crawled into the cot and lay face down, one foot still hanging over the side.
Mr. Ducoed shrugged. "Close enough." He looked at Margaret again and smiled. Margaret turned away. She heard him walk to the door of the tent, pull back the flaps. "Bring it in," he said.
The smell of roasted rabbit and something else that Margaret refused to identify, keeping her eyes closed, filled the tent.
Another word from Mr. Thomas and the hands holding her pulled her forward and the smell of roast rabbit became stronger. She felt warmth on her cheek. She opened her eyes. She was held beside the table, which now had a tray with the rabbit and a single plate. Her legs were still bent under her. Mr. Thomas sat in the chair across from her. He pulled a knife from his belt and carved off a bit flesh and popped it into his mouth. He smiled as he chewed.
"Eat up, Margaret," he said. "You must keep up your strength for the trip."
Her lower lip trembled. She thought about kicking his legs, but she did not have her shoes on anymore.
He cut off strips of meat and placed them on the plate. He pushed the plate to her side of the table. "Help her eat," he said.
The hands shifted, then were pushing her forward, and her head down, until her face was just above the plate, steam from the still-hot meat wisping against her face. Her mouth watered, but she made no move to eat. After a minute, her stomach growled, prompting Mr. Thomas to laugh. She could not see him, but it sounded as if he had food in his mouth.
"You should eat," he said. "It's just a coney. Sorry about the lack of chips. Still, it's quite good."
Margaret wished she had tried to kick him, even if it had hurt her. Finally she opened her lips and reached for the meat with her teeth and tongue. The meat was still warm. She chewed, and swallowed, then picked up the next piece the same way.
"Hardly ladylike," Mr. Thomas said as he pushed more meat in front of her. "Eating right off the plate like that. Janett would be appalled, I have no doubt."
Margaret tried to bite his hand, but the women holding her prevented her, and he only laughed in response.
When she had eaten more than she thought she could, hating herself for eating it no matter how hungry she was, Ducoed told the women, "Gag her, then take her to the other tent. I'm sure she's tired."
The women lifted her upright again, and one of them reached around to push a wad of dirty cloth into her mouth. She tried to keep her mouth clenched, ground her teeth, but the cold fingers of the woman did not relent. They pushed harder and harder until the fear of losing teeth made Margaret open her mouth. The cloth tasted foul, as did the fingers.
She bit down, as hard as she could. She felt her teeth penetrate flesh, felt tooth grind against bone, tasted something even more foul than the cloth.
The woman did not cry out. She did not even wiggle her fingers. She only continued to tug on her hand, time after time, trying to get it out of Margaret's mouth.
Mr. Thomas laughed. "I didn't realize how hungry you were, Miss Laxton."
Gagging, from the fingers in her throat and the tastes on her tongue and the thought that she had almost bitten a finger off, Margaret let go. The women held her as she coughed and gagged. Then, at a word from Mr. Thomas, they pulled her to the front of the tent.
Still trying not to gag, Margaret squeezed her eyes closed as she was dragged out of the tent. The images on the backs of her eyelids were suddenly less threatening than whatever waited for her now. The smells of death and burned flesh hit her again, as if they had just found her, and threatened to make her vomit again. She swallowed bile and worse and concentrated on keeping her eyes shut and ignoring the smells and sounds of the camp as she was dragged through it. And on not thinking how she was naked in front of the hordes of men she refused to see.
After a minute, Margaret risked a peek through slitted eyelids and saw that the women had taken her out of the camp. They now dragged her under the trees, and the veil over the stars had gone, replaced by the golden-gray wash of dawn.
Then the trees and the sky disappeared behind black canvas as she was dragged into another tent, and dropped. As she scrambled to her feet, the women retreated out of the tent, and the flaps dropped.
Margaret pulled the gag out of her mouth and screamed and charged out of the tent.
Cold hands caught her before she had taken three steps. Cold fingers reinserted the gag, then the cold hands threw her back into the tent.
She landed in a heap, and laid there, crying. She spit out the gag, trying to think of a way that none of this could be happening. That Miss Rose had not left her alone. That Private Tishman still lived. That she had never met Mr. Thomas.
She wished Da were here.
No. She wished that she and Da and Mum and Janett were back in England, in their parlor, Mum knitting with Janett while she and Da played chess, all of them laughing, all of them together, and that they had none of them ever heard of the New World.
She did not know how long she cried before she realized that she had fallen on a pile of clothes. There was no light in the tent, and the clothes were torn and damp, but she decided that she would rather not see them. She pulled on two shirts, then found a pair of baggy trousers that she pulled on, as well. There were no shoes.
Clothed and warming, she risked a peek out the tent flaps. Dawn provided more light now. The two women, even more grotesque when seen more clearly, stood outside the tent. They did not move. They stood even more still than the trees, which rustled in a light morning breeze.
She pulled back into the tent, yawning. She was so tired. She crawled back to the pile of clothes and curled up. She did not close her eyes, though. She stared at the black canvas of the tent wall and wished her own mind was as blank.
\*
Margaret did not know how long she lay like that, not sleeping--not letting herself sleep--when she heard the sounds of decamping. Feet marching, hammers ringing, ropes. Very few voices, though. And none that she recognized.
"Get her." She knew that voice.
The tent flaps burst open, letting in the sunlight of early morning. The sudden brightness forced her to close her eyes. She saw the image from the first attack, the soldier nearly cut in two by a black axe. And the face of Private Tishman being peeled off his skull. She forced her eyes back open as cold hands grabbed her and pulled her out of the tent. The women held her as tight as ever, and stood her on her feet.
Mr. Thomas waited for her, smiling, holding the hand of the dead-faced little girl. The girl's eyes still stared, the mouth still hung open, and one cheek was still flattened, but the girl's hair had been brushed and combed so it shown. And her clothes--Margaret's clothes--had been cleaned. Margaret gaped. It was almost like looking at herself in a mirror. Almost. Her hair seldom looked that good more than a few minutes after Janett or Mum finished with it.
"Good morning, Miss Laxton," Mr. Thomas said, pulling her attention back to him. "I do hope you managed to sleep. We have a long walk ahead of us today."
The five of them, Mr. Thomas and the girl dressed as Margaret, Margaret and the two women, stood alone in a small space between weeping willows and other trees she did not recognize. But now the woods around them moved with more than just the wind. Figures moved past them, featureless through the screen of branches and leaves, heading west, away from the sunrise.
"Are you," Margaret asked, her voice hoarse. She coughed and spit out the something awful that came from her throat. "Are you taking me to my Da? My father?" She coughed again.
"Of course. I gave you my word, didn't I?"
"Why ...? Why are you doing this?" She looked at the girl again.
"For your safety, Margaret." He noticed her looking at the girl, and smiled. "She cleans up quite pretty, doesn't she? Not as ... shall we say 'expressive'? ... as you, of course. But a remarkable likeness, don't you think?" His smile became hard. "There are people who would try to take you away from me--"
"Miss Rose!" She tried not to hope.
"Among others, yes, but she is the chief concern at the moment."
"I hope she makes you burn," Margaret said, remembering the lightning.
"Tut tut tut, Miss Laxton. Gag her," he added.
"My father--" The gag was stuffed into her mouth. She gagged and coughed and spit it out on the ground. "My father will see you flogged and--and--hanged."
Mr. Thomas let go of the girl's hand. The girl stood there as he stepped forward, her hand still lifted where he left it. He bent down and picked up the gag, then stood again, leaning over Margaret.
She flinched, then steeled herself to meet his eye.
"Your father has seen me under the lash quite a few times before now," he said. "But the next time he sees me, he'll see me with his beloved Little Puncher."
"How--?" She could almost hate the name now that he had spoken it.
"Don't you think he'll pay anything to get you back, Miss Laxton?" He leaned even closer so she felt his breath on her face as he continued. "Don't you think any loving father would give me everything he has, just to get you back? And still more if I have Janett, as well--and I will, have no doubt about that. Everything, just to get you back, unharmed. He will give me that, and more. And I'll take it all. And then some."
"You're going ... holding me for ransom?"
He leaned back then and laughed. "For much more than that, Margaret. Much, much more than that."
He still held the balled up gag in his left hand. Now he pulled a knife with his right hand and touched the flat side of the point to her cheek. The metal was cold against her cheek, and the breath from her nose clouded it, but it was no colder than the hands that held her.
"You have no idea how valuable you are." He pulled the knife away from her face. The was a tug on her top shirt, and a ripping sound as he cut off a long strip. He put the knife back in its sheath, and handed the gag to the woman on her right. "Put this in her mouth," he said. "And hold it there while I tie the gag."
Margaret kicked at him, but missed. She bit hard enough that she almost lost a tooth against a knucklebone, but the women never faltered. They did as they were told and held her while Mr. Thomas stood behind her and tied the gag into place.
"Walk with the izidumbus," he said, taking the little girl's still-outstretched hand.
The women started forward, Margaret held between them, her feet off the ground.
"Come along, Miss Laxton," Mr. Thomas said to the little girl. "Wonderful morning for a bit of a walk, don't you think?" The little girl's expression did not change. They were walking along, hand in hand, the last Margaret saw of them.
\*
Being carried seemed, at first, an improvement over walking. But the women made no effort to remain in step with each other as they shambled and shuffled forward, and after a while Margaret's shoulders began to ache from carrying her weight and from being jostled and pushed together in unexpected ways. She struggled against the hands, throwing her weight back and forth. The women said nothing, only continued to carry her, resisting her efforts in the same way an ancient oak resisted being pushed over by a kitten. Still, she was able to work her way down just enough that her feet touched the ground and she could take some of the pressure off her shoulders and back.
They walked in the midst of other women and men, most of them taller than her so she could see only bodies swaying around her and the branches of trees above her. The two women who held her were white, their hands and faces showing signs of the sun and work out of doors, but the bodies around them were of no single race. There were jet black men and women, and brown, the red of the Amerigon natives and even a few more whites. Those that wore clothes showed just as much variety, native buckskins and stained cotton shirts and trousers and petticoats and once she glimpsed the remnants of an English soldier's red overcoat.
She tried not to see it, but the nakedness of the women that carried her was not uncommon. Men and women both had been stripped, or mostly stripped, their exposed flesh, from head to foot, showing horrible slashes and punctures and lacerations and mutilations. But no bleeding. All the blood from the wounds had clotted and blackened. And the flesh itself showed a hint of blue, as if they were chilled, and they moved stiffly.
Everything moved stiffly, or not at all. The folds of fat, the pendulous breasts, the dangling members of the men, all hung like dried or drying clay, pushed into a shape and then abandoned.
She could not close her eyes. And she could not look anywhere that did not provide more images of horror. She kept her eyes unfocused and wished they would become numb like her nose. She no longer smelled the rotting flesh and the stinks of death. At least the gag in her mouth prevented her from tasting them.
She did not have to watch where she was going, though, even after she started walking for herself. Unlike Chal and Miss Rose, the women holding her walked in a straight line, moving aside only for tree trunks or other immovable obstacles. They walked into the water between the small islands without turning or any signs of hesitation or squeamishness, even when the water reached up to their waists. Then they walked out the other side.
Once, to her left, she heard sounds of splashing in the water, then the crunching of bone. No one besides her seemed to notice it. All those around her continued trudging forward, one foot after the other.
Another time, she thought she heard gunshots, far away. A few minutes later, a pair of grunzers stomped back from the front of the column, ran past her position and continued to the rear. She did not get a clear view of them. She could only see the rounded tops of their boilers.
Other than that, the silence was almost complete. The only sounds Margaret heard were those of feet stepping on earth or trodden-down vegetation. And her own breathing. Neither the women carrying her nor the rest of those around her exhibited any signs of exertion. If they breathed at all, she could not see it or hear it.
The sun marched overhead, following them, rising higher, perhaps to get a better view through the trees, then sinking again.
The stones, the broken branches, the smashed vegetation, all of it tore at Margaret's feet as she walked. Sometimes the people behind her trod on her heels. But the worst was walking into the water where she could not see what she was stepping on. The mud oozed between her toes and rubbed painfully against the cuts. Sharp sticks she could not see stabbed her soles or scraped along her calves, creating more cuts. Worst of all, she never knew how deep the water would be. A wide channel, fifty feet across or more, might not get higher than her knees, while a narrow channel could plunge them into water that came to her stomach. Either way, the women dragged her forward at the same, plodding speed.
Her trousers, made heavy and wet, dragged on her legs and pulled their way down to her hips. With her arms held too wide apart most of the time, and chaffing now and beginning to blister where her skin rubbed against the clenched fingers of the women, she could not reach down to pull her trousers up. So she walked with the additional fear that she would lose even the old and dirty clothes she had now. At least the cuffs under her feet provided some protection as she walked.
The sun poked at her from between tree trunks, trying to make her close her eyes, then it was there in full as the trees moved behind her and she could see an expanse of water spread in front of her, a small lake lying across their path.
They walked straight into the lake. The heads of the people--and worse--in front of her disappeared under the surface of the water as they continued their straight path.
She tried to shout, but the gag muffled her. She pulled against the women's hands, hard enough to break the skin of the blisters, but the women held her as tightly as ever.
The water splashed around their feet, and especially her feet, as she tried to dig in and keep them from going further. For an instant they paused, and she thought she had stopped them, then the people behind pushed against their backs and her back and the water rose to her ankles, then her knees, and on up to her thighs. She thrashed and fought and pulled but the strength of the women and the weight of bodies behind her pushed her forward.
The water reached her stomach. Then her chest. Her neck.
She tried to take a deep breath, and almost swallowed the gag.
Then the water splashed against her face and she panicked.
Her thrashing seemed in slow motion under the water. Her hair streamed about her face as she swung her head back and forth and pulled against the hands that still held her, still pulled her deeper into the lake. She kicked and she found herself horizontal. Her feet tried to find purchase against the naked cold bodies of the women, but she only slipped and twisted and struck against the other bodies near her.
Her lungs burned from the exertion and the need to breathe.
The gag and the tie blocked the water from her mouth, but not her nose. Water came in her nostrils and hit her throat and she choked. She tried to scream, and choked again.
Shh.
Like a whisper in her ear, the sound penetrated the water into her brain and sent a warm thrill into her chest that eased the pressure there.
The water against her face became warm, and bright, and flowed against her face, brushing her hair back gently.
We are coming, Margaret Laxton.
Another whisper, like the sound of a forest stream, then a tingling sensation on her forehead, as if soft lips had kissed her there, and the warmth of the water was like arms around her, holding her safe.
Water splashed and the sun hit her in the face as she came out of the water.
The women dragged her up the shore of the lake and into the forest beyond.
She cried, lake water running down her face mixed with tears, because it was not Chal holding her anymore. And it never had been.
\*
The women held her, sagging and still shaking with the occasional sob, while two men, one white and one black, both of them wearing worn trousers that had been cut off at the knees and no shirts or shoes, put up a black tent like the one she had slept in the night before. These men did not move with the jerky motions she had seen all day, nor had they been grievously wounded. Their backs showed the stripes of a lash, but their muscles moved the way muscles were supposed to, smooth and strong beneath the skin, and their hands showed dexterity as they spread the canvas and tied off the ropes. They finished and backed away, never once looking up or meeting Margaret's eyes.
She expected the women to throw her into the tent, but nothing happened. The men disappeared into the trees in the direction of the larger camp that she had been carried through. She could still hear the sounds of tent stakes being driven into the ground, the infrequent shouts of orders, and the stomps and hisses of grunzers. But her captors only stood there, holding her upright between them. She sagged in their grips and looked at the tent with a longing that surprised her.
Her legs were tired and her feet hurt and her trousers and her layered shirts remained damp and clung to her. Her hair fell in thick strands across her face that she was unable to push back. The gag in her mouth felt slimy and tasted like mud, and the strip of cloth holding the gag in place had shrunk as it dried, pulling painfully against the corners of her mouth. Her arms felt on fire from the grip of the two women, and her fingers tingled from reduced bloodflow.
She wanted nothing more than to lay down in that tent and sleep. She did not want to eat, despite the hunger that gnawed in her stomach. After everything she had seen the past two days, her appetite no longer existed. Only the gag had prevented her from vomiting, forcing her to keep down the food Mr. Thomas had fed her the night before.
But the women only stood there and forced her to stand there with them.
\*
"That's thinking like a soldier on the march, Margaret." Mr. Thomas' voice startled her and she jerked awake. Her sudden motion caused one of the women still holding her to take a step forward. "Sleep whenever you get the chance."
Margaret tried to orient herself, and squeezed her eyes open and shut. She could see Mr. Thomas' face only as a white smudge in the darkness. Night had fallen. How long had she been standing there? She would have rubbed her eyes had she been able to. Standing again, she noticed that both of her arms had gone numb. She tried to wiggle her fingers but they barely moved. She thought she smelled cooked meat. Her stomach convulsed and the gag stopped her from vomiting yet again.
"Put her in the tent," Mr. Thomas said.
The women shifted their grips and pulled her toward the tent. The pins and needles of renewed bloodflow started at her fingertips and extended to the grips on her forearms. A thousand pinpricks crawled across her skin and she whimpered.
She stumbled as she was pushed through the tent flaps. Her arms could not move fast enough and she fell face first into the tarp that made the floor of the tent, hitting her nose and forehead and sending sparks of pain across the backs of her eyes. She tried to bring her hands to her face, to rub her nose, to remove the gag, but her fingers slapped cold against her skin, still alive with the pinpricks, still not responding.
"Sit up," Mr. Thomas said. He had followed her into the tent. "Let me help you with that."
He pushed aside her hands and lifted her into a sitting position. He held her head with one hand and untied the gag and pulled it away with the other.
Margaret coughed and spit out the nasty cloth in her mouth. She rubbed her right hand under her nose. Her nose hurt like it was bleeding, but she saw no blood on her fingers. She noticed Mr. Thomas had stepped out of the tent and she breathed a sigh of relief. There was no pile of clothes in the tent, so she picked a corner away from the front of the tent, and curled up to sleep.
The tent flaps pulled away again and she heard Mr. Thomas come back inside, and the smell of cooked meat filled the tent. Her chin trembled as she tried not to throw up.
"I thought you might like something to eat," Mr. Thomas said. "And I thought I would share it with you."
Margaret didn't respond. She pulled herself into a tighter ball in the corner and wished he would go.
"No? Not hungry? Alright then. You won't mind, of course, if I help myself?"
She heard the sounds of him slicing off strips of meat and chewing. And later of him pulling apart bones and blowing on his fingers from the heat and more chewing.
"I'll be sleeping in here with you tonight, Miss Laxton," he said, the words separated by sounds of him licking his fingers. "I do hope you don't mind."
"I mind," she said. "And my father. He would mind."
Mr. Thomas laughed. "Yes, I am certain he would. However, his being not here, I will just have to use my own judgment. I expect we'll have visitors by morning, and it's best if I'm here to keep you. Safe," he added.
After a few moments of silence, he said, "You haven't asked about our visitors."
Margaret continued to not ask. Her mind hovered just over the edge of sleep, and his voice kept pulling her back. She could not make him leave her alone, but she wished he would be quiet.
He did not say anything else. Another few minutes passed and he went out of the tent. He startled her awake again not more than ten minutes later, coming back into the tent and noisily spreading blankets. He cast one blanket over her, then he settled down to sleep.
\*
An explosion, like a cannon going off over her head caused Margaret to leap up. She tripped over her cuffs and a blanket that had wrapped itself around her and fell back to the floor. She could not see Mr. Thomas in the darkness, but she could hear him sitting up, and chuckling.
"I told you we'd have visitors," he said. "I think Rose just found your little friend. And my friends have found her, I think."
She drew in a deep breath. "Miss Ro--"
He must have been waiting for her to do exactly that, because she barely had her mouth open before he had stuffed the gag into her mouth. Then he held her down and wrapped her with blankets, pinning her arms to her sides.
"Now now, Margaret," he said as he tied the cloth around her head again, securing the gag. "We mustn't spoil the surprise."
Gunshots and shouts. Then another explosion.
She looked up at Mr. Thomas, barely seeing the shape of his head above her, and wished him dead.
He chuckled as if he could read her thoughts, and knew how powerless they were. Then he moved in a squat to the tent flaps. "You stay here," he said. "I'll go see what our trap has caught."
There were more gunshots, and a woman screamed.
Bayuk
12.6.5.8.5 L.C.
Chal sat on the patch of grass, her back to the bayuk channel, facing the handsome young Major Haley and the pretty young Janett, facing the direction Rose had gone. She saw them all, the two in front of her, and, not with her eyes but with the senses of the water and the grass and the trees around her, the figure of her friend getting further away with every step. Farther away from her, and closer to the ... wrongness ... that accompanied the man Ducoed.
As she sat, as Rose moved past the fringes of Chal's awareness, the wrongness stirred memories, bringing back to her a time that ... she had never known? A time thought ended and past. Buried. The first glimpses, mere sensations, had caused twinges, small shocks that provoked reflection but not recollection. The more she and Rose and the children had followed the footsteps of Ducoed's force, the more painful the shocks and the twinges had become. And the more she ... remembered?
They were not her memories, not directly. They were more like sediments from the mountains, brought down by the river through the ages and settled in the pool of her own mind and experience. Ducoed ... or those he was with ... had stirred the sediment, clouded the waters, and brought back faint traces of what had gone before. And what was coming again.
Visions of men welded to stone, neither dead nor alive, screaming, fighting, dying, killing flashed in her mind. Not what was now, though. What had been. The history of her people stretched back and back. Time and enough for great successes of which few traces remained, as well as time and enough for tragic mistakes which lingered.
She had agreed with Rose: Margaret must be rescued. The attempt must be made. She would have gone herself, but Rose had claimed the right because of her promise to the general. They could not both go, not with the major and Janett to look after. So Rose went, and Chal awaited her return.
Or not.
Chal twirled her fingers in the long blades of grass, and through them listened to the waters. The waters called to her, as they always did, beckoning her to join them, but they also sang for her. She listened to their songs of the bayuk and the river and the oceans beyond and took comfort.
"Rest," she told the two children. "Sleep while you can. In two hours, we will follow Rose." And what? Rescue her? Possibly. Recover her body? Perhaps. She could not see the future, nor could the waters sing of it to her.
Water flows, my child. The voice of the Water Mother came to her, from her past, from across time and distance. It does not tell the future, nor does it wish to. Water caresses and shapes what is there. It does not judge. It does not create. Even life, which springs like a well from the heart of Alaghom-Naom, is not created by water. Only nourished and carried by the flow. You cannot ask the waters where they will flow, only where they flow now.
"Follow Miss Bainbridge?" Janett asked. "But she specifically told us to wait for her here."
The major nodded. "The sergeant--Miss Bainbridge--did request ..." He stopped, and his head cocked to the left as he looked more intently at Chal. "Have you sensed something?"
Chal stroked the grass, feeling the life within the green stalks brush against her fingers as she replied. "Nothing that I have not already told you, Major Haley. And Rose, as well."
"Then why are we going to follow her? That would be disobeying a direct order."
Chal smiled. "Major Haley, Rose is my dear friend and my beloved sister through the cutting of our hands and the mingling of our blood, but she is not my commanding officer." The major opened his mouth to say something else--probably to apologize, Chal thought; the boy was too easily cowed by a woman's stated will; Janett had had him to herself for too long--but Chal held up a hand to stop him. "Rose does what she thinks is best, and so do I. Rose could best approach unseen and unheard without the rest of us. But afterward ..." She shrugged. "Rest, now. I will sit watch."
The major looked as though he would say more, but did not. He only stretched out beside Janett, one arm under his head as a pillow. He did not close his eyes.
"Miss Rose said we should stay here until dawn," Janett said, still sitting upright.
Chal looked at Janett. "And now you are agreeing with her?"
Janett's face flushed but she did not look away. "There are hundreds of them-- Whatever they are. We are only four, three now. What can we do? We should stay here, and wait for Miss Rose to come back." She sniffed. "If she comes back. Then we go to my father and--"
"And what, Miss Janett?"
"Father will know what to do!" the girl said, her voice rising. "He will send out an army to deal with these--these things. And he will rescue Margaret."
"These ... things," Chal said, "are between us and your father. Please," she added, "keep your voice down. We are not the only creatures in the bayuk who have ears."
"She told us to wait here," Janett said, her voice just above a whisper. "Until dawn. And if she does not come back, we go to my father. He will know what to do."
Chal did not respond.
"He will," Janett insisted, as if Chal had argued with her. "Father will know what to do."
"Sleep, Miss Janett. I will wake you when it is time to go."
Janett's face showed that, for her, the argument was not over. Chal, though, was through.
Chal twirled her fingers in the grass again, but this time she did not listen to the song of the waters. Instead, she reached through the blades, through the roots, through the moisture of the earth, and her mind brushed across Janett's. Janett's eyes grew wide.
Sleep, she said without words.
Janett resisted, stifling a yawn. "I'm not ..." Then her eyes got heavy and she blinked slowly. "What are you ... doing ...?"
"Sleep," Chal said again, aloud this time. "You will need your strength."
Janett started to say something else, then nodded, and lay down with her back to the major.
With her awareness and the connection, Chal could see the fatigue in the girl's muscles, the pain of overexertion. She reached with her right hand and dipped one finger into the water of the bayuk.
At once the waters sang in a chorus of a thousand thousand voices in her mind, calling to her, beckoning her to join them. And with every ounce of her being she longed to answer their call, to join the waters, to melt into them. But the time was not yet.
With an effort that strained her muscles and her willpower and caused her to stand, she pulled her finger from the water. The chorus cut off as if a door had slammed shut and she blinked away tears, but the power of the waters remained within her, welling up like a rushing river thwarted by a dam.
Around her, the bayuk seemed to shine with the light of full day, a light that only she could see. Before her, laying on the ground, both of them asleep now, the children lay. She could see them clearly, see through them to their cores, see their sinews and muscles and the blood pumping through their veins. She stepped forward so she was between them, and knelt.
She laid one hand on each of them, and let the warmth of the waters flow from her into them. Major Haley gasped and Janett moaned, but neither of them woke. She watched, her sight dimming back to human normal, as the pains and the fatigues and the tensions washed out of man and girl. Two hours of sleep would do them more good now.
She pushed herself back to the patch of grass and sat, her arms trembling from exertion.
Now who was the child? she asked herself. She shook her head. The Water Mother would say there were three children here in the bayuk this night. But the major and Janett would need all their strength. She could not leave them behind. She needed them. To keep up with her.
Her gaze moved from the sleepers to the still trembling surface of the waters in the bayuk. Would the Seekers have sensed her? Only the touch of her finger?
\*
She woke Major Haley, then Janett.
"What time is it?" Major Haley asked. He started to yawn, then stopped and flexed his jaw. "How long did we sleep?"
"It is two hours before dawn," Chal said. "And we must go. I fear that Rose might already need our assistance."
"What help can we give her?" Janett asked.
"We can save her life," Chal replied. The children were not standing fast enough, so she took the major's arm and pulled him up, surprising him. She turned to assist Janett, as well, but the girl pulled away from her. "We must hurry," Chal said.
"Major Haley," Janett said. "If you please." She held up her hands.
The major cast a quick look at Chal, then helped Janett to her feet.
"We will go faster if you both hold my hands."
"If we must hold hands," Janett said, taking the major's left hand in both of hers, "then I will hold the hand of Major Haley."
Chal considered forcing the issue. She had little patience left for the girl, but decided to let it go. "Very well." She reached out her left hand to the major. After a brief hesitation, Major Haley took her hand. His grip was tentative. Hers was not. Through her fingers she could feel his renewed strength, from the rest and from the waters. "Stay close to the major, Miss Janet, and walk in his footsteps as much as you can. Perhaps you will gain some benefit."
"Benefit?" Janett asked. "What kind of benefit?"
Chal ignored her and took a deep breath. She considered the direction they must go. Unlike Rose, they would take the most direct route. The Seekers would not know what she did, but there were those among Ducoed's force, including Ducoed, who might feel her coming to them. There was no help for that, just as there was no help for her own lack of sleep and the fatigue such a path would claim on her. But Rose needed her. Needed all of them.
She pulled the major forward, at a fast walk, drawing from him some of his new reserve of strength. There was an instant of resistance from Janett, then the combined pulling of Chal and Major Haley overcame the girl's inertia.
Chal led them in a straight line. Grasses and flowers bent for her and sprang back up behind the major. Bushes divided so she could pass through, closing behind Major Haley, their branches and nettles reaching for Janett's skin and clothes and hair, pulling when they got a hold. The branches of trees rose or bent out of her path--and more than once caught Janett smartly across the forearm or threatened her head. They reached a bayuk, nearly twenty feet across, and Chal stopped.
"This is madness," Janett said, panting, holding the major's hand as if it were a lifeline. "I cannot continue like this."
"If you will consent to hold my hand, Miss Janett, I can make your way easier."
"You're doing this," Janett said between breaths, "intentionally."
"I am doing what I must, Miss Janett, and what I can. All of us have limits. If you do not hold my hand, then you are outside of mine." She waited, but Janett just looked at her. She almost smiled. "Very well."
She sensed ... a knowing, a waiting ahead of them, and it pulled her attention from Janett. A trap?
There was no time for subtlety. Chal pushed into the earth at her feet, then out of the earth and stone at the bottom of the channel in front of her, and forced stepping-stones to burst through the surface of the water. The major gasped and let out an oath--had he felt that his strength had done this for her?--but followed when she tugged him, leaping from stone to keep up with her.
Janett protested and tugged at the major, but came on. She made it halfway before slipping off and splashing into the water, still holding his hand.
"Do not step off the stones, Major Haley," Chal said, pausing so he would not be pulled off balance. "The water is not deep."
"I can see that," Janett said, standing in the water up to her knees. "And no thanks to you. My shoes are soaked through, and my dress--"
"Help her back on the stones, Major Haley, but do not step into the water. Keep up, Miss Janett," she added when the three of them were again on the stones.
They reached the shore at a slower pace, without further slips. Then she led them into the underbrush again, following the same straight-line path. She disliked leaving the stones as they were. It was not her way to leave such things in her wake, but she was in a hurry. Their path led through a briar patch. Behind her, she heard Janett gasping and crying out as the thorns found her.
"We cannot slow down," she said before Major Haley could suggest it. "Rose's life--"
She felt the explosion through the trembling of the ground, long seconds before the sound rolled over them.
"Was that a cannon?" Major Haley asked.
"No, Major Haley. That was ... a call for help. Do not let go of Miss Janett," she added. She no longer walked, she ran. As fast as she could, held back by the major who was held back by Janett, the three of them stretched in a line, her pulling them all with the major's strength. She no longer passed through the underbrush, she pushed a path in front of her. A path that would only slowly recover from the affront of her passing. She regretted the necessity. At least it made Janett less of a drag.
At the next channel she did not slow. Her feet made great splashes in the water as she pushed the water away from her, and she ran in a bubble that wrapped itself around her, let her feet fall on dusty damp earth and closed behind her, sloshing water against the feet and legs of the major and Janett. The waters protested her keeping them away, she could hear their cries, and some catfish and kraveys suffered a few seconds of asphyxiation and convulsed in the dust beside her feet before the waters returned to them. I am sorry, she told the waters and the creatures and the plants.
The Seekers might very well sense her. Through the change in the song of the waters or the distress of the fish, through the water that splashed on Major Haley, or even through Janett, who floundered behind them, soaking up enough water in her skirts and petticoats to drop the level of the entire bayuk and raising such a fuss that Chal expected the few remaining citizens of far away Tik'al could hear her. But there was no time for sneaking, no time for worrying about the Seekers, and no time to properly shut up Janett--assuming that was possible with either might or magic.
Out of the channel on the other side and still running, still pulling Major Haley along, and him pulling the growing storm that was Janett.
Chal threw her senses forward as she ran, through the leaves and the flowers and the grass and the roots of the trees, searching for sign of Rose. Any sign at all.
For long seconds, stride after stride, she found nothing, and doubt and despair grew in the back of her mind. She did not wish to lose Rose, her friend and sister. Through her long travels she had found few sisters among either the pale newcomers or the cousins of her own people. To the former, she was only another native girl, to be ignored or exploited. To the latter, she was not of their sept or clan, so she was forfeit. Rose, though, had been like her, an exile, pushing against the constraints of her world as much as Chal pushed against hers.
Water flows, the Water Mother had told her time after time. It does not choose its course. It does not ask where it flows.
Water can be pushed uphill, Water Mother, she had replied. Or carried.
Yes, child. The ancient face of the Water Mother had showed only the patience of a mother at the repeated nonsense of a child who had not learned to listen. But once you release the water, again it flows, and all your pushing and carrying is for nothing. That is the nature of water: to flow.
Chal had mastered the waters, but not learned to give herself to them and let them flow. And so the Water Mother had sent her away.
Go, child. I release you. When you have learned for yourself what I have been unable to teach you, you will return to me.
What if I die, Water Mother? Before I can return to you? Chal had been found by the Seekers when she was a child, and had no memories of her life before the Water Mother. She had grown up learning about the waters--and wondering about the world beyond Tik'al, and longing to go and see. But her duty had been clear from the beginning. She was to succeed the Water Mother. Why else had she been found and trained? That was why she had hesitated on the last step of the temple and did not place her foot on the path to her future. What if I find ... that I do not want to return?
All waters return to the source, child. Have you learned nothing? The thin shoulders of the Water Mother had shrugged. But, if you are lost, then I will train another.
Chal had smiled. What if there is no other, Water Mother?
Water flows, my child. Water flows.
Those had been the last words Chal heard in her own language, and the sight of Water Mother closing her eyes, nodding her head, then turning to walk back up the tall temple steps, had been the last time she had seen the old woman who was her first sister and the only mother she remembered.
Water Mother had returned to the waters during Chal's journeys. Chal did not wish to lose another sister. So she pushed water uphill, carried water to aid her sister.
As Chal led the major and the girl through the next channel, she finally sensed the footfalls of Rose Bainbridge. Rose was running toward them, head on, retracing her path. She was fatigued, Chal sensed. She had expended herself in her escape, but she was alive.
Extending her senses toward the camp, Chal found Rose's pursuers. Maybe one of them was Ducoed, but the rest were wrong, and they moved across the earth in a way that made them hard to count and obscured any sense of humanity that might be among them.
She felt the lake across the distance between her and Rose and chose where she should would release the water to flow. She increased her pace, pulling the two children with her.
\*
Chal slowed and released the hand of Major Haley in the trees before the lake.
"Remain here," she said.
Major Haley nodded, his face sweating, his breath coming in gasps. The run, and Chal's need, had exhausted his newfound strength. Janett collapsed at his feet. Janett looked furious, and like she wanted to say something, but could not get her breath. Chal smiled at her.
"Rose will be here soon. Go with her. I will find you."
She turned her back on them and stepped out of the trees. The waters of the lake surged against the shore as she appeared, and lapped almost to her feet, anticipating her call, impatient but deferential.
Across the lake from her, scarcely visible in the faint light of the stars, Rose appeared out of the darkness of the far trees. Chal smiled when Rose did not pause, but ran over the surface of the lake, her feet making small ripples where she stepped. Rose's magic, not the water itself, supported her, still Chal could not help but feel again their kinship. Of women in exile. Of women of power.
Chal stepped forward so she stood in the shallow of the lake's edge, the water just touching her toes and the soles of her feet.
The waters trembled in ecstasy at her touch, and their song crashed and roared around her, shaking her to her bones. She trembled too, and fought against the urge to join them, to let go of herself and melt into the waters and be one with them. Her time was still not yet. She was not here to flow with the waters, but to push them uphill.
Chal pushed and Rose surged forward faster than a horse, no longer having to use her own magic to gain traction. The water held her now and provided its assistance, gave her strength.
On the far shore, the first pursuers appeared. They were only thin shadows in the starlight, but to Chal the whole world was bathed in blue light. She could see them for what they were, the soulless skeletal corpses of men and women violated by the magic that Chal's people had created in their arrogance and their ignorance, then tried to contain and bury. Tried and failed.
The creatures saw Rose on the lake and moved to follow her. The waters did not support them but the creatures did not stop. They splashed forward until they disappeared beneath the surface.
Chal tasted their taint in the water and spat. She made claws of her hands in front of her, then forced them apart quickly. The waters of the lake responded to her and pulled apart the black creatures in their midst, scattering the twitching parts along the bottom.
Three small grunzers, trailing sparks of red and wrong, burst out of the trees now. These did not head into the lake, but moved along the bank, coming around, running at full speed. More black figures came out of the forest and followed the grunzers.
Rose ran into Chal's arms and nearly knocked her over, but the waters did not let them fall. The waters anchored her feet to the sand of the shore like the roots of a cypress.
"What," Rose said, panting, her arms around Chal, hands clutching the back of Chal's blouse, "are you ... doing?"
"Getting my feet wet," Chal said. She hugged Rose to her and kissed her cheek, tasting sweat and magic, and pushed Rose's fatigue into the water, which washed it away. She could not restore Rose's spent magic, but she could do this much. "The major and Janett are behind me, in the trees. Take them. Run. I will catch up."
"I told you to wait," Rose said.
"And I told you to run."
"Rose!" Ducoed's voice boomed across the lake as Chal saw him step out of the trees, his pale face visible, and his aura.
"Go!" Chal said and pushed Rose to the trees, where the woman stumbled but caught her balance and ran to Major Haley, Janett still at his feet.
In front of Chal, Ducoed's aura exploded and hot lead and white lightning came out of the sky and struck her in the chest.
Her arms wide, her feet planted in the water, she screamed as the power burned through her. The waters absorbed the lightning and the surface shone with sparks that dimmed the stars. Chal fell to her knees and nearly toppled face first into the water.
She regained her balance, sustained by the waters, and did not fall. She could not fall. She was too tired--three days without sleep--and the waters called to her too strongly. She would not be able to resist now if the waters engulfed her.
She felt fish and plants in the water die even as the flesh of her chest mended itself, forcing the lead ball out of her to fall and ripple the water around her feet, allowing her to breathe again as her strength replenished, brought to her by the water, and she wished she had time to weep for the sacrifices made on her behalf.
Her senses expanded with her renewed strength and the greater contact with the waters and she saw-heard-felt-tasted-smelled Rose pull Janett up and throw the girl into Major Haley's arms and send him running away to the north.
And she felt-heard-saw-smelled-tasted Ducoed calling forth his power again, reloading his pistol for another shot.
And tasted-felt-smelled-saw-heard the grunzers stomping under full steam toward her, huge black axes raised to chop her down and force her blood to rejoin the waters of the world.
She reached her left hand toward the oncoming grunzers and felt the water in their boilers and taught them how to breach their iron boilers, and lent them the power to do so. She sensed the shrieking souls, confused by her assault. The first grunzer exploded, and the second, then the third. Hot steam and jagged iron and parts of wretched corpses and wisps of freed, shredded souls roiled and fell around her, striking the sand or splashing into the water to be washed away.
Across the lake, she heard-smelled-felt-tasted-saw Ducoed bring his pistol in line with her heart for another shot, his eyes penetrating the steam around her.
Chal stood, forcing her legs to relinquish their contact with the water and to hold her weight. She felt Ducoed's aim adjust as she moved, his eyes, his magic locked on her heart.
She pushed the water of the lake at him just as he squeezed the trigger.
His shot, lead and lightning and white-hot fire, hit her left shoulder as the waters of the lake leaped from their bed and washed over the far bank, crashed into Ducoed and those that stood with him and the trees and those that still rushed to join him. Lightning and fire exploded, throwing her back, out of the water. Through it all she heard trees and bones crack under the force of angry water.
Her sight dimmed as she flew and she lost sight-sound-smell-taste-touch with Ducoed as both of them were pushed back by the other's onslaught.
For the second time in less than a minute, she found herself in Rose's arms. They had fallen together this time. Rose helped Chal climb to her feet. "Come on, Chal, let's go."
"I ... told you ... run," Chal said.
"And I told you let's go," Rose said. She wrapped her left arm around Chal's waist and supported her as the two of them went into the trees, following Major Haley's trail north.
Near Lake Palpa
1742 A.D.
Ducoed watched as the izigqila he had chosen was brought forward. The black man was unconscious, drugged, with his legs bound and his left arm bound to his side. He was shirtless, wearing only the short trousers allowed to the izigqilas. Two izidumbus carried him and dropped him where Ducoed indicated. The izigqila groaned but did not wake. One of the izidumbus pulled on the man's right arm so it was outstretched.
Mandla, even blacker than the izigqila. stood at the head of the unconscious man and drew his scimitar. He looked at Ducoed.
"Not yet," Ducoed said.
He heard Margaret whimper and looked down at her. Her two izidumbu attendants held her between them while she tried to look at nothing. He could not hurt her, not physically. And he could not have her. She was for another purpose than his carnal pleasures. But there were many ways he could inflict pain on the youngest child of the former Leftenant Laxton. Like now. His own pain would feel all the more intense if she could share it with him.
"Don't worry, Margaret," he said. "I won't have him killed in front of you."
He eased himself back on the pallet of blankets that had been laid out beside the izigqila. He looked up and caught Margaret's eyes and smiled. She looked away. Then, with his left hand he untied the crude, bloody sling that bound his right arm tightly to his chest. Only able to use that one hand, he was clumsy, but he would do it himself. The Ubasi, his new partners who thought they were his master, knew what he was capable of, but their servants they had sent with him on this quest thought him as weak as the other white men. He would show Mandla and the rest that they underestimated him.
Ducoed kept his face blank, refusing to show the pain that throbbed in the shattered remains of his right arm as he arranged that arm beside him. Bone fragments ground against one another and jagged edges sawed at muscles and poked through the skin. His right hand, still intact, not even scratched, clutched uselessly at nothing, the fingers twitching with the beat of his heart. He gripped the stock of his pistol with his left hand. He had lost his arm, but he had recovered his pistol.
Chal. The name flashed in his mind, and the image of the girl's face. He bared his teeth.
All he had been able to think about for the past day had been Chal. And when he thought of her he had to grit his teeth against the pain as he tried to clench his fists, imagining her in his grasp, dying as she gasped for breath, his hands squeezing her throat as he hammered her with his cock, crushing her beneath him, finding pleasure from her struggles and release as she died. He could have neither Margaret nor Janett, and Rose he had taken already. But there were no claims on Chal. None but his own.
Soon, he promised himself. There was business to attend to first.
He looked up at Mandla, and the warrior's flat eyes reflected his gaze. "Do it," he said.
Mandla nodded. He looked down at the unconscious izigqila. Then, like a controlled explosion of action, he pointed his scimitar behind him, shifted his feet, and brought his arm around in an arc. He seemed to kneel as the scimitar bit into the izigqila's arm at the shoulder. The blade cut through both flesh and bone in a single stroke, embedding itself in the earth as blood flowed.
Margaret let out a faint scream, and the izigqila groaned again, but there was no other sound.
Mandla pulled his scimitar from the earth and wiped it clean of both dirt and blood on the izigqila's trousers.
"Now me," Ducoed said.
Mandla nodded again, and moved so his feet were near Ducoed's head. Ducoed looked up at the black man and the long, curved blade of the scimitar.
Chal had put him in this situation, and he hated her for it. He had focused on Rose as the main threat, and he had ignored Chal. He had underestimated the little native girl. She had surprised him. And she had hurt him. She had survived his first shot, a rare feat. She had healed herself in a flash and destroyed three of the soulgrunzers with just a wave of her hand. Then the water of the lake had risen in front of him, as if standing on its own, then crashed down on him, trying to smash him, to overwhelm him and crush him.
Such power. How had he not seen it?
"Margaret," he said, so the little girl would look at him, see him.
The scimitar flashed again. He felt only a slight tug as the muscles and bone of his right shoulder were parted. Only seconds had passed when he saw Mandla over him again, holding the scimitar as it dripped his blood.
He heard Margaret scream again, louder this time, and he laughed at the sound even as the pain of his amputation reached his brain.
Squeezing the pistol, he focused on that, and drew forth his power. He felt the tingle of electricity in his muscles and exhaled ozone-laden air. He forced himself to sit up, to leave his right arm on the ground behind him. "Bring me the arm," he said, the muscles of his face a tight mask.
He saw Margaret trying to cover her eyes, so she could not see Mandla pick up the severed arm of the izigqila, but the izidumbus held her arms. He laughed again.
Mandla brought him the arm and knelt beside him.
"Place it," Ducoed said through clenched teeth, "against my shoulder."
Mandla matched the sliced ends and pushed them together. The pain that stabbed into Ducoed brought tears to his eyes and he thought he felt the enamel of his teeth flake under the pressure of his jaw. Blackness whorled around his peripheral vision and tried to overcome him. He resisted, refused to go unconscious. He drove back the darkness with electric brightness, and pushed his power into his new arm.
More pain, and resistance, as his body refused to accept this new member.
Ducoed stared at the black hand with its yellow-brown palm and commanded it to clench. The fingers twitched.
Rose had healed his lashes and broken bones time and again throughout their training at the King's Coven. She had tried to teach him, but he had refused to learn. Healing was not power. Neither, he had discovered, was lying on his back, staring at the sky as his blood leaked from the wounds of multiple gunshots, waiting for the nursemaids of the 102nd to reach him. By then it was too late to ask Rose for her help. But the 102nd was full of women who he could, and did, tap as he recovered from the disaster of his first campaign.
Muscles and sinews and veins and arteries began to twine and combine. Marrow and bone bridged. The pressure in his mind and in his chest grew, pushing against the inside of his skull and squeezing his heart. He had never attempted anything like this before and the strain threatened to consume him. He no longer focused on channeling power into the new join. Now the healing pulled, and he fought to not be consumed by his own electric magic.
His new black hand formed a fist and the muscles of the arm bulged and the whole arm shook.
Healing was not natural for him. The methods of the 102nd were so ... weak. Even the few men in the 102nd used methods reminiscent of fairy godmothers. But, after forcing himself to learn the basics of empathy and nurturing, Ducoed found he could command his body to heal itself. As long as he pushed enough power into the injury and he could stand the strain. Or share the strain with another.
Mandla, who had remained beside him, holding the arm in place, now shifted to move away from him. The black hand closed on Mandla's wrist and prevented the movement. And opened a conduit into the warrior's strength.
Rose's healing, and that of the 102nd, relied on coaxing the body to heal itself. Magic provided the means, but the body itself provided the strength to make the healing happen. Fatigue and exhaustion were the result, a reasonable exchange for a sucking chest wound. In rare instances, the healers would provide some of their own strength, but the toll of fatigue was even greater, borne by the healer, and there was a risk of taking on in their own bodies the injuries they healed in the other's.
Ducoed had never had much patience for coaxing, and hated the fatigue that resulted from healing himself. He had discovered that the empathy taught by the healers had another use.
Through his grip on Mandla's wrist he took in the warrior's strength and vitality as if he drank deep of the purest, coldest well water. Mandla's first attempt to break his grip was the strongest, and failed. After that, Ducoed took what he needed.
The skin to cover the join of arm and shoulder grew last, the final stage of the union. The different colors of the skin swirled into each other like marble. Ducoed frowned at that. His plan had been to keep the black arm only until he could find an adequate substitute among the survivors--or the corpses--of Fort Russell. He had not expected this arm to so visibly taint him.
He stood, pulling Mandla with up him. Mandla's legs wobbled for an instant, then the warrior met his gaze with a flat expression. Ducoed grinned in response, showing his teeth. He could sense the fear that the warrior's impassive eyes hid.
"Thank you, Mandla," he said, still holding the other man's wrist. He considered using Mandla's own strength to crush the bones of the wrist. Because he could. But he needed Mandla whole. For now. He let go. "Break camp," he said. His eyes fell on the izigqila who still laid on the ground, blood still oozing from the gaping wound. "And send that to the izidumbus."
He turned, not waiting for Mandla to respond, and looked down at Margaret. He reached forward with his new hand and stroked her cheek, his fingers black against her pale skin. She shuddered and pulled away. He laughed.
\*
Ducoed took his damaged force due west, heading for the Misi-ziibi. He would wait for both Umoya and the reinforcements for Fort Russell there.
He had accompanied English regulars through bad country during his years in the 101st. The King's infantry were efficient and well-disciplined. They could set camp for a hundred men in less than an hour, and break it down and line up to march in the same amount of time. They could--and did--march across any terrain on the earth, extending the reach of His Majesty, enforcing the royal decrees and expanding the British Empire.
Formidable as they were, though, English regulars could be turned aside. They could not maintain a straight line march through a swamp. They could be distracted by the death cries of their fallen. They would not use the still-twitching bodies of those who had been marching in front as a raft-like bridge to cross quicksand. And they needed to sleep.
Granted, the izidumbus were slow and required direct, explicit orders, and the ithambofis were hard to control once blood had been spilled, and neither could be trusted to properly cook over an open flame, but Ducoed had made his choice. He could pick a new, still-living cook from the survivors of Fort Russell, once he got there. Or maybe from one of the fort's besiegers. An Italian, for instance. Italians were known for their culinary skills. The will-shattering magic that created the enthralled izigqilas would leave such skills intact.
Mandla, still hiding the fatigue Ducoed had saddled him with, stood waiting for him. The izidumbus walked around the big man as if he were a tree or a boulder, immovable.
"The ithambofis came across a farm," Mandla said as Ducoed came even. He matched Ducoed's stride and they walked side by side.
"Was there a woman?" Ducoed asked.
"Yes. She lives."
"Good." Ducoed clenched his new fist and flexed the muscles of his new arm. The violence of his healing and his dark fantasies about Chal had built up inside him. He felt ready to explode. He needed a release. "Have her ready in my tent when we make camp."
\*
Umoya arrived at their new camp on the bank of the river as Ducoed finished with the woman. He had two izidumbus carry off the corpse--she would join their ranks before sunrise--and cleaned up while Umoya watched.
Umoya stood taller than even Mandla, and looked more dangerous though he bore no visible weapons. He wore leather trousers and moccasins, but no shirt, in the manner of a native, with a robe made from the pelts of a creature Ducoed did not recognize. He recognized the skeletal hand of a child, though, used as a clasp for the robe. The exposed skin of Umoya's chest and arms was no single color, like that of Mandla, as if Umoya's parents, one native Amerigon and one escaped slave, had taken turns daubing their child with blacks and reds and browns. Much like the seam of Ducoed's new right arm and shoulder, he thought. Both of Umoya's eyes, though, were black, shiny holes in the mask of his face, as black as the long, thick hair held back by a leather cord.
"There is only one of the Gray Hair's daughters here," Umoya said. "Duke Blackwood," he added, stressing the title.
Ducoed used the remains of the woman's skirt to clean the blood off his face, then tossed the rag into a corner. Umoya had no knowledge of English titles or nobility, but he had seen through Ducoed's assumed title immediately. Ducoed did not care. He had taken the name as a shield, preserving his true name from his new partners. Ducoed knew that Umoya was a sorcerer or shaman among the Ubasis, but he was not an Ubasi. Ducoed only paid respect to the people in charge, not flunkies. "I was going to tell you that," he said. "But I guess you already spotted it. Did you meet her? Little Margaret? I'm sure you terrorized the hell out of the poor girl."
Umoya ignored him. "Where is the other daughter?"
Ducoed shrugged. "I'm sure I don't know," he said. "It's a big swamp out there, and she is with two people who know this area much better than I ever plan to."
He was not sure how it could happen, but Umoya's black eyes became even darker, and the danger the man radiated ratcheted up with nearly audible clicks. "You do not seem concerned that you are falling short on your bargain," Umoya said. "You offered my masters--"
"Do not presume to remind me of what I am already aware of, Umoya." Ducoed paused to rein in his temper, to regain control of his emotions and purge the thoughts of pulling his pistol on Umoya and disposing of the man in lightning and fire.
The Ubasi had plumbed Ducoed thoroughly in the weeks of his capture, before he had convinced them that he could serve them better alive than as a--. He did not know the word for the once-human things that were welded into the soulgrunzers. The Ubasi had power like nothing Ducoed had witnessed, and he had managed to convince them to share some of that power with him. Because he knew Colonel Laxton and had access to the English army command structure. Because he could walk into any English fort on the frontier. That the Ubasi had sent Umoya with the reinforcements meant that they did not yet fully trust him, and that they thought the big man at least an adequate match for Ducoed. More than a match at the moment. Ducoed could sense Umoya was prepared, magically coiled and waiting for Ducoed to attack.
Ducoed turned his back on Umoya and walked to the tent's only chair. He moved the chair so it faced Umoya, then sat. He forced a smile. "I said I don't know where she is in the swamp," he went on. "But you and I both know where she is going."
"The fort," Umoya said.
"Brilliant," Ducoed said, making his smile bigger. Because he knew Umoya hated to be patronized. "And at the fort, I will be able to offer up both the good Colonel Laxton--Gray Hair--and his two lovely daughters."
"You do not know that the other daughter will go the fort."
"Of course she will go to the fort. That is where her father is. And Rose will take her there for us. She has no more reason than myself to love Colonel Laxton, but Fort Russell is where the soldiers are. And the fort is closer than New Venezia."
"Your debts come due, and must be paid, whether you can deliver what you promised or no. You risk much."
Ducoed smiled again. "I'm risking nothing at all."
"I did not see your soulgrunzers," Umoya said.
The smile vanished, but Ducoed did not look away from Umoya. "We encountered something--someone--we did not expect."
"Some one?"
"There were two of them," Ducoed said. "But only one of them was unexpected."
Umoya's eyes shifted to Ducoed's right hand, then back to his face. "And still you say you are risking nothing?"
"You take care of Rose," Ducoed said. "And I'll take care of the unexpected Chal. She's mine."
"As you say, Duke Blackwood."
\*
The scouts and runners preceding the reinforcements for Fort Russell, coming upriver from New Venezia, encountered Ducoed's force the next morning. None of the men survived to return to the main body of the troops.
Umoya had arrived with a new squad of soulgrunzers, and more ithambofis and izidumbus and other creatures that Ducoed had not seen before, including some men that had been encased in armor and leaked hissing bursts of steam when they walked. These were not as large as the soulgrunzers, and they were hardly faster than izidumbus, but they looked solid. Ducoed made these his personal bodyguard, creating a ring of hot iron around himself. He sent Umoya with a contingent of ithambofis and a couple of the new soulgrunzers inland and downriver to take the English troops from behind. Then he arranged his undead forces for ambush. He kept Mandla near to hand, within the steaming, hissing circle of the bodyguards, and waited.
Ducoed took out his frustrations on the front lines of the infantrymen that marched up the road beside the river. He unleashed lightnings and fires, firing his pistol and reloading as he pressed forward.
The English regulars fell back and regrouped and established a firing line. The bullets slowed the mass of izidumbus and rang off the metal shells of Ducoed's bodyguards, but mere drops of metal could not stop their advance. The English fell back still further, a few of them panicking now and beginning to run despite the shouted orders and flashing sabers of their officers. The line of red coats stabilized and remained steady, bayonets set for charge.
Then blackness roiled up behind the English. Lightning and steel and claws struck from the blackness as Umoya joined the battle.
Ducoed let the barrel of his pistol cool as he watched Umoya's power roll out and wrap around English soldiers and crush them or wither them or throw them away. He had seen nothing like it before on the battlefields of Europe. Gunlocks and gunwitches served much the same purpose in European armies as artillery. Cannon of flesh and blood, and often deployed with the bombards and mortars.
Ducoed had been given command of this army of dead and undead and whatever else it was that had come with Umoya. He had field experience, but never with troops like these. Umoya, though, showed that he knew exactly what the various troops were capable of, and he deployed them around himself as if they could read his thoughts. And maybe they could. The blackness that frustrated the English was the natural element of the izidumbus and ithambofis. The creatures did not need light to see, so Umoya's black aura provided them with concealment. Ducoed learned--the gall of the lesson tasting like bile in his mouth--and sent in black clouds of his own.
The nature of the fighting changed as the regulars found themselves forced into hand-to-hand combat. The red coat lines wavered, then held again as His Majesty's infantrymen learned that the horrors they faced could be killed. Or if not killed, at least reduced to twitching body parts.
Ducoed sent in his soulgrunzers from the fore as Umoya released his from the rear. The grunzers used their huge axes to push aside their allies, unconcerned with undead flesh but using the flats of their blades. They waded into the battle and became a blur of black iron and edged steel and splashing blood and body parts.
Umoya pulled back his line of advance and opened an avenue of retreat for the English. As the red coats began to break discipline and take advantage of the way out, the way to safety, Ducoed started to shout obscenities at the sorcerer for pulling back to early. Then the smoke and chaos of the battle blocked his view.
The fighting was over in less than an hour.
"I thought we agreed there would be no survivors," Ducoed said as his and Umoya's contingents rejoined after the battle. "No one would be allowed to escape."
"There will be no survivors," Umoya said.
Around them, wounded men screamed as they were found and dispatched. The izidumbus stomped throats or strangled with their hands, ganging up as needed on those men who could still resist. Those men's screams were truncated. The screams of those the ithambofis located and converted to one of their own dragged out and on. Except for the lack of gunfire, the battlefield was louder now than before.
"Your line collapsed," Ducoed said. "I saw men escaping."
Umoya's flat face showed no emotion, but Ducoed could sense the man's satisfaction, his sense of superiority. They did not hate each other. They disdained each other, each man seeing the other as beneath him, not worthy of hate. They were partners, unequals, equal only under orders from the masters they both served.
"No one escaped," Umoya said. "There was no ... collapse. I drew back from the river's edge."
"Why would you do that?"
"To give them hope," Umoya said. "None who chased that hope lived to realize it."
"You risked--"
"I risked nothing," Umoya said. He did not raise his voice, but he cut off Ducoed as surely as if he had shouted. "A man surrounded, with no hope of retreat, fights to the death. A man outnumbered, but with a way of retreat open to him, still hopes. And dies easier."
Ducoed covered his flash of anger, the hatred mushrooming inside him--at being interrupted, at being lectured, at seeing that Umoya was right again--with a tight smile, baring his teeth. "I see," he said. He turned his back on Umoya, then said over his shoulder, "Send out patrols of ithambofis, anyway. Make sure that there were no survivors. We don't want word getting back to New Venezia."
"As you say, Duke Blackwood."
Ducoed nodded and walked away. Umoya was useful. For now.
Henkel Farmstead
1742 A.D.
Rose and Chal stood at the edge of the clearing and looked at the remains of the house, the broken pier, the trampled vegetable garden. The farm did not look attacked. It looked ... ground under foot. There was no smoke. Fire had not been used here. If there had been a stove lit in the house, it had been put out by whatever had smashed through the roof.
Major Haley stepped up on Rose's left, opposite Chal. "Just like the others," he said.
Rose nodded.
In her past, marching with the armies of England, she had seen burned-out farms and razed villages. That had happened here. Old World or New World, armies in enemy territory plundered and consumed as they moved.
But a fresh catch of fish lay dead on the ground near the splintered remains of the pier, mouths gaping, flat eyes staring. Beside the fish, a bloody rifle. The garden had been stomped into green and yellow mush, not harvested. The carcasses of chickens and a pig could be seen, pushed into the dirt and mud. Farm implements and tools had been dropped and left where they lay.
Only the people who lived here had been taken. Except for the blood on the rifle, there was no sign of any living human. Or what had once been a living human.
The trail of the attackers was plain. Rose and Chal and Major Haley and Janett had been following the trail since encountering it, because the trail pointed due west, a straight line toward Fort Russell. The forest, like the farm, had been trampled nearly flat. At least five grunzers and several hundred feet, bare and shod, walking in a mass, unconcerned with stealth. Sweeping up the farms and homes in its path, leaving in its wake everything any other army--any human army--would have called valuable. Sometimes also leaving shredded flesh in coagulating pools of blood, but never bones, and never a corpse.
She did not want to follow the trail, but it was the fastest way to Fort Russell. And this small army of ... whoever or whatever it was ... had not left anyone to watch its back. Neither she nor Chal had detected any watchers or scouts, nor any messengers sent back. This army was only interested in where it was going. And it seemed to be marching to the same place Rose was taking Janett and the major. The force was at least half a day ahead of them.
After Chal's wave, the four of them had run up the east side of the lake, then continued north for miles until they had crossed this path. Their going had been slow, because Chal had been too weak to assist, and Rose had refused to stop. She had wanted as much distance between them and Ducoed's unnatural army as possible. At least the major and Janett had been up to it. Major Haley had helped Chal walk when Rose got too tired. Janett, surprisingly, had said very little after realizing that Rose had come back without Margaret, only cried and clung to the major for a while. Since then Janett had walked on her own, keeping up in silence.
They had stumbled into this path with no warning. As she had stared west, Rose had found herself as scared as she had been in the midst of Ducoed's camp, seized by a cold-fleshed little girl dressed in Margaret's clothes, unable to pry the viselike grip of the girl's fingers free. Because this was the trail of a new force, just as unnatural and even larger than Ducoed's.
That had been yesterday afternoon. They had marched in the sunlight along the southern edge of the path, and camped inside the line of trees when the last gray of twilight had disappeared from the sky.
Again, Janett had surprised Rose by curling up on the ground next to Major Haley and going to sleep, holding the major's hand clasped to her bosom. No complaints, and no demands. Only the slightest whimper just before she fell asleep. Rose felt the stirrings of sympathy for the girl. The major had tried to catch her eye, but she had looked away.
She had built three simple snares, but in the morning they were untripped and empty. The army they followed had frightened off the game. As the four of them had continued their march even the birds were subdued, keeping their calls to one another short and low, and staying behind the cover of leaves and branches.
Rose forced herself to approach the remains of the farmhouse. She picked up the rifle and checked it. The gun had been fired and discarded. It was an old gun, and seen a lot of use. Still, it would fire.
Chal walked past her to the farmhouse as she gave the gun a quick cleaning. When she had finished, she loaded the gun, then handed it to Janett. "Cock it by pulling back the hammer," she said. "Then point it and squeeze the trigger."
Janett looked shocked, then scandalized, her mouth opening to say something as she took the rifle in both hands. Then she closed her mouth again and met Rose's eyes. The girl only nodded and held the gun awkwardly in front of her.
Rose gave Janett a tight smile, then said, "Get that shovel, Major. We might need it."
"A shovel?" asked Janett.
Rose looked back at Janett, her annoyance at the girl welling up again.
Janett looked away. "Never mind," she said.
Rose did not know what to say, so she walked to the front of the house where Chal stood, looking in. "Find anything?"
Chal pointed with her chin and Rose peered through the broken doorframe. In the far corner, lit by the gaping hole in the roof, bloody handprints were on the wall, and streaks, as if someone had tried to grab the bare wall while being pulled up. A grunzer had lifted the roof off the house, and pushed it out of the way. Then it had reached in and grabbed whoever had been cowering there, probably the woman of the house. Rose saw nothing in the debris to indicate any children had lived here, only a fisherman and his wife.
Rose's heart went cold again at the thought of Margaret. The clutching corpse of the little girl had not been Margaret. She had been bait. In a trap for Rose. She knew Ducoed had not killed Margaret. She did not know what Ducoed had in mind, but she was sure that Margaret was still alive. If Margaret had been dead--or harmed or worse--then Ducoed would have used Margaret's own corpse to bait the trap.
It was small comfort.
And that small comfort did nothing to ease the shame and fear that had settled into Rose's gut. Humiliation at being anticipated so completely, and being made to flee for her life. Shame that Chal had had to reveal herself. Guilt at having to leave Margaret for still longer in Ducoed's clutches. And scared as hell at what Ducoed and whoever--or whatever--it was he had now allied himself to might subject the girl to. Death was not always the worst thing that could happen.
Rose turned her back on the house. "Let's move," she said. They had to reach the fort. Colonel Laxton would have the troops to hunt Ducoed down. The reinforcements from New Venezia might have reached Fort Russell by now. At worst, they were still a day away. Either way, their only hope lay in the fort.
\*
The path they followed turned southwest less than a mile after the destroyed house.
"Peculiar," Major Haley said, leaning against the shovel he carried. "If they aren't headed to attack the fort, where are they are going?"
"To cut off the fort," Chal said.
Rose looked down the trampled path as far as she could, and for the one hundredth time that day calculated troop movement rates marching upriver with a full supply train. "They turned to join with Ducoed's force," she said. "Then they'll attack the reinforcements. At the rate they've been marching, they reached the river last night. If we move fast, maybe we can reach the fort before they do."
The major stared at her. "To warn them?"
Rose ignored him and met Chal's eyes. "Are you up to it?" she asked. "Do you think the Seekers--?"
Chal smiled a sad smile. "The Seekers are already on their way, I have no doubt. And this time they will find me."
"No!" Rose said. "We'll get the major and Janett to the fort. Then you can slip out and head inland, and we'll find each other again, like before ..." She let her voice drift off as Chal shook her head.
"Who are the seekers?" Major Haley asked.
"The Seekers will do what they must," Chal said. "And so will we."
"We're going to have to run," Rose said.
Chal held out her left hand and Rose took it in her right. Electricity ran up her arm and the warmth of magic bloomed in her chest and reached back into Chal, forming a link. She blinked and shook her head as the link made her hear and see double, through Chal's ears and eyes as well as her own.
"Major," Chal said, holding out her right hand.
Rose looked at Janett. "Take my hand," she said. Janett hesitated, then shifted her grip on the rifle and took the hand Rose offered.
"How is this going to help?" Major Haley asked. "We're still too far from the fort to run all the way."
Rose forced a smile. "Major," she said. "You should know better by now. Just don't let go." Then she added. "And don't lose that shovel."
\*
They ran, the four of them hand in hand, like friends and lovers out on a spring day, the trees and plants bending to make room, the small streams and ponds dividing themselves so they stayed on dry land. The sun moved overhead, peaked, and began climbing down the western sky in front of them. And they never slowed.
The exertion burned in Rose's chest and turned her fingers and toes to ice. She held both Chal's and Janett's hands with unfeeling fingers, hoping that the cold did not hurt them. She could feel Chal's strain, as well as her own, but with the link they bolstered each other's strength and kept each other going.
Smoke appeared over the tops of the trees in front of them and shown red and black in the last light of the day. Rose and Chal slowed to a walk. It was difficult not to stop altogether. Major Haley and Janett did try to stop, but Rose and Chal pulled them back into motion.
"We are ... nearly dead ... on our feet ... Sergeant," the Major said. He was using the shovel as a heavy, one-handed walking stick, leaning on it every other step.
Janett, surprisingly, said nothing. Rose looked at the girl. Janett was panting like the rest of them, but she was walking almost in step with Rose. With the butt of the old rifle cradled in her left hand, barrel propped on her shoulder, she made Rose think of new recruits at the King's Coven. Except that even after days spent in the rough, Janett still looked more like a lady--a real lady--carrying a gun than like any soldiers Rose had known. Maybe there was some strength in the girl, after all.
"We're almost there, Major," Rose said. "I expect we'll see the outworks soon."
The sounds and smells of booming guns and burning wood and shouting men penetrated the woods so they heard and smelled the siege of the fort before they saw it.
Rose let go of Janett's hand, then Chal's. "Wait here," she said. She unslung her pack and dropped it to the ground next to where Chal seated herself. She was stepping through the underbrush, moving slowly and carefully to avoid any sound, even as the Major let out a groan and dropped his shovel behind her.
The clearing around the fort had been expanded since her last visit to make room for the besieging force. She spotted Swedish banners, and Italian, and whispered a short prayer of thanks that Ducoed's force had not beaten them to the fort.
Fort Russell was a squat earthen and wooden structure built on top of a rocky hill that had diverted the waters of the Misi-ziibi around it to the west. The river and tall cliffs protected the fort on the north and west. Bastions protruded from the three inland corners of the fort. A barricade of piled earth eight feet high was the first layer of defense on the south and east sides. The inner wall had started as another earthen wall, but had been reinforced with upright tree trunks inside and out, and extended all the way around the fort. There were two towers, one on the northwest corner, overlooking the bend in the river. The other tower, built within the bastion of the southeast corner, provided a view of the clearing around the fort.
When Rose had last seen the fort, the clearing had extended two hundred yards, a no man's land of dirt and tree trunks that had been cut and burned out of the surrounding forest. Now the edge of the forest was at least four hundred yards from the walls of the fort, and at least five hundred men had dug in. A network of trenches with reinforced earthen battlements zigzagged across the clearing and up the slope toward the fort. There were two primary trenches, Rose saw, one starting on the south, where the Swedish forces had made their camp, and one on the east, where the Italians had bivouacked. Close to the fort, about one hundred yards from the walls, the two trench networks had connected. Between the two networks, in the southeast part of the clearing, was another camp, but one without banners and laid out very differently from those of the Europeans: Amerigon natives. Rose saw symbols of the Ni-U-Kon-Ska, the U-Mo'n-Ho'n, and others that she didn't recognize.
Smoke and steam roiled over the field from cannon and muskets and grunzers. The attackers had created multiple mortar positions with grunzers that squatted behind earthen battlements, their gun arm pointed nearly straight up. Other, smaller, regularly manned mortars had been set up in the trenches. In the forward sections of the trenches, men and grunzers with picks and shovels worked to dig the trenches ever closer to the walls. Within the trenches, soldiers waited, keeping their heads down and their powder dry. Some of the men closer to the fort would stand, face the walls, and take a shot. Grunzers and cannon behind the walls of the fort maintained a slow, booming rate of fire, targeting both the trenchers and the mortar positions. A few snipers also shot from the walls.
Rose pulled back into the underbrush and retraced her steps. Chal still sat next to Rose's pack. She looked more tired than Rose had ever seen her. Janett stood up and pointed the rifle at her as Rose came out of the trees. When Janett recognized her, the girl settled back into a squat near Chal. Major Haley sat against the truck of a shingle oak, the shovel on the ground beside him, his rifle across his lap. He looked up at Rose and gave her a weak smile, but otherwise did not move.
Rose went down on one knee next to Chal and looked into the girl's eyes. Chal's brown eyes were black in the deepening twilight.
"The call of the river is strong," Chal whispered.
Rose gave her a smile. "Looking to go home already?"
Chal smiled back, but it was a weak smile with more fatigue than amusement. "Not just yet, dear sister. Not just yet."
"Over here, Major," Rose said. "We need to talk."
The major groaned, sounding more like an enlisted man than an officer. He used the shovel to pull himself to his feet and came to sit next to Chal.
Rose described what she had seen of the fort, and drew a map in the dirt. "Normally, I'd say we let Chal be our ticket of safe passage through the natives. Even if they are from further north, they might recognize her and let her pass. But ... well, you can see the problem."
"How about we sneak along the north edge, between the Italian camp and the river?" Major Haley asked.
Rose thought for a moment. "The Italians riverboats and barges are probably beached along that bank of the river. I didn't see them but that only means they kept them back, out of easy range. So there will likely be a number of sentries and patrols along the riverbank, from the boats to the camp." She paused. "And there's probably a similar situation along the river to the south."
"You said there was a lot of smoke over the battlefield. Was there any river fog?"
"No," Rose said. "We're too far into spring for fog."
"But there can be," Chal said, and smiled.
\*
They held hands again as they walked along the muddy bank of the river. This time, though, they held hands so as not to be separated in the darkness and the thick fog that rolled off the river at Chal's request. The smell of the river was thick around them, the stench of mud and fish and decaying plants overriding the smells of the battle. Before they set off, Chal had touched each of their foreheads and eyelids, letting them see through the fog, though not completely. Rose estimated they could see about ten yards. The night sky was clear, but the bright stars could not be seen past the fog. Rose led the way, holding Janett's right hand with her left, her right hand gripping her pistol. Chal walked between Janett and Major Haley. Rose could feel Chal's fading strength through Janett's grip. They could all use a good night's sleep. And probably a day and night after that. Three days running through the bayuk would take its toll even without being pursued.
The troops attacking the fort had cut the forest away from the riverbank and built some rough piers. Lanterns had been hung along the piers and they glowed dimly in the fog. Pairs of sentries with lanterns walked along the piers. When they met another pair, they would raise their lanterns and exchange greetings and passwords in Italian. These piers and a few boats that had been pulled up on the bank provided additional cover. Rose led them from one to the next, doing her best not splash in the ankle-deep water or lose her moccasins in the mud. Chal was able to keep the major's and Janett's steps silent and splashless, but Rose was on her own.
Each time a pair of sentries came close, Rose gripped her pistol tighter. She did not want to risk a shot. Even if the shot would not be heard by the main body of the force, she had already counted a dozen sentries, and assumed there were more. Their numbers did not worry her, but the sentries were too spread out for her to be able to take care of them all at once. It only took one sentry to raise the alarm.
The sounds of the battle grew around them. The booming of the cannon had slowed as the fog obscured targets for both sides but neither side had stopped completely. The fog muffled the sounds, making it seem like a dream of a battle. Or a nightmare.
Rose moved them away from the riverbank as they came around the edge of the forest to the main clearing. They paralleled the north edge of the Italian's trench line up the hill toward the fort. They could sometimes see soldiers moving through the trenches. As they got closer to the fort, they could hear, then see, grunzers expanding the trenches, using oversized shovels to pile the earth ramparts higher.
Rose forced herself to relax her grip on her pistol and her muscles, but it was difficult, walking this close to the enemy. She could see the Italians, and hear them talking in low tones between cannon and mortar volleys. More than once she thought soldiers had seen them or heard them. Men had looked toward Rose and the others. But each time, the soldiers had looked away again, unable to penetrate the thick river fog.
When they reached the outer wall of the fort, Rose led them around to the north side. She hoped that getting into the fort without being shot would prove as easy as getting to the wall without getting shot. She did not expect any English soldiers on top of that wall, but there would be sentries--very jumpy, scared sentries--walking the space between the walls.
She let go of Janett's hand and motioned to Major Haley. She watched Janett and Chal both sit down on the packed dirt. Then she and Major Haley climbed the slope of the outer wall. They watched a pair of sentries without lanterns march past, then signaled for Janett and Chal to follow them. Janett struggled with the incline, but Chal steadied her and helped her up. The inside slope of the rampart was steeper and they all slid down it to land in a heap at the bottom of the trough.
That's where the sentries found them, a pair coming from each direction. The sentries blew their whistles, the alarm went up and bells rang inside the fort, causing bells and alarms to go off in the trenches below them.
Rose and Chal stood with their hands up as soldiers appeared over the north wall and pointed their rifles down at them. Janett stood but did not put up her hands. She looked more tired than captive.
"We are English," Major Haley said. He did not put his hands up either. He straighten his buffcoat, and tried to knock off some of the mud from his red coat and his gold braid. "I am Major Ian Haley, from Fort Gunter. With me are two scouts and Miss Janett Laxton, the Colonel's daughter. Take us to Colonel Laxton. At once."
The major had to repeat himself several times. First to the sentries. Then to the officer of the watch, who did not come down from the wall but insisted that Major Haley shout up at him. Then again to the same officer of watch, who gave his name as Captain John Keele, when all four of them had come up a ladder dropped for them. Major Haley maintained his bearing as an officer through all this. Rose was certain that the presence of Janett, obviously an English lady even after three days in the swamp, proved more convincing and compelling than the major.
Rose's pistol and rifle were taken away, as was Chal's cavalry rifle. The major's shovel and rifle, and the old rifle Janett had been carrying, had been left in the trees, so there were no other weapons to confiscate.
The private who took Rose's pistol did not notice the strange construction or the runes that flashed on the blackened metal when he grabbed it. She had her 101st Pistoleers badge tucked away in her pack. She heard some comments and snickers about "women scouts", but no mention of gunwitches or the bitches crew. Colonel Laxton would recognize her, she had no doubt about that, but she had seen no reason to advertise herself to the rest of the Colonel's command.
The officer of the watch, with a half-dozen men with rifles, escorted the group to the Commandant's office. A light shown from the small window when they arrived.
Rose felt an uncomfortable sense of già visto as she followed Major Haley and Janett into the office. She heard a voice from her past, a voice neither friendly nor unfriendly, saying, Now you've done it, lassie. You've woke the Leftenant.
An officer, a major, stood next to the colonel's desk and looked at the four of them with a mixture of wonder and disgust. He looked first at Major Haley, then at Janett. He gave Rose and Chal only a passing glance, then fixed his eyes on Major Haley again as if he wanted to know what an English officer could possibly be doing in the swamp with three women. He said nothing, however.
Colonel Laxton stood behind his desk with his back to them as they were led into his office. He wore his full uniform, which had been freshly pressed and starched, and his sword curved from his belt. His cover rested on his desk. Rose did not need to see his face. She recognized him from his stance: back straight, arms crossed, legs together, as if he were on the parade ground about to review recruits. Or to discipline them.
Janett recognized the colonel as well.
"Da!" Janett said, and rushed forward.
"Miss!" Captain Keele shouted, and interjected himself between her and the Colonel. The captain did not touch Janett, but he would not let her pass.
"Da," Janett said again, "this ruffian will not let me pass."
"Captain Keele," Colonel Laxton said without turning around. "You will please take your hands off my daughter." He paused. "And Janett, you will please compose yourself."
"Da, please," Janett said. But she stopped trying to get past the captain. Rose watched the girl take two deep breaths and calm herself. Janett ran her hands over her hair, then her swamp-and sweatstained dress. She became even more the English lady. She even managed to look less tired than Rose knew she was.
They stood there, the six men-at-arms at attention behind Rose and Chal and Major Haley, who were a step behind Janett and Captain Keele, and the Colonel still facing the wall as if the Union Jack which hung there were of utmost importance. Rose noticed Chal looking at her, so she met her eye. Chal's question was obvious on her face. Rose shrugged.
Rose crossed her arms to keep her hands from twitching. She could sense her pistol behind her, tucked into the belt of one of the privates. The palm of her right hand itched with the urge to summon it to her.
Colonel Laxton turned around. As he stepped from his desk his eyes swept the room. Rose heard the privates behind her and the major beside her snap to even greater attention than before. She had to resist the urge to do so herself. The colonel's gaze came to rest on Janett, and the barest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his thin lips. "Captain Keele," the colonel said, his voice almost kind, "would you be so kind as to let a daughter greet her father?"
The captain stepped aside and Janett glided to stand in front of the colonel. She executed a perfect curtsy, and said, "Father." Then she threw herself at the colonel, wrapping her arms around him. "Da," she said, her voice breaking, "it is so good to see you." She started sobbing and speaking at the same time, her words muffled by the colonel's coat. Rose could not understand what Janett was saying, but she heard the word "swamp" and "dreadful" and "Margaret" and "Mr. Thomas" repeated several times.
Rose had never seen the officer Laxton look surprised before, or discomfited. The colonel awkwardly put his arms around Janett in a stiff hug. "Janett, please, compose yourself," he said.
"Margaret," Janett managed to say. "They took Margaret."
The colonel stiffened, and his eyes swept the room once more. This time Rose saw recognition when his eyes met hers.
"Captain," the colonel said with no more kindness in his voice, "dismiss the men-at-arms."
"Sir?"
"Do it, Captain Keele. And have a chair brought in for my daughter."
As the captain dismissed the men-at-arms, Rose again resisted the urge to summon her pistol. Fort Russell was a small fort. Within its walls, her pistol would always been in reach.
The colonel said nothing else as he stood there, his arms around Janett. While Janett wept in his arms, he looked at Rose as if trying to divine her part--or her blame--in this situation. Rose met his gaze and did not look away. She could feel Major Haley tensing beside her, wanting to intervene but respecting his superior officer. A private came back with a chair. Only then did the colonel look away. He made Janett let go of him and sit down.
"Why are you here, Janett?" the colonel said.
Rose could not see Janett's face, but she could see the impact of the words on the girl.
"We--we came to see you, Da--father. All the way from England--"
The colonel held up a hand and Janett stopped speaking. "I sent word weeks ago that under no circumstances were you to undertake the trip to this fort."
"We did not get any message from you, father. We were at Fort Gunter for most of a month--"
"Enough. It is done. You are here. If a bit worse for wear." He paused and looked at Rose. "I suppose I have you to thank for that?"
"General Tendring asked that I accompany your daughters to see you," Rose said.
"Sir," said the major who had until then said nothing. "You will say 'sir' when you speak to the colonel."
Rose looked at the major, but said nothing. He furrowed his brow when her eyes met his, and he pressed his lips into a thin line. Rose raised one eyebrow.
"Where is Margaret?" Colonel Laxton asked. "Did you leave her at Fort Gunter?"
"No," Rose said, still looking at the major, whose face had turned a dark shade of red. "Margaret was taken when we were ambushed."
"Is she--?" The colonel's voice, the sound of a human emotion, brought Rose's attention back to him. She had never seen concern touch the lines of his face nor heard it in the timbre of his voice. For a few seconds, before he mastered himself again, he looked like a father, not a colonel, not an officer in the King's army, not the officer in charge of the King's Coven.
"I have every reason to believe that Margaret is still alive and unharmed. For the moment."
"Tell me," the colonel said. "Tell me everything."
\*
"I hold you personally responsible for the life of my daughter." The colonel stood at his full height. He did not look down at Rose but still managed to convey that he was looming over her.
Rose stood her ground and looked up at him. "I hold me personally responsible for Margaret."
"Colonel, sir, Rose--Miss Bainbridge," Major Haley said, stumbling over her name yet again, "did everything in her power to keep us all safe and get us here. Sir. She even attempted to infiltrate the--the enemy camp to rescue Margaret--"
"And she failed," the colonel said.
"She nearly got herself killed--"
"And if she had been killed," the colonel said, overriding the major, "I would have lost yet another daughter. This is why I sent word to Tendring at Fort Gunter, to hold my girls--both my girls--there until I sent further word. Or to send them back to England."
"Ducoed must have intercepted your communication," Rose said.
"I refuse to believe that Leftenant Ducoed behaved in the manner you have described," Major James Eason said. Colonel Laxton had only introduced the major, his adjutant at Fort Russell, when Major Haley made a point of asking his name. Rose had been content to not know the major's name.
"Why?" Rose asked. "Because he's an officer?" She spat.
"Leftenant Ducoed's service record is exemplary--"
"You have never met the man," Rose said.
"That is not true," Major Eason said. "Leftenant Ducoed was here at Fort Russell less than six weeks ago--"
"Ducoed was here?" That changed everything. If Ducoed had been at the fort, then he had been planning his betrayal for a long time.
"I found him charming and competent," the major went on, as if she had said nothing. "Not at all like most of the Witches Crew one encounters."
The epithet pulled Rose's attention back to the major. "Don't you mean the 101st Pistoleers, major?" she asked, her voice flat.
"Of course. It is a pity the Leftenant left before the start of the current engagement. His talents would have been of great use."
Rose gave up on Major Eason. She looked at Colonel Laxton. "I assure you, Colonel, Thomas Ducoed holds no love or respect in his heart for you. You held the whip when disciplining him. More than once, colonel. Or did you think that because he was made an officer that he had changed? You probably told Ducoed yourself that your daughters were coming--"
"That is enough, Miss Bainbridge. That is--" The colonel paused and regained control of himself. "Quite enough. Major Eason, Major Haley, Miss Bainbridge, please calm yourselves."
Chal, who had said nothing since being brought into the colonel's office and now leaned against the wall in the corner behind where Janett sat, met Rose's eyes, then rolled her eyes. Janett met her eyes too. Janett looked as if she was about to start crying again. Or maybe as if she was trying not to start crying again. Janett had not said anything in the last ten minutes. She had just sat in her chair looking back and forth between Rose, Major Haley and her father. Colonel Laxton had told her to go into his quarters, but she had refused. Her refusal had surprised both the colonel and Rose.
No one spoke for a long minute.
"Now, if we are all rational again," the colonel said, "I suggest we turn our attention to more pressing matters."
"More pressing?" Rose asked. "If you're done blaming me for Margaret, I will be off. I will leave Janett in your protection and go back with Chal to find Margaret and rescue her."
"I want to go too," Janett said, surprising Rose again. When everyone turned to look at her, Janett looked down at her hands in her lap. "Margaret is my sister."
"No," Rose said. She respected the urge, but did not want the baggage.
"That is enough, Janett," the colonel said. "Do not be foolish."
"She is not being foolish, colonel," Rose said.
"I will ask you to stay out of my family business, Miss Bainbridge."
"She is being loyal," Rose added. "But, no, Janett, this is not something you can do." She spoke to the colonel again. "I only ask for provisions and powder. Then Chal and I can be on our way and you can get on with your little war."
"That is out of the question, Miss Bainbridge," Colonel Laxton said. He held up a gloved hand to forestall Rose's protest. "If we were indeed betrayed, Miss Bainbridge, then I have little hope for the safe return of my little--" He paused, his jaw clenched. "For Margaret," he went on. "I will grieve her loss." He paused again and Rose saw muscles twitching in his neck. "But if what you say is true, then we face an even greater threat than we knew. Is it your considered opinion, Major Haley, that the force you encountered was attempting to interdict the fort and attack the reinforcements sent from Fort Gunter?"
"It is, sir."
"Then we can assume that the reinforcements, if they reach us at all, will be significantly reduced in strength. It is also possible that we will have to rescue them."
"But the fort is already under attack, sir," Major Eason said.
"I have not forgotten that fact, major," Colonel Laxton said.
Major Eason bit his lower lip and said nothing else.
"Is there any chance of a truce?" Major Haley asked.
"We do not know, Major Haley, if the force you saw is acting on its own or is allied with our current set of problems."
"We saw no sign of either Swedish or Italian forces, sir."
"From what you've told me, you saw very little of any of the attackers. Just monsters in the dark."
"They had grunzers of a type I've not seen before, Colonel," Rose said. "And the only European soldiers I saw, besides Ducoed, were walking dead."
"Be that as it may," the colonel said, "until we know otherwise, we cannot assume that our situation has improved. It may very well have become even worse than we know. However," the colonel went on after a second's pause, "there is one part of our situation that has improved." His eyes met Rose's. "As Major Eason pointed out, if Leftenant Ducoed were here, we would have a significant advantage. That he is not here, and with the additional prospect that he might be assisting our enemies, makes our situation more severe. With Miss Bainbridge's assistance, though, we might be able to upset the balance of this siege, maybe even end it."
"I hardly see," Major Eason said, "what the addition of a scout--a woman scout, no less--even one in trousers, does to improve our situation. Unless you plan to send a new message to General Tendring at Fort Gunter?"
The colonel did not take his eyes from Rose. "Miss Bainbridge, the former Sergeant Bainbridge of the 101st Pistoleers, has more talents than the simple ability to put on trousers."
"If I understand you, colonel," Rose said, "then I must point out that I am no longer in your army. My loyalty is not to you, it is to Margaret. And it is Margaret that I'm going to find. For you. For myself. And because I won't let Ducoed have her. So are you going to let Chal and I have some provisions before we go? Or not?"
"You mean she's a witch?" Major Eason asked. "A gunwitch? Really, sir, I must protest that I was not told of this sooner."
Colonel Laxton and Rose both ignored the major, their eyes locked. "My orders, Miss Bainbridge, are to hold this fort. To that end, I am willing--I am required--to use any all resources at my disposal. Or that may come to my disposal."
"I am not at your disposal, Colonel Laxton."
"Private," the colonel said, his voice raised, his tone hard.
The door to the office opened, and a private stood there at attention.
"Ask the Officer of the Watch to step in here again."
The private saluted, and the door closed. A minute later, the door opened again and Captain Keele came in. Behind him were the same six men-at-arms as before.
Rose looked at the men-at-arms, then back at the colonel. Her right fist clenched.
"I will of course reinstate you at your full rank of master sergeant, Miss Bainbridge." Colonel Laxton walked around to the other side of his desk and pulled out a drawer. He reached into the drawer and took out a sheaf of parchments that he laid on the desk. "Is that acceptable?"
"No, colonel," Rose said. "It is not. You conscripted me once before. You will not do that again."
Chal pushed away from the wall where she had been leaning, alert. Rose shook her head to forestall Chal taking any drastic action. "If we are finished here, colonel, Chal and I will be on our way."
"I have a daughter in danger, Miss Bainbridge. But I have an even greater duty to the King."
"Father--"
"Silence, Janett. Miss Bainbridge, will you accept your duty to the King, as well?"
"The King sent me here, colonel. And not as a personal favor."
"Then I have no choice." The colonel stood up straight again. "Captain Keele, arrest Sergeant Bainbridge."
"Colonel, I must protest--"
"Silence, Major Haley."
"It's all right, Ian," Rose said.
Two men-at-arms came forward and grabbed Rose's arms. She let them grab her, and signaled that Chal was not to interfere either. This fort could not hold her.
When she saw the manacles Colonel Laxton took out of the still open drawer of his desk, though, she was held too tightly to break free, and the other four men-at-arms held their rifles pointed at Chal. Chal caught Rose's change in attitude and smiled a very unfriendly smile at the men covering her.
"No, Chal, don't," Rose said, her mind racing. "We'll work this out. Get some rest. Take care of Janett."
The men held her arms forward while the colonel locked the shackles on her wrists. The runes that traced along the metal glowed. A cold fog formed around her wrists and dripped to the floor.
"Captain Keele, take Sergeant Bainbridge to the stockade," Colonel Laxton said.
King's Coven North
1718 A.D.
Rosalind stood still while Corporal Edwards pulled the black felt hood over her head, then let the corporal spin her so she faced the opposite direction. The hood stank of the bad breath and rank sweat of the hundreds of nervous privates who had worn it before her. She did not know how long this particular hood had been used by His Majesty's 101st Pistoleers, but she could easily believe that it had been one of the first. And that it had not been washed once in all those years. She tried to hold her breath. She heard sounds of a struggle further down the line, followed by a snapped, "Stand at attention, Private Ducoed."
"Is there a problem, Corporal?" The Leftenant's voice. Never raised. Always the omen of punishment. The still-healing scars from her most recent lashing tingled on Rosalind's back. She tensed.
"No, Leftenant," Corporal Edwards replied. "The private was only disoriented by the hood."
Rosalind could visualize the Leftenant's curt nod.
She let her breath out in a slow sigh, trying not to gag on the smell of the stale reminders of her breakfast and wishing Thomas would, for once, not make the corporal's duties difficult. An arm's length away to her right she heard Private Millsom mutter something unintelligible but probably expressing the same wish. In the three months she and Thomas had been in training at the King's Coven, Thomas been under the lash over a dozen times for insubordination and refusal to follow orders. Three of those times he had taken their whole squad to the posts with him.
She put the sting of the lash out of her mind and thought that at least the hood warmed her face and blunted the cold autumn breeze. At least it was not raining today. Or had not started raining yet. At least the mud she was standing in only covered the soles of her shoes. At least her undergarments were still dry. At least they were not marching in circles around the camp, carrying packs that weighed two stone.
Three months in His Majesty's Army had taught Rosalind to count her blessings in the negative. To list out the worst that was not happening at any given moment.
At least Thomas seemed to have cooperated sufficiently that she no longer expected to be pulled up on the post at sundown.
She heard Corporal Edwards pass behind her less than a minute later. She heard the woman snap, "Attention!"
Rosalind stood straighter than she had been, hands at her sides, right hand gripping her pistol, the barrel of her loaded pistol pointed down at the ground.
"Sir!"
"Proceed," said the Leftenant. He sounded bored. He always sounded bored. Rosalind had never heard the Leftenant sound anything but bored. But the man's eyes, she knew, were attentive, sharp, looking for the least mistake or shortcoming.
She felt the Leftenant's eyes on her now. She hoped she had properly loaded her pistol. Otherwise the shot and powder were even now dropping to the wet ground at her feet. She wished she could see.
Their superiors had started this new drill only the week before. The privates were brought out in squads and lined up facing away from the targets. Then they were hooded and spun to face downrange. Finally, one by one, they had their hoods removed and were ordered to fire at the target in front of them. Then to reload and fire again. The first targets had been the same stuffed-straw target dummies they had been shooting at from their first days in the Coven. Then the targets had put been dressed in the uniforms of the Swedes, or the Germans, or the Italians. Then in the red uniform of His Majesty's Army. Since the target had been dressed in the uniform of a regular, with white trim instead of the Pistoleer's black and yellow, Rosalind had hesitated only a second. The next day, the targets had been dressed in the black-and-yellow faced uniform of the Pistoleers. She had surprised herself by hesitating even less.
The drill came to her slowly, one private at a time. The rustle of cloth and hair as the hood was pulled off. The order, "Aim and fire at the target in front of you, Private." Sometimes the order was repeated. The boom of the gun discharging. The smell of burned powder and the odor of raw power coming through the hood. The order to "Reload and fire again, Private." Another boom. Then, "At ease, Private." And on to the next in line.
Her ears were ringing from Private Millsom's two shots when she felt the corporal's hand grab the bag and pull. She blinked against the gray haze of the overcast made brilliant by her time under the hood. The target dummy was dressed very differently today. Not a uniform.
"Aim and fire at the target in front of you, Private," Corporal Edwards said behind her.
Rosalind brought up her right arm, bringing the pistol into line with the target as she shifted her stance. She braced her right wrist with her left hand and looked down the barrel. She could feel the power build inside her, ready to join with the discharge of her shot. She saw the runes flash and dance along the metal of the single shackle on her left wrist, its inhibiting influence doused by the proximity of the corporal. Her finger tensed, ready to squeeze the trigger and release the power. But she did not fire.
The target dummy was wearing a summer dress. A ripped dress, poorly patched, that had once been finery. That had once been her dress. Made for her by her mother. She remembered the spring evenings spent together cutting and stitching and talking. Before the day in Squire Phillips' field. Before the summer solstice festival. Before her betrayal by her family. Before the King's Coven had come to claim her.
This time it would not be like shooting an enemy soldier. Or shooting another soldier or a Pistoleer. This would be like shooting a woman. Shooting the woman she used to be. It would be like shooting herself.
"Aim and fire at the target in front of you, Private," Corporal Edwards said again.
Her conscription. Her isolation. Her being stripped and shorn and uniformed. Three months of following orders. Three months of drills and marching and shooting at targets. All of it been leading to this. The understanding that she had no past any longer. That who she had been was gone, except this one last bit of herself. And she would be the one who made it final. She pulled the trigger.
She felt her chest go cold as the lightning and fire that had been building up inside her shot out of her. White and red power sparked and streaked through the air at the speed of the bullet, all three hitting the target dummy. The bullet punched through. The fire burned. The lightning ripped. The crudely patch top of the dress that had once been hers fell away, exposing the scorched upper torso of the target dummy.
"Reload and fire again, Private." Rosalind could barely hear the corporal over the roar in her ears. And in her mind.
She reloaded her pistol with a mechanical precision that surprised her. A quick swab to clear the barrel. Rip the pouch. Dump the powder. Drop the ball. Ram the wadding. Prime the pan. Pull back the hammer. Take aim.
She, Rosalind Bainbridge, did not do these things. Someone else, someone not Rosalind Bainbridge. Rosalind Bainbridge could not do these things. Private Bainbridge, though, did them all perfectly, precisely.
This time, she did not use the lightning and the fire she had been taught while at the Coven. If she was going to kill herself--who she used to be--then she should use what she had brought with her. The corporal might protest. Or she might not. The order had not been specific. Reload and fire again, Private. The cold in Rosalind's chest became a void that pulled the heat out of the air around her. She felt the mud she stood in become rigid. She let out a breath that fogged in the wind. She focused the cold into her hand, the gun, the bullet. White fog dripped off her fingers and the barrel of the gun. She squeezed the trigger.
The sound of this second shot was muffled. Unlike the lightning and the fire, which made the shots even louder and added a crackle and hiss that normal bullets did not have, the cold dampened the noise. The cold was just as damaging. Though in a different way.
The target dummy shattered. The remains of her dress fell to the ground amid a heavy, white fog that rolled along the ground like syrup.
"At ease, Private." If Corporal Edwards was surprised or annoyed, there was no sound of it in her voice. The corporal moved down the line.
Rosalind pulled her boots free of the frozen mud and stood at ease. She watched the other target dummies dressed in the former lives of the other privates disintegrate one after the other. Rosalind noticed that Corporal Edwards did not have to repeat herself when she gave the order to Thomas. If there had been any hesitation between the order and the act, Rosalind did not notice it. Thomas' first shot was enough to destroy the target dummy that had been dressed in Thomas' old clothes. The second shot was only a matter of form.
\*
Thomas was cheerful as they ate lunch. He was always in a better mood after magic-fire exercises. Today, though, he was almost jolly.
Rosalind and Thomas ate with their squad, but on the edges of the group. Like the rest, they squatted as they ate, resting on their heels, their pistols cleaned but unloaded, hanging from straps around their necks. They took their pistols with them everywhere. All the Pistoleers did. When they drilled with infantry rifles, they had their pistols with them. When they visited the latrine in the middle of the night, they had their pistols with them. They were Pistoleers. Pistoleers were, the corporals told them repeatedly, inseparable from their pistols.
"Without your pistol," Corporal Edwards had told them on their first day in the Coven, "you are not a Pistoleer. And if you are not a Pistoleer, then you are witch. And if you are witch, you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead, dead, dead. Because witchcraft is a crime." There were a few weak chuckles at this and a comment that Rosalind did not hear. "No," the corporal said, responding to whoever had spoken, "you will not be burned at the stake. Because we are Englishmen and not ignorant barbarians like the Italians. But because we are smart Englishmen, who prefer to be safe rather than sorry, once you are dead, dead, dead, your corpse will be burned and the ashes scattered. And so, as a Pistoleer of the One Hundred and First, you will go everywhere with your pistol. You will sleep with your pistol. When you wake up in the morning, you will have your hand on your pistol. This will be a new experience for you women, but should prove no great challenge for the men." More laughter. "You will eat with your pistol. You will shit with your pistol. You will do everything we tell you to do, and you will do it with your pistol."
Only one member of their squad, Private Carlell, made the mistake of leaving her pistol behind in her cot when she made a late night visit to the latrine. The whole squad, men and women, had then been rousted out and, one after the other, bound to the post and given two lashes. A second reminder had not been required.
Thomas dipped the corner of the hard, black bread into his bowl of thin stew. "I felt the chill from your second shot," he said as he waited for the bread to soak up the broth. "One last bit of cold hatred for your old life?"
Rosalind shook her head. "I didn't hate my old life," she said. "I miss my family. My father. My mum. Even my sister, Elizabeth. And now they're gone."
"No," Thomas said. "Your family was already gone. They sent you here and then set about forgetting you--"
"No, Thomas. Don't say that. They didn't. They couldn't."
"They did," Thomas said. He ignored her still shaking head. "You might be surprised what a family is capable of. Even if you shouldn't be. Not now." He paused to take a bite. Then, while still chewing, he said, "Wasn't it cold enough, though, don't you think? Did you have to go and make it colder?"
"I noticed you didn't use any fire on yours, Private Ducoed," Private Millsom said from behind Rosalind. "All very cold, white lightning is what I saw. No fire mixed in at all. One last bit of cold hatred for your old life?"
"Oh, no, Private Millsom," Thomas said, looking past Rosalind. His voice was flat. A little breeze whirled around him. Rosalind saw the runes on his shackle flash and fade an instant before she smelled the metallic odor of Thomas' suppressed magic. "There's still a lot more where that came from."
Rosalind heard Private Millsom shift behind her, moving further away. Private Millsom did not respond.
"Besides," Thomas went on, "adding fire to lightning is like putting cold on ice. Or cold on damp," he added, and flashed a smile at Rosalind.
She smiled back at him. She wished Thomas would smile more. It changed his face, warmed up his eyes. She also wished he would not antagonize their squad mates so much. She was the only one he would talk to in a friendly manner.
In the first weeks of their training, Thomas had spoken even less, and only to her. She had had to beg him, after his second time under the lash, to answer the corporals and the Leftenant and the other superior officers when they spoke to him, and to do as they told him. He had listened to her, finally, but had then refused to speak to her for a more than a fortnight. Not until they had moved from simple load-fire-clean-reload drills with their pistols and had begun the first magic-fire exercises.
Thomas had excelled at the magic-fire drills and would have done nothing else if the corporals had not kept his magic under control with his shackle. Thomas was the only soldier in their squad, and one of only a few in the entire training company, that had been able to summon lightning before he arrived at the Coven. So he had been set to teaching Rosalind and the rest of the squad, as well as another squad. He had enjoyed that, then had been upset again when he had had to be taught with the rest of them how to summon the fire. Rosalind had tried to appease him by teaching him how she summoned the cold, but he had been uninterested. He wanted the fire. What he hated was having to learn it from someone he despised, which was everyone but Rosalind.
Thomas would also stop talking to her after those days when she was pulled out of marches or latrine duty or other tasks around the encampment and sent to train with the 102nd. The healers of the 102nd treated her like an outsider, an invader trying to steal their secrets. Then when she got back to the tent she shared with her squad, her squad mates treated her the same way, especially Thomas. She had offered to teach Thomas what she learned, but he never had the patience for the techniques. Maybe it was because their shackles made the exercise purely mental. They could not practice the techniques for real. The times Thomas, or the whole squad, her included, were disciplined, she wanted to heal the stripes, but could not. She could have healed them easily, except the runecarved shackle on her left wrist prevented her. Thomas had laughed when she told him that.
\*
The hooded magic-fire exercises continued through the rest of the week. The target dummies were dressed in a variety of roles: merchants, farmers, fullers, and more. Sometimes the dummies wore hats, sometimes they wore bonnets.
"You are His Majesty's 101st Pistoleers," Corporal Edwards told them over and over. "You are cannon who need no crew. You are field pieces with the ability to aim themselves. Smarter than grunzers--most of you--but you are artillery, plain and simple. And as artillery, you will fire upon whatever and whoever your superior officers designates as a target. You will reign down lightning and destruction on the enemies of His Majesty, whether they be soldiers or civilians, men or women, adults or children."
On the last day of the week, as the hood came off, Rosalind found herself lining up her pistol to shoot a smaller target dummy than any she had seen before. The target stood only waist high, and was dressed in simple clothes.
"Aim and fire at the target in front of you, Private," Corporal Edwards said behind her.
Rosalind squeezed the trigger and the target dummy exploded in a cloud of straw and strips of cloth. It was only a target dummy, not really a child, but she could not stop the nausea. She doubled over and threw up her breakfast.
When she had composed herself again and stood at attention, Corporal Edwards said, "At ease, Private." Then moved on to her left.
You are cannon. You are artillery. The words echoed in Rosalind's head. Rosalind had been a girl needing a husband. Private Bainbridge was becoming a mode of transport for a pistol.
\*
The next magic-fire exercises there were no hoods, and no target dummies. Instead of target dummies, shorn sheep had been tethered to posts, one per private. The sheep bleated or munched on the sparse grass of the firing range, oblivious, until the slaughter started.
Corporal Edwards had them follow the same drill as before, with each member of the squad firing twice in turn.
Rosalind had never seen so much blood, not even when she had gone hunting with her father or when Cook and her parents had butchered a hog or dressed a deer. The bodies of the sheep exploded under the combined impact of lead and magic, showering the sheep yet to be targeted with blood and body parts. Those sheep screeched and pulled against their tethers. They tried to break free and run away.
Rosalind vomited again, this time before it was her turn to shoot. She had to quell the nausea in her stomach as she aimed for the center of the sheep's torso. She had to ignore the panicked look in its eyes and the pitiful bleating. She had to ignore the blood spread over its skin.
Private Bainbridge squeezed the trigger. Private Bainbridge hit her target. Rosalind hated herself.
They had mutton stew for dinner that night. Rosalind could not make herself eat it. She gave her share to Thomas.
\*
Rosalind opened her eyes as the guard changed after midnight. It was dark in the tent she shared with Privates Millsom, Gadge, Wad, Carlell, and Rames. She could hear their breathing, especially Private Millsom's snoring. She waited until the guard detail had passed their tent, then she folded back her blanket, picked up her pistol with her left hand, and stood. She pulled on boots and shrugged into her coat.
"Another midnight latrine visit, Private Bainbridge?"
Rosalind started at Millsom's whisper. She put a finger to her mouth. "Shh. You'll wake the others."
"Like you wake me every night?"
"I'm sorry," Rosalind said.
Millsom did not respond. She turned over, putting her back to Rosalind.
Rosalind unbuttoned the front of the tent and slipped through, closing it quickly to let out as little of the accumulated body heat as possible. She heard Millsom turn over again as she buttoned the tent flap closed.
She went to the latrine, nodding to the guard she passed on the way to and back. But she did not go back to her tent. Out of sight of the guard, she slipped into the shadows between tents and made her way to the rear of the pantry tent. She sat on a dry spot. She pulled her legs up to her chest with her arms and rested her head on her knees. She did not know whether Thomas would show tonight. She always came for him, but the reverse was not always true.
When she sat alone, in the dark, in the middle of the encampment, she felt further away from home than ever. Free for a few minutes from the demands of corporals and from the disapproving eyes of the Leftenant and other officers. But still carrying her pistol, with an impenetrable wall of English military and law between her and home. Or what used to be her home. She did not cry, though. Because if Thomas did show, and he saw her tears, he would laugh at her.
Ten minutes later she heard footsteps. She tensed, ready to run away if it was a guard, but she recognized Thomas' gait, then his silhouette against the lighter color of the tent walls. He saw her and came to her. He sat on her right. He felt warm against her arm and shoulder.
He leaned his head toward her. "Are you still crying about the mutton?" he asked, his voice a whisper.
"I'm not crying," Rosalind said, also whispering.
Thomas smiled, but did not otherwise respond. They sat in silence
"How do you do it?" Rosalind asked after a few minutes.
"It's like there's all this ... this lightning inside me," Thomas said, the fingers of both his hands coming together in front of him in the shape of a ball. "Just crackling and snapping, wanting to be let out."
"Not that. How do you pull the trigger?"
Thomas put his hands down. After a second, he asked, "How did you do it? Today?"
Just like Thomas to ask her the question she was trying to avoid. "I ... I just obeyed the order." She swallowed. "When it was target dummies, I told myself I was just obeying the order. And that they were just target dummies. I wasn't really hurting anyone. Today, though ... I almost didn't do it."
"Really? I didn't notice any hesitation. Edwards said 'fire', you fired."
"I didn't fire," she said. "I mean, it was ... as if I was someone else. Someone who could pull the trigger. But I was just obeying the order. I didn't want to do it. The sheep looked ... it looked like a person."
"Most people are sheep," Thomas said.
"No, they're not. They're people. I don't know if I could shoot a real person."
"I know you could," Thomas said.
The words chilled her, and Rosalind wanted to protest that she could not. Then she remembered William and Roger Phillips, and she knew he was right. She did not say anything. She just let out a sigh.
"I imagine the target dummies are someone I want to shoot," Thomas said after a short silence. "And then pulling the trigger is easy."
Something in his voice, and the sound of a pistol's hammer lock being pulled back, made Rosalind look up. Thomas was not looking at her. He had his right hand up, holding his pistol, pointing it into the darkness at something only he could see. His finger tightened on the trigger. The hammer swung forward. The sound of the strike made Rosalind jump, but the pistol was not loaded. The spark struck with the flint seemed as bright as lightning and left a green streak on her vision.
Thomas put the pistol back in his lap. He faced her again, and smiled. "It's that easy."
Rosalind shuddered from the cold in the air. And from the chill in his smile.
Thomas sat up and stretched his left arm across her shoulders. He pulled her to him and she realized he was going to kiss her. Surprised, she pulled back.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
Thomas pulled his arm back. "Nothing," he said. "I ... it was nothing." He pushed himself to his feet. "I better go."
Rosalind watched him walk off into the darkness.
\*
Rosalind made her way back to her tent thinking about Thomas, surprised to feel remorse that she had pulled back. That she had stopped Thomas before he kissed her. Surprised to discover that she wanted him to kiss her. She had thought of Thomas as the boy she met on her way to the King's Coven. Then as her only friend in the 101st. Tonight was the first time she had thought of him as a man. A young man, younger than her by a year, but still a man. But not until she was watching him walk away.
She had thought about following him, but decided that was unwise. Not only because Thomas would still be angry with her, and he could be very unpleasant when he was angry, but because she had been away from her tent too long already. She hoped Millsom had gone back to sleep and forgotten her leaving.
Once at her tent, she hung her pistol strap around her neck so she could reach down and unbutton the front flap. She heard footsteps and looked up, wondering if Thomas had followed her.
A soldier rushed at her from the left. Not Thomas. A regular, in a white-trimmed red coat and tricorner hat on his head. He had no weapon in his hands, but he had his arms spread wide, hands ready to grab her. She did not see the other soldier that came from the right, behind her once she had turned to face the first soldier, and pulled her arms behind her and lifted her up.
She cried out at the pain in her shoulders. She remembered Robert Phillips grabbing her and tried to kick. The first soldier, though, seemed to have been waiting for that. She managed one solid kick before her legs were pinned and she was suspended between the two soldiers.
Only then did it occur to her to yell for help. Her shouts died on her lips, though, as Corporal Edwards, in full uniform, her pistol ready in her right hand, came out of the tent, followed by Private Millsom. Millsom was also in uniform, but much less tidy. She was smiling.
"That will be all, Private Millsom," Corporal Edwards said. She spoke to Millsom, but her eyes never left Rosalind.
The smile on Private Millsom's faltered. The woman looked confused.
"That will be all, Private Millsom," Corporal Edwards said again when the private did not move. "You are dismissed. Be grateful, Private," the corporal went on, "that the punishment for this first offense will not be shared by the full squad."
Private Millsom ducked back into the tent and buttoned the flap closed.
"What is this about?" Rosalind asked. Her shoulders burned, but she could not budge either her arms or her legs. The two men held her securely. "I was just going to the privy. The latrine."
"The private will speak when spoken to," Corporal Edwards said. "And when the private does speak, she would be advised to tell the truth." Only then did the corporal look away from Rosalind. To the soldiers, the corporal said, "Bring her along." Then she turned and walked away.
\*
In the black tent that served as the stockade, Rosalind had her hands cuffed behind her back and was made to stand at attention to await the review of her commanding officer. They left her pistol hanging around her neck.
"Fraternizing with the other privates, the men," Corporal Edwards told her, "is a very serious offense."
"We were just talking--"
Corporal Edwards held up a hand, interrupting Rosalind. "You have not been asked a question, Private Bainbridge. Do not compound your punishment by continuing to speak out of turn. The Leftenant will be very unhappy to hear about this infraction. He will insist that an example be set to deter any other violations of this sort."
An example be set. Rosalind remembered the example made of Private Carlell and shuddered.
Corporal Edwards had then spun on her heel and left the stockade.
Rosalind heard the commotion before she saw the four men-at-arms carrying the struggling form of Thomas. "Get your hands off me, you bastards!" Thomas was shouting, and worse. The soldiers brought Thomas into the stockade and dropped him on the ground. All four men were required to hold him to get the cuffs on him.
Rosalind noticed that the cuffs were simple iron shackles, not the kind she and Thomas had worn on their trip to the King's Coven. The single shackle around her left wrist, though, still kept her from reaching the magic inside her.
Thomas continued to struggle and shout even with the cuffs on. He kicked at the soldiers and butted them with his head when they told him to stand at attention. Rosalind cried out for the men to stop, but they ignored her as they battered Thomas down to the ground with their fists and elbows, then kicked him until his curses were only moans. When it seemed all the fight had gone out of him, they picked him up again, put him on his feet near Rosalind and told him to stand at attention.
He wavered, but he did not fall. He glared at the soldiers through the swelling of his cheeks and brows, but said nothing more.
Rosalind felt tears in her eyes as she watched him.
Before they left, one of the soldiers took Thomas' pistol from the pocket of his overcoat and hung it around his neck.
The bruises and welts on Thomas' face reminded Rosalind of the first time she had seen him, and she wished she could help him.
"I'm sorry," she whispered after the soldiers had left.
His eyes flicked to look at her, then away again. His jaw clenched, but he did not say anything.
"I'm sorry," she said again.
"This is all your fault," Thomas said, the words thick from his swollen lips. "Bitch."
"Thomas--!" she said, and sobbed.
"The prisoners will be silent," snapped the guard outside the stockade.
\*
Morning dawned, the guards outside the stockade changed, but no one came for the two of them. The guard looked in on them every fifteen minutes. When Rosalind asked the new guard when the Leftenant or Corporal Edwards would come for them, the guard had only told her, "The prisoners will remain silent."
The weight of the gun around her neck, and the hours spent standing, pulled against Rosalind. Her legs threatened to give out, and once she fell to her knees. She managed to get back to her feet, though, before the guard looked in on them. Thomas seemed dead on his feet, but he never moved nor said anything.
They could hear the normal noises of a day in the King's Coven through the canvas walls of the stockade tent. Rosalind heard the unmistakable sound of a combined magic-fire exercise, all of a squad, or several squads, firing at once. The sound she had thought thunder or cannon when she was first brought to the camp.
The temperature inside the stockade went up as the morning wore on, though the amount of light was never more than a dim gray. More than once Rosalind jerked awake and wondered if she had been sleeping on her feet.
Sometimes she thought she heard voices she recognized pass the tent, but when she would look to the door of the tent, no one ever came in. With the heat and the fatigue and the darkness, the voices and the firing exercises all blurred into a buzz.
"Did you feel that?" Thomas asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.
Rosalind jerked upright again. "What?" she asked. Too loud, she realized, just before the guard on duty yelled at them again.
When a few minutes had passed, Thomas whispered, "Corporal Edwards walked by. I heard her talking."
"What did she say?"
"Who cares what she said, you stupid--?" Thomas stopped.
Rosalind felt tears come to her eyes again.
"Don't cry," Thomas said. He rolled his eyes, then let out a sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm just ... I hate ... I'm sorry."
Rosalind nodded to show that she understood. She could not wipe the tears, so she settled for blinking them away.
"Look," Thomas went on, "when she walked by, she was close enough that my warding shackle tingled. Did you feel that?"
Rosalind shook her head. "No. I didn't notice anything."
His eyes gleamed in the gloom of the tent. "Don't you see what this means?"
Rosalind shook her head again.
"When she comes with the Leftenant," Thomas said. He paused and spat before going on. "When she's here, we can blast them."
"Blast them?"
"Aim and fire at the target in front of you, private," Thomas said. He pulled his cracked and swollen lips into a misshapen smile.
Rosalind imagined herself unleashing lightning and fire and the cold on Corporal Edwards and the Leftenant, and felt shocked that she could even think of it. "No," she said, shaking her head. "I can't. We can't." Then added, "Our guns aren't loaded."
"You can. We can. And they don't need to be."
\*
Rosalind thought about Thomas' plan as the long day continued. She alternated back and forth between agreeing to follow his lead, and telling him that she could not do it. She did not hate Corporal Edwards. She did not even hate the Leftenant. Thomas bared his teeth and hissed at her the only time she said that to him.
After noon, the guard no longer just looked in on them. He would come in every half hour and force them to stand straight again. If they took longer than he thought they should, he would strike them across the buttocks with a thin baton.
Finally, four infantry regulars came into the tent. There was no corporal, so there was no way Thomas could carry out his plan, with Rosalind or without her. The regulars took Rosalind and Thomas by the arms and led them out into the late afternoon sunlight. Rosalind clenched her eyes closed and turned away from the brightness. The two soldiers led her along, turning her left and right, pulling her along when she lagged. By the time they had reached the mustering area, she could see again. She saw her and Thomas' squad lined up, with all the other squads lined up in ranks behind them. The Leftenant, Corporal Edwards, and the other corporals waited near the whipping posts.
Thomas caught her eye.
Rosalind shook her head.
Thomas' jaw clenched, then he said, "You can do it."
"Silence," the soldier holding Thomas' right arm said, and cuffed him.
Rosalind nodded. Yes, she could. She knew that now. The target dummies, her once fine dress, and a tethered sheep had taught her. She was not Rosalind any more. She was Private Bainbridge. She could. "I won't," she said.
She did not see Thomas' face as she got a "Silence!" and a cuff of her own.
She and Thomas were uncuffed by the soldiers while other soldiers stood by with leveled rifles. Corporal Edwards and the other corporals stood ready, as well, their pistols cocked. Then Rosalind and Thomas were stripped to the waist and their hands bound in front of them. The soldiers took them by the arms and hooked their bonds to the whipping posts. Rosalind was forced to stand on her tiptoes. A leather strip was put in both their mouths. The soldiers retreated.
Corporal Edwards stepped forward.
Rosalind felt her warding shackle go cold.
"Do it," Thomas said around the leather strip.
"No," Rosalind said.
"For violating the posted statute," Corporal Edwards said, "forbidding the fraternizing with privates of the opposite gender, Privates Bainbridge and Ducoed are hereby--"
Thomas spit out the leather strip. "Bitch," he said. "I knew you wouldn't."
Rosalind felt the power rush into him, enough to cause the hairs of her arms to stand on end. She twisted around to see him.
Lightning flashed. The ropes around Thomas' wrists fell apart and the whipping post in front of him splintered. At the same time, twin bolts of white power lanced from Thomas to strike at Corporal Edwards and the Leftenant. The corporal took the blast on her pistol, and flew backward. Rosalind lost sight of the corporal in the flash. She thought she might have seen the other corporals cross pistols in front of the Leftenant, but she could not be sure.
The whipping post she hung on broke, the top half falling on her as she fell backward to the packed earth of the mustering field. She did not know whether the flashes of yellow and red and white were magic unleashed or the result of the pole bouncing off her head.
\*
She came to with a heavy weight on her chest, crushing her left breast, and her hands still bound and pulled over her head. The pungent scents of her own sweat and the metallic odor of raw power made her sneeze. She heard shouts and curses and orders. She opened her eyes and saw only green-gray haze and dark shapes moving around the periphery.
After a night and a day spent standing, she was finally lying down, held down by the remains of the whipping post.
She rolled to her left to get the whipping post off her. Her hands were still bound, but no longer hooked, so she used them to push herself up to her hands and knees.
She looked for Thomas.
The corporals had surrounded Thomas' prone form. They had their pistols ready, covering him. More than covering him. The corporals were all nearly glowing with held power, power that they were concentrating on Thomas. She could see one of Thomas' boots, his left one. It twitched and shook.
Outside the ring of corporals, the Leftenant stood. As she watched, the Leftenant took a handkerchief from one sleeve and used it to wipe a smudge of dirt off his cheek. Then he knocked some dust from his overcoat.
"You shouldn't try to get up."
Rosalind saw that Private Millsom and Private Carlell and the other women of her squad had gathered around her.
"Thomas?" Her voice sounded muffled in her head, like she had cotton in her ears.
"They'll take care of him," Private Millsom said, and spat. Rosalind realized it was Private Millsom that had told her not to get up. Now Millsom and the others tried to get her to lay down again. "You should lay down," the woman said. "The healers will be here soon to check you out."
"What are they doing to Thomas?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Private Bainbridge. But it will be nothing less than he deserves, I'm sure."
Rosalind pushed away the hands trying to stop her and crawled toward Thomas. Her pistol still hung from her neck. The muzzle of the gun dragged in the dirt as she moved. She heard the Leftenant order the other privates of her squad to leave her. She did not hear if he told the corporals to move aside for her. She did hear his next words, though.
"If Private Bainbridge wishes to share the punishment of Private Ducoed, so be it. Corporal Edwards, if you would, please state the new charges against the privates."
Rosalind crawled until she could reach Thomas' face. She reached out to touch one of the welts on his face. She could help him. Thomas did not look at her. He only pulled his face away.
"For attempting to strike a superior officer," Corporal Edwards said, "for fraternizing with privates of the opposite gender, and for destruction of the King's property, Privates Ducoed and Bainbridge are hereby sentenced to be flogged and then confined to the stockade for one week ..."
Rosalind stopped listening. She wanted to cry, but Private Bainbridge pushed down the tears and would not let them come. She sat back on her knees. Her pistol settled between her breasts, the metal parts cold and sharp against her skin.
Misi-ziibi, South of Fort Russell
1742 A.D.
Ducoed finished buttoning the last of the brass buttons of his red Leftenant's uniform. He adjusted the gold knots that hung through his epaulets, then smoothed out the remaining wrinkles on his sleeves and the front of the coat. He took his peaked hat in both hands and put it on his head. He had kept his uniform on his discharge and brought it with him to the New World. He had not worn the uniform since then, but he had refused to give up anything he had worked so long to attain. And he had thought he might be able to put it to further use someday. Like the use he was now making of it. He picked up his pistol, checked the load out of long habit, and put it in his belt.
He snapped to attention, clicking his heels together. Then he performed a parade-ground-perfect about face to present himself to Margaret. The little girl sat between the two izidumbus. "What do you think, Margaret?" he asked, gesturing with his hand as if presenting himself for inspection. "Don't I make quite the young officer of His Majesty's Infantry?"
Margaret did not answer. The girl only stared at him. Except she did not really stare at him. She stared through him. She had been like that the past few days. She refused to speak or respond to him.
So far, he considered Margaret's silence and withdrawn presence a game. He had amused himself by making her the audience to increasingly debauched and brutal displays of sexual intercourse and torture. He could not have her body to use as he wanted, but her mind was not required by his Ubasi debtors. Her mind he could play with, even if only indirectly.
"I remember when your father wore a uniform much like this one," he said. Margaret said nothing, but a single muscle in her jaw twitched. "Was that a reaction, little Margaret? Do I look like your father? He was quite the dashing figure, even when he held a whip. You will see him soon, you know. Then you can compare the two of us."
The flap of his tent blew open as someone strode in.
Ducoed turned from Margaret, hand on the butt of his pistol, white power surging within him, ready to release the lightning into whomever had interrupted him.
Umoya's black eyes met his. Ducoed let go of the pistol, and the lightning, feeling the power pass out of him and into the air around him. He kept his hatred of the sorcerer, though, and let that show in his eyes and ring in his voice.
"And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Umoya?"
Umoya smiled, showing his white teeth. The smile went away as the big man crossed his arms and stood there. His face was as impassive as Margaret's, but his eyes were locked on to Ducoed. He said nothing.
"I see," Ducoed said. "My humble servant, as always."
He was about to turn his back on Umoya and continue his conversation with Margaret when the tent flap moved again. Mandla entered. The black warrior gave a short bow to Umoya, then looked at Ducoed. "The izidumbus have been made ready, Duke Blackwood."
Ducoed wanted nothing more than to kill both of them. He wanted to strip the mottled skin off Umoya strip by strip and see if the sorcerer really had been put together from multiple bodies. He wanted to crush Mandla's defiant face under his boots. But the time had not come for either of those pleasures. Soon, though. He smiled, showing his own teeth. "Then let us away," he said.
Umoya turned around and left the tent.
\*
Ducoed left his bodyguard of armored izidumbus with Mandla and rode to the front of the column. Umoya had kept the ithambofis in check after the ambush, preserving as many corpses of the English regulars intact--and their all-important red and white uniforms. The izidumbus Umoya had created from the corpses had been brought to the front of the column. They had their tricorner hats on, their packs on their backs, and carried their muskets in front of them. The regimental banners that had not been too badly damaged had also been salvaged and those were held aloft. They were a grotesque parody of English infantry on the march. Ducoed could not help smiling.
A Swedish patrol had encountered Ducoed's army last night. Most of the patrol had died. Ducoed had considered sending ithambofis after the survivors, but decided the stories the men would tell their commanding officers would be of more use to him than complete secrecy. The besiegers of Fort Russell had to know that reinforcements were coming. Let them now speculate on the nature of those reinforcements. Ducoed was prepared to attack the besiegers to get at the prizes he would claim from the fort. But it would be easier to get into Fort Russell if the besiegers left on their own. His plan, of course, assumed they would not leave. He expected the Swedes to do what he had done: ambush the reinforcements coming to succor Fort Russell.
He was right.
The ambush occurred where the river bent almost due east. Ducoed had studied the maps of the Misi-ziibi south of the fort and seen the same opportunity the Swedish commander had. By cutting across the bend of the river, through the bayuk, a force could be put in position on short notice. If the ambushers had had any idea of that they were not facing English regulars, the ambush might have been successful.
Ducoed drew back from the front of the marching izidumbus when the Swedish troops opened fire from under cover on the far bank of the river. The river trail on the south bank offered no cover. The izidumbus continued along the route they had been set. They staggered when bullets hit them, sometimes losing hands and arms, but otherwise they ignored the attacks. They would march until they fell apart completely. Ducoed only hoped that he would not lose too many of the ones dressed in uniform. He did need those for at least the rest of today and tomorrow.
He let the ithambofis loose and gave them a cloud of darkness as cover while they crossed the river. He sent Umoya with the ithambofis to make sure they returned to the main force instead of following the survivors of the ambush back to the fort. And to show the multihued sorcerer that he, Ducoed, was still in command of this small army.
Ducoed called a halt when he estimated they were three hours from Fort Russell. He left the izidumbus standing where they halted and set the ithambofis on patrol through the bayuk around the force. He did not expect the Swedes or the Italians to attack again. Instead, he was sure they were even now creating a new set of entrenchments to defend their own rear. Or maybe both forces were getting back on their boats and polling back upriver. Either way, the fort was his. He only needed to show up and claim it, along with Colonel Laxton and Janett. And, he was sure, Rose Bainbridge. And the native girl, Chal.
All his.
Janett and Margaret to pay his debt. Colonel Laxton and Rose to amuse him. Chal to sate his lust and anger. He clenched his fists at the thought.
\*
Ducoed sent the uniformed izidumbus in first, backed by those Umoya had brought. He accompanied one of the izidumbus carrying a torn banner for the 46th regiment, riding a horse so he could see further. And be seen from further. He fired his pistol time and again, sending lightning and fire over the heads of his troops into the defenses the Swedes had thrown up overnight. He walked his horse forward slowly, even slower than the izidumbus, controlling his mount with his knees, the reins in his teeth so he could use both hands to reload. He wished he had a second to reload for him, but he would make do.
He enjoyed the carnage and the explosions he caused, but he was not firing for effect. Instead, he was trying to be seen from the walls of the fort. When he was well clear of the treeline, but still behind the front of his forces, he pointed his pistol to the sky and let loose a flare, a signal from one member of the 101st Pistoleers to another. The flare arced up and over the battlefield, burning brighter than the sun only now breaking over the horizon. Let Rose make of that what she would.
He waited a moment, but there was no answering flare from the fort.
The uniformed izidumbus withstood volley after volley from the entrenched besiegers, continuing to march on the embankments. Mortar shots exploded in their midst, but they kept coming. Those that fell or were thrown aside by the blast and still had both legs, stood and continued walking. Even if they were reduced to a single arm, they would pull themselves forward. Ducoed wondered what the watchers from the walls would make of that.
The Swedes held their positions until the first izidumbus walked up their embankments and fell into the trenches on the other side. The rout started slowly, like a pot beginning to boil. First a couple of men pulling back, then running, sometimes leaving their weapons behind. The izidumbus did not attack, they just followed the retreating soldiers up the slope at their slow, step-by-step gait.
Not until he heard a bugle sounding a massed charge from the direction of the fort's main gates did Ducoed send word for Umoya to advance with the soulgrunzers, ithambofis, and the rest of their army. Then he reined his horse to a stop and watched Colonel Laxton lead a charge from the fort. At least one hundred men and what he knew were the fort's last two mobile grunzers came out of the gate to join the battle.
He looked for signs of Rose, or Chal, but saw none. That intrigued him. First no response to his flare. Now this. Surely, the two scouts had had time to reach the fort. And he had no doubt that Colonel Laxton would conscript Rose to defend the fort. Rose would have told the Colonel about his betrayal in the swamp, but he knew the colonel would not believe her. After all, Leftenant Ducoed was one of His Majesty's officers and above reproach. The colonel would disregard Rose's claims and insist that Rose assist with the defense of Fort Russell. Colonel Laxton would say it was Rose's duty to stay and fight. Or maybe that was what had happened, and Rose had refused. Were the two women still at the fort? Or had they slipped away? Were they waiting to ambush him?
A thrill of fear caused him to look around, eyes searching the fort walls and the dark treeline for signs of a sniper. Then he laughed at himself for being foolish. He knew how Rose thought. She would not shoot him from hiding. Further, he had new, powerful allies, a whole army at his command. It was more likely Rose had left Janett with Colonel Laxton and gone back into the swamp.
Bloodlust growing in him, Ducoed kicked his horse into motion again. He no longer bothered to reload his pistol. He only pointed his pistol and lightning and fire arced from him and burned into and through the backs of the fleeing Swedes. He cut across the battlefield toward the banners of Colonel Laxton.
The Swedes were falling back to the Italian camp and the camp of their Native Amerigon allies, but all three camps were now under attack from the fort. Men fired muskets and fought with sabers around him. Grunzers stepped over wide trenches to stomp the men on the other side. The grunzers wielded huge metal hammers that they smashed into the mortar emplacements. Gray smoke rolled over the battlefield. Men shouted as they fought and screamed as they died.
The besiegers were beginning to surrender, those that were not running for the beached boats and barges, as he pulled up near the Colonel's bodyguards.
"Leftenant!" the colonel shouted, smiling like an old warrior and lifting his bloody saber in a salute. "Good show! Very good show!"
Ducoed smiled back and imagined killing the colonel after having raped the man's two daughters in front of him. He offered a return salute with his pistol, and turned his horse around to see where Umoya was.
The defenders of the fort were beginning to taste their victory. The men closest to him were saluting him and echoing the colonel with shouts of "Good show!" As if any of them would even have a drink with him later, outside of battle, knowing now that he was from the 101st Pistoleers. A man of the Witches Crew. But he just smiled and waved back. He looked over his right shoulder toward the fort and saw that the first of the izidumbus had already reached the still-open main gate.
"Hell in a handbasket," said a private near Ducoed. "What kind of witchery is that?"
Ducoed spun his mount to run down the man, but saw the private looking past him, to the southwest. He turned back around, following the man's gaze.
Umoya was flying on a column of black smoke followed by the hissing and stomping soulgrunzers glowing red in the darkness. Ithambofis ran between and around the soulgrunzers like bits of hooked shadow.
"Damn you!" Ducoed shouted at the sorcerer, his hatred of the man rising in him again. Flying? The bastard could fly? "Damn you to hell!" What other secrets was Umoya hiding behind those black eyes? Ducoed decided he would enjoy finding out. Later.
Behind him, he heard Colonel Laxton sounding retreat. He also heard the first shouts of alarm from the fort as the izidumbus finally stopped marching and began attacking.
It was time for the next step in the plan.
"To me!" Ducoed shouted, using magic to make his voice even louder than the bugle, the gunfire, and the roar of Umoya's advance. "To me! For England!" He kicked his horse in the ribs and led the charge toward Umoya. "Charge!"
He threw lightning bolts at Umoya as he rode. The bolts bent past the sorcerer, feeding his hate. So the bastard could fly and avoid his lightning. Ducoed smiled. So much to learn from one man before that man died a slow, painful death.
He did not know how many of Laxton's men would follow him. He did not care. He rode on.
The line of soulgrunzers opened up as he came up on them, and he rode through them heading for the rear of the force. Margaret should be ready to see her father by now.
Misi-ziibi Riverbank, South of Fort Russell
1742 A.D.
Margaret did not want to hold Mr. Thomas' hand, but he would not let go. She did not want to walk beside him, but she had no choice. Just like the cold women who had been her escorts through the eternity of walking the past days, if she did not walk, Mr. Thomas would drag her. And just as she had done while Mr. Thomas did unspeakable things in front of her to men and women, living and dead, when she could not look away she tried not to see. She looked down at her feet as they walked, trying not to see what she was also trying not to step on.
"There it is, Margaret," Mr. Thomas said. "Fort Russell. Didn't I tell you I would get you there safe and sound?"
Margaret looked up, hating herself for doing so. Mr. Thomas had not lied, though. At the top of a long, sloping hill was a fort. She recognized the English flag and the flag of her father's regiment flying from the squat towers. She tried not to see the bodies of men that littered the slope of the hill. Or the oily, black smoke that seeped out of the open mouths of the dead and ebbed and flowed along the ground. Or the grotesquely moving corpses and black skeletons that moved among the bodies, dispatching the wounded and hauling off the dead.
She looked down again. She kept her hand limp in Mr. Thomas' grasp. She tried not to hope that Da was alive. She wanted to hope, but she refused to let Mr. Thomas know that.
"I would think at least a mumbled 'thank you' was in order," Mr. Thomas said, still pulling her forward. "No? Very well. Now that you have seen the fort, though, we are off to see your father. And maybe, after that, your lovely sister, Janett. Maybe even Miss Rose."
Margaret did not look up this time. Hope and fear struggled in her stomach. She had learned to understand Mr. Thomas' meanings, to hear what he was not saying. He was not saying Da was alive.
"I know what you're thinking," Mr. Thomas said, "and you're wrong, Margaret. Your father, the good Colonel Laxton, is still alive."
Margaret's head jerked up against her wishes. She found Mr. Thomas' eyes and smile waiting for her. She had seen that smile too many times in the last few nights, softly glowing in the light of lanterns, and in her nightmares after, when he would finally let her sleep, as he described in detail what he was doing. See how the skin peels back, Margaret? The secret is in the tools. Your knife can never be too sharp. You need to maintain a constant pressure, Margaret, but not too much pressure. Do you see me, Margaret? Do you see what you do to me? She looked down again.
"Why, I talked to him only an hour ago," Mr. Thomas went on. "He was very excited to see me. I expect he will be even more excited to see you."
She wanted to see Da. More than anything. But she would not let herself hope that what Mr. Thomas meant when he said "still alive" was anything but a ruse. About Da, or about Janett. And not even about Miss Rose, though she had found herself angry when she thought about Miss Rose. Leaving her on the bank of the river to be captured.
Mr. Thomas led her to the northeast, up the slope of the hill. Rifles and clothes and paper and broken barrels littered the slopes along with the mutilated bodies. She smelled blood and entrails and black powder and burning flesh. They walked past the twisted remains of a grunzer, its ruptured boiler leaking steam and water.
Hissing ahead of her made her look up. A circle of the small, misshapen grunzers that had come with Mr. Thomas' army had formed around another group of even smaller hissing contraptions. The big man with the mottled red, black and yellow skin waited for them outside the circle, arms crossed, his expression blank.
Margaret refused to cry out against the pain when Mr. Thomas' grip on her hand suddenly threatened to break her bones. She knew Mr. Thomas hated Umoya. He had told her often enough. He had demonstrated how he planned to torture and kill Umoya to her, using one of the survivors from the ambush. Margaret had recognized the soldier from Fort Gunter. His name had been John, but the other soldiers had called him Mule. No one would ever tell her why they called him that. The cold hands of the women who had brought her to Mr. Thomas' tent had held her face, refusing to let her look away as Mr. Thomas had shown her the source of the nickname, explaining in detail how mules were bred, and had proceeded to defile and dismember Private John.
Just as quickly as he had squeezed, Mr. Thomas' grip relaxed. Not enough for her to take her hand back, though.
"Give me the girl," Umoya said when they had walked to within two paces of him. "Then get the other girl, and give her to me, as well."
This time, Margaret did not look up. She kept her eyes down, looking at nothing, refusing to see anything. But she could not control her heart. It skipped a beat in fear at the thought that Janett had been captured too. She wanted to see her sister. But not here. Not with Mr. Thomas. Mr. Thomas had also described-- She swallowed hard and refused to think about what Mr. Thomas had told her.
"You will have both girls before the sun sets tomorrow," Mr. Thomas said.
"There is much that can happen between now and when the sun sets tomorrow, Duke Blackwood."
"There is much that will happen between now and sunset tomorrow, Umoya. And then still more will happen after the sun sets, and before it rises again."
"You risk--"
"I risk nothing." Mr. Thomas' grip tightened again. Margaret felt the bones in her hand grind together. She bit her lip so she would not cry out. "Now step aside. Little Margaret is looking forward to seeing her father."
For a long minute, they stood there, no one speaking, no one moving, Margaret trying not to feel the pain in her hand or her lip. Then Umoya turned and walked away.
Mr. Thomas relaxed his grip and led her forward again, between the black and red grunzers and the hissing suits of armor that clanked as they stepped aside. In the center of the circle stood men in bright red and gold officer uniforms. The officers turned to look at them as they approached.
"Da!" Margaret shouted and pulled against Mr. Thomas. She stumbled when Mr. Thomas let go of her hand, then she ran up to her father. "Da!" she said as she ran into him and threw her arms around his waist. She put her face against his buffcoat and the tears came in a rush. She could not believe he was there. She held him as tightly as she could to convince herself that he was not just a dream, and that he would not be able to leave her again. She had so much to tell him, but she did not want to think about any of it. She just wanted to hold him, and have him hold her.
Da put his right hand on her head and his left on her shoulder. "What is the meaning of this, Leftenant?"
"I just brought you your Little Puncher, Colonel," Mr. Thomas said. "Like I promised both her and General Tendring at Fort Gunter that I would do."
"You traitor--"
"As you were, Major," Da snapped, and took his hand from Margaret's head. His command voice made Margaret start, but she did not let go.
She heard the hissing and clanking of the grunzers shifting, as if moving to protect Mr. Thomas.
"Sir!" Margaret recognized Major Haley's voice. She was glad to know he was alive too, but she did not turn around. "Surely there can be no more doubt--"
"As you were, Major Haley," Da said, still using his command voice, but not so loud and sharp as before. He returned his hand to Margaret's head and stroked her hair. She sobbed at the soft, kind touch.
"Ah, the redoubtable Major Haley," said Mr. Thomas. "I thought you looked familiar, but all of you officers look much the same to me. Your presence here, though, and the good colonel's lack of inquiry or accusation about the lovely Janett, I will take as happy news. Janett did indeed reach you, did she not?"
Margaret felt Da stiffen, but he said nothing. Her knees felt weak, hearing that Janett was alive, as well, and safe in the fort. Away from Mr. Thomas.
"Don't try to deny it, colonel," Mr. Thomas went on. "I'm not surprised in the least. I knew Rose would keep her safe and get her to you. In fact, I counted on it. Lovely Rose, always so faithful. By the by, Colonel Laxton, where is Rose?"
"Sergeant Bainbridge," Da said, then paused. "Miss Bainbridge refused her duty here. She went back into the bayuk. In search of Margaret." Da's left hand squeezed her shoulder just a bit as he said this.
Margaret's eyes burned with the shame she felt. Miss Rose had not abandoned her.
"I suppose the native girl, Chal, went with her?" Mr. Thomas asked.
"What? Of course, Leftenant--I mean, Mr. Ducoed."
"A pity," Mr. Thomas said. "For today. But that does leave me something to look forward to. I wouldn't want all my victories on a single day, now would I?" Margaret shuddered, hearing again what Mr. Thomas wasn't saying. "Now, Colonel Laxton, since we have the reunions and pleasantries out of the way, we need to get down to the business of your surrender."
"My surrender?"
"Yes, colonel, your surrender. Surely you have noticed that you lost? That of all the brave men you led to the attack, none have survived except these fine officers and gentlemen that are with you." Mr. Thomas paused. "Though, now I think of it," he went on, "that does always seem to be the case. The officers live, the men die."
"Fort Russell still stands, Mr. Ducoed, and I am sure you have noticed that the flag of England still flies over her walls."
"Yes, colonel, and that brings me to my first point. You and your officers will return to the fort and order the surrender of the defenders."
Da stood straighter, though Margaret never understood how he was able to do that. "I will not order my men to surrender to be slaughtered, Mr. Ducoed."
"I don't expect you to, Colonel," Mr. Thomas said. Margaret did not have to see his smile to know it was there. "Your men, and your officers and your daughters, of course, will all be allowed to leave."
Margaret stopped crying and opened her eyes. She did not turn her face. She did not want to see Mr. Thomas. She saw an officer she did not recognize, a major, standing at attention to Da's right.
"But not I?" asked Da.
"No, colonel, I'm sorry to say it, but that is the price for your command and your family. Your life for theirs."
"Sir!" said the major she didn't know. "That is out of the question--"
"As you were, Major Eason," Da said.
Major Eason opened his mouth as if to say more, then closed it.
"Will my men be allowed to keep their arms?" Da asked.
"I would not have it any other way, colonel," Mr. Thomas said. "Your men may keep their arms and their banners. Tomorrow morning they may march out with their heads held high. When they reach Fort Gunter, they will give the message to General Tendring that Fort Russell has been reclaimed."
"Reclaimed by whom, Mr. Ducoed?" Da asked.
"That will be revealed soon enough, colonel."
Margaret felt Da give a short, tight nod. "I accept your terms," he said.
Margaret pulled back so she could look at Da's face. "No!" she said.
"Hush, Margaret."
"Da!"
"We will speak of this later, Margaret."
Margaret buried her face against the cloth of his jacket, adding new tears to the dampness she felt.
"As I said, Mr. Ducoed, I accept your terms."
"Very good. You and your officers may return to the fort."
"Come along, Margaret--" Da moved his hands to her arms and tugged gently. Margaret resisted. She did not want to let go. She did not believe that Mr. Thomas would let her go.
"I am sorry, colonel, but Margaret must remain with me. As a surety."
Margaret squeezed even tighter.
"As a hostage, you mean," Da managed to say.
"As you will. She will be allowed to leave with the rest of your men, of course, in the morning."
"I will not leave my daughter with you another night, Mr. Ducoed. Fort Russell still has defenders and does not require me or my presence. I will die here, now, before I let you take my daughter."
"As will I," Major Haley said.
"And I," Major Eason said. The rest of the officers said the same.
Margaret risked a quick peek to see Mr. Thomas' face. He saw her and he smiled. She looked away again.
"Very well," Mr. Thomas said. "You may take Margaret with you, if I can have your word as an officer that you will honor the terms we have agreed to."
"You have my word, Mr. Ducoed."
"I never doubted it for a minute, Colonel Laxton. And you have mine, of course."
"Of course, Mr. Ducoed."
\*
"He's lying," Margaret whispered as they walked up the slope to the fort. Her throat was tight from her crying. She had to force the words out. She had refused to let go of Da. She walked beside him, her right arm around his back, her right hand clutching his jacket, her left hand holding his left hand pressed against her face. She wanted to tell Da everything. She wanted him to tell her she was safe. She needed to tell him what she knew. She had waited until they were clear of the circle that had been guarding them, and there were none of the other--things--close by. "Mr. Thomas is lying."
"Hush, Margaret," Da said, also whispering.
"But he's lying," she said again. "Mr. Thomas lies."
"Shh, Margaret. Don't you think your father knows that?"
"Then why--?"
"Shh. We don't want them to hear us talking about what we know and plan to do about what we know, do we, Little Puncher?"
Margaret buried her face in his coat again and let him lead her.
\*
Mr. Thomas' lumbering, once-dead men and women had been pulled back from the walls of the fort so Margaret, Da and the other officers stood alone before the gate. Still, the gate only opened wide enough for them to come through one at a time, then was pushed closed behind them as soon as the last one had passed through.
Janett ran into Margaret and Da, blubbering and trying to hug them both at once before the gate was closed. Margaret did not want to let go of Da, but she managed to get an arm around Janett as well.
Da started barking orders over their heads. "Captain Keele, bring the prisoner to my briefing room. Major Eason, compose a list of the men remaining. Sergeant Mabson, fetch the quartermaster to my briefing room. And Major Haley, if you please, take my daughters to my quarters, see that they have what they need, and then join us in the briefing room."
Janett fell against Major Haley, still crying, wrapping her arms around his neck. Major Haley looked embarrassed. "Margaret?" he said, holding out a hand.
"No," Margaret said. She had only just found Da, and she did not want to let him go.
"Margaret, please," Da said, placing his hand on her head. "Please. There is much to do."
"No," she said.
Da's posture changed and Margaret felt someone step behind her. A hand touched her shoulder. A woman's hand.
A soft voice said, "Come along, Margaret Laxton."
"Chal?"
"Yes, Margaret Laxton."
"But--" Margaret stopped and looked up at Da. "Is Miss Rose here too?"
Da's face became hard to read, a combination of closed and stubborn. "Yes, Margaret, Sergeant--I mean, Miss--Bainbridge is here. In the fort. Margaret, please, go with Major Haley, and--Chal. I will come to see you when what must be done has been decided."
"But I just found you."
"And you haven't lost me, Little Puncher." He reached around behind his back and took her hands in his, separated them, pulled them around in front of him. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. His lips felt dry on her skin. "I will come to see you," he said, looking her in the eye. "But there are important things that must be seen to first." He stood straight, and stepped back from her embrace.
Margaret moved to follow him, to stay close to him, but Chal's hand on her shoulder stopped her. Da let go of her hands. She kept her hands outstretched to him. With a nod to Major Haley, Da turned and walked away.
\*
Margaret leaned against Chal as she and the native woman followed Major Haley and the still blubbering Janett. Ahead of them, Da walked, not looking back. He walked the way Margaret always remembered him walking, tall and straight. Taller and straighter than any man she had ever seen.
Janett no longer had her arms around Major Haley as they walked, but his right arm was around her waist, helping her to stay on her feet, Margaret decided, and Janett held his left hand to her bosom. Margaret found herself wondering which of them had been lost in the bayuk, captured, and exposed to--unspeakable things that made her shudder as she tried not to remember. Her? Or Janett? She pushed the tears out of her swollen eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. She stood straighter, like Da, so she was not leaning on Chal. She made herself think of Mum, and Da-- Except Da was going to sacrifice himself.
"You are strong, Margaret Laxton," Chal whispered in her ear. "Like your father."
You are strong. Mum had told her that once, too. Just before Margaret and Janett had boarded the Maryanna Rose, bound for the New World and New Venezia. And Da--
Margaret pushed aside the thought of Da's sacrifice as she watched him open a door, step inside, and close the door behind him. She did not feel strong. She felt exhausted. From walking. From putting one foot in front of the other. From not seeing what she had been forced to see. From not hearing what she had been forced to hear. From refusing to feel anything. She did not know what she felt. What she should feel. She did not want to remember what she doubted she would ever be able to forget.
"You are walking on your own feet, Margaret Laxton," Chal said. "You are tired, but you are not broken."
"I am tired," Margaret said. "I want to break."
"You will not break, Margaret Laxton. You are strong."
"I don't want to be strong."
"We do not always want to be what we are, Margaret Laxton." Chal paused, then said, "I hear the waters even now, singing to me. They sing to me of endings and new beginnings. They sing to me of you, Margaret Laxton."
Margaret wanted to ask Chal what she meant, but when she looked at the native woman's face, so solemn, the brown eyes focused beyond the walls of the fort, she said nothing. In the silence that followed, though, Margaret realized she could hear the waters of the Misi-ziibi as they flowed past the fort. And the waters did sing. A low melody, with whispered words that Margaret could almost understand.
"Chal?" she asked.
Chal did not respond, except to smile.
As she listened, she remembered the warmth of the water embracing her, and a kiss. She remembered a soft voice. We are coming, Margaret Laxton.
"Here we are, Margaret," Major Haley said, distracting her, shattering the memory and drowning the music of the river.
Major Haley had led them to a cluster of squat log buildings in the northeast corner of the fort. Da had walked in the same direction, but Major Haley stood before a different door than the one Da had entered.
Disoriented, Margaret looked at Chal. The native woman said nothing. Chal leaned down and kissed Margaret on the forehead.
"Where is Miss Rose?" Margaret asked as they entered a small, rustically appointed sitting room. "Is she on the wall?"
"Rose let herself be bound by duty," Chal said. "Did she not, Major Haley?"
Major Haley looked back over his shoulder, but said nothing as he helped Janett into one of the sitting room's wooden chairs. Janett produced a handkerchief and daubed at her eyes.
"What do you mean?" Margaret asked. She looked at Chal, then at Major Haley. "Major?"
"Rose let herself be shackled and put into the stockade," Chal said.
Janett stopped sniffling. Returning her handkerchief to a sleeve, she said, "Can we discuss this some other time, Chal?"
"Shackled?" Margaret asked. "Stockade?" She looked at Janett. "Did Da put Miss Rose in the stockade?"
"Miss Bainbridge," Janett said, "brought it on herself."
Chal made a noise in her throat, but said nothing. Major Haley looked uncomfortable. When Margaret looked at him, he did not meet her eye, so she glared at Janett again.
"Do you want anything to eat, Margaret?" Major Haley asked.
Margaret stared at him. She did not tell him that Mr. Thomas had forced her to eat, to chew and to swallow what the cold, dead hands of her escorts pushed into her mouth. She did not say that she did not know when she would want to eat again.
"Perhaps later then," the major said, looking uncomfortable. "If you ladies will excuse me then, and you, Miss Chal, I must be off." He gave a short bow to each of them, then stepped to the door.
"Major Haley," Margaret said, turning as he walked past her. The major stopped with his hand on the door. "Why was Miss Rose put in the stockade?" she asked. "Da told Mr. Thomas that Miss Rose had gone looking for me."
The major took his hand from the door and turned to face her. He stood at attention, Margaret saw, as if he were addressing Da. "You must understand, Margaret, your father, the colonel, did what he thought was right--"
Chal made the noise in her throat again.
"--as did Miss Rose," the major added, ignoring Chal.
The door behind the major opened. Margaret stared. Miss Rose stood there, with a tall private standing behind her who looked sour. Miss Rose looked dirty and disheveled, as if she had just come out of the bayuk, or had slept in a stable. Or both. Her face was smudged with dirt and the braids of her hair had almost worked themselves loose. Stray strands surrounded her face.
"And that," Miss Rose said, "was not the first time the colonel and I disagreed as to what was the right thing to do. Unfortunately, even now, it probably won't be the last." She strode into the sitting room. The private started to follow her. "You can wait for me outside, private," she said, and closed the door in his face.
She looked at Margaret and the woman's expression changed in a way that made Margaret want to cry again.
"Margaret," Miss Rose said. "I'm so glad--" She started to walk toward Margaret, then stopped, looking uncertain. "I'm so sorry, Margaret," she went on. "I'm so sorry. I tried--"
Margaret made the decision for both of them, rushing at the woman, hugging her around the waist. Miss Rose returned the hug after only a second's hesitation, then was kissing her cheeks and stroking her hair and hugging her. "I'm so glad you're safe," Miss Rose said over and over. "I'm so glad you're safe." Just as Mum might have done.
Margaret remembered how she had thought that she had never met a woman like Miss Rose. Even now Miss Rose surprised her.
When she could speak again, Margaret said, "But I'm not sure we're that safe, Miss Rose. Mr. Thomas is still out there. He only let me come back with Da because--"
"I know, Margaret. I know." After another squeeze, Miss Rose released Margaret. "But Mr. Thomas doesn't know everything, no matter what he thinks. He doesn't know you, he doesn't know the Colonel, and he sure as hell doesn't know me." Miss Rose took Margaret's right hand in her left. "Now, everyone," she said to the room, "I think it's time we went to see the colonel to discuss where we go from here."
"But Da told us to wait here," Margaret said. To her surprise, she saw Janett stand. Janett touched her hair and adjusted her skirt, looking for all the world she was going to follow Miss Rose's example. And disobey Da. Janett met her eye, gave Margaret a tight smile, then looked at Miss Rose.
"You will need this, I think," Chal said. She held out Miss Rose's pistol, butt first.
As Miss Rose's fingers touched the pistol, Margaret thought she saw strange letters flash along the barrel. The next instant, though, the letters were gone. Margaret was not sure she had seen anything.
"Thank you," Miss Rose said. Margaret watched as Miss Rose checked the load on the pistol, then pushed it into her belt.
"Janett," Major Haley said. "Margaret, I really think--"
"Major Haley," Miss Rose said, "you can either escort us to the colonel's briefing room, or you can follow us with the private."
Fort Russell
1742 A.D.
"You are a most stubborn woman, Miss Bainbridge," Colonel Laxton said.
"Only when you disagree with me, Colonel," Rose said. She saw Margaret looking at her, and gave the girl a smile. Margaret almost smiled back. Rose's smile faded and she again made a silent promise to kill Thomas Ducoed. Margaret and Janett sat in the corner on wooden chairs. Neither girl had said anything since they had come into the room with Rose. The colonel had looked sharply at Janett, then at Rose, but had made no attempt to send the girls away. He had only sent the private back to his sitting room to retrieve chairs for the girls.
"It seems you are determined to do disagree with me at every turn." Colonel Laxton stood flanked by Majors Eason and Haley, with Captain Keele and two Leftenants that Rose had not been introduced to. The men stood on one side of the long table. Chal and Rose stood on the opposite side. A surveyor's map of the river, fort and hill lay on the table.
"Chal will take the girls," Rose said. "All she needs is to reach the river."
Chal met Rose's gaze when Rose turned to look at her, but did not respond. Chal only stood there with her arms crossed.
"She is not English," the colonel said. "No offense."
Chal gave a curt nod.
"Then send Major Haley with her," Rose said, looking at him as she said his name. Such a pretty face. And too young to die.
"Miss Bainbridge, please," Major Haley said.
"Please be silent, Major Haley," the colonel said without looking away from Rose. "Unchapparoned? Really, Miss Bainbridge. I would prefer that you do as I have asked you. Take your ... scout, and whatever provisions we still have, and escort Janett and Margaret back to Fort Gunter. We will provide the distraction--"
"You will provide very little distraction for Ducoed and his allies, whoever--whatever--they are, without me. They will attack you and overrun you as soon as you are clear of the fort, while Ducoed comes for the girls."
"Which is why you should be with the girls, Miss Bainbridge. I can think of no one better capable--"
"Colonel," Rose said, "I am your element of surprise. Whatever Ducoed has planned for you, he is no longer expecting me to be a part of it. I am your only hope of lasting long enough."
Major Eason said, "The English Army is unmatched in the field--"
"Your little army is surrounded, Major," Rose said. "And the surrounding force is not interested in letting you leave. Ducoed is playing a game with you. Even he doesn't expect you to just take him at his word and leave peaceably--and I don't think even an arrogant bastard like Ducoed believes you believe him. He expects you to try to surprise him with an attack. And he expects the attack to be a ruse, to allow the colonel a chance to send the girls to safety. He expects you to do exactly what you're planning to do. The only thing he does not expect," Rose went on, "is me." She paused, but none of the men contradicted her. A first. "Are we agreed?"
"Da," Margaret said. Everyone turned to look. Margaret was standing now. "I don't want to go. I don't want to leave you."
Janett stood beside her sister, took her hand. "Father, our place is with you."
"Your place," the colonel said. He bowed his head. "I should never have sent for you."
"You did not send for us, Father," Janett said. "We came."
The colonel did not respond. He turned back to Rose. "I ... disagreed with you before, Miss Bainbridge," he said, "when you ... offered ... to go look for Margaret. Now you disagree with me when I ask you to go with Margaret and her sister--"
"I'm doing this for Margaret, colonel," Rose said. "And Janett. And you," she added. "I will help you buy the time they need to get away."
"Do we not have a say in this?" Janett asked.
"Janett, please," Colonel Laxton said without turning around. He looked down at the map. Then he took a breath, brought his head up, and looked Rose in the eye. "I would ask you as an officer-- No, hear me out," the colonel said before Rose could interrupt. "I would ask you as an officer, Miss Bainbridge, but I know that is ... insufficient. So I ask you as a father. Not as a very good father, it could be said, but as a father nonetheless. Please, Miss Bainbridge, save my little girls."
"That's what I'm trying to do, Colonel." Rose looked at Margaret and Janett, then back to the colonel. Their father. "Even now, Ducoed is spreading his forces around the fort, on both sides of the river, and up and down the river. He knows you will attempt to smuggle the girls out of the fort. What he doesn't know is which direction you will try."
Rose stopped talking as Margaret let go of Janett's hand and walked up to the table to stand beside her father. Major Haley stepped aside to give the little girl room. Margaret took her father's hand. She looked up at him, then at Rose.
"Miss Rose," Margaret said, "save my Da."
Stepping behind her, Janett said, "We will go with Chal, Father."
Colonel Laxton looked at his daughters, his lips pressed together. "Well," he said after a minute, "I guess that's decided then."
\*
"You do not know what you will be up against," Chal said.
"I have some idea," Rose said. "After being chased in the bayuk, and feeling the magics in use this morning."
They had retired to the small bunkroom Chal had been assigned while Rose was in the stockade. Rose had stripped to the waist and begun washing herself with the cold water in the earthenware bowl on the room's only table. Chal sat crosslegged on the bed, watching her.
"You have not been in a battle for a long time, Sergeant Bainbridge," Chal said.
Rose smiled. "And you have never been in a battle, my friend."
"It would be better, I think," Chal said, ignoring Rose's words, "if you took the girls and I faced the ..." She paused.
"The what?" Rose asked. "You know what those things are?"
"The word I have is not the word for what it is out there." Chal paused again.
Rose looked at Chal, then continued rubbing at her skin with the rough washcloth, trying to remove the smell of the stockade. She doubted there was enough clean water in the fort to accomplish that. But she would try. It was more than just the stench of stale straw and urine and worse that made her scrub at her skin until it was a pale rose color. For fifteen years in the 101st Pistoleers, before and after every battle, she had scrubbed herself the same way. Before the battle because she might die in the next hours, and if she were going to die, she wanted to die clean. Not that there was really any such thing as clean on a battlefield. But at least she would die with only the mud and blood of the battle on her. Then after the battle to try to feel ... human ... again. Maybe even like a woman again.
"They are an evil that my people have seen before," Chal said after a minute. "A new evil, perhaps, but created from an old evil. An evil my people once fought. An evil my people once created."
"You mean the magic that lets Ducoed have an army or corpses?"
"Yes. And what powers his grunzers."
"You mean it's not coal or charcoal?"
"No," Chal said, softly.
Rose looked at Chal, but Chal was staring at the wall, past the wall. "So ... what?"
Chal just shook her head.
"You're taking the girls," Rose said, tugging the braids out of her hair. She wondered if she should take the time to wash her hair. "And Major Haley and however many men he decides on. All you need is a boat and a push. Once you're on the water, there's nothing Ducoed can do to stop you, or catch you." She held a lock of her hair to her face and smelled it. "Ugh," she said. "Do you think the private would bring me another bucket of water?"
"Once I am on the water," Chal said, her voice almost a whisper now.
Rose paused, holding a turtleshell comb in her hand. "Are you alright, Chal?" she asked.
"The waters," Chal said. "The river. His songs are changing. My song ... I can no longer hear ..." Her voice drifted off. Then she sat up straight, her eyes focused on Rose, her expression tense. "The Seeker draws near," she said.
"Here?" Rose said.
"Of course. This is where I am. I felt him touch the waters. He was letting me know that he is near. That I should be ready."
"Then there is no more question," Rose said. "You are going with the girls. You will be able to outrun the Seeker too, once you're on ... the boat. The river will carry you to New Venezia. If I survive, I will find you there."
There was a knock on the door, and Chal's face relaxed as suddenly as it had tensed. She smiled. "The river will carry me, and carry you, Rose Bainbridge, where it wills." Chal uncrossed her legs and stood. "I will give you some privacy."
"Privacy? Just tell the private to put the uniform on the bed. And tell him to fetch me more water."
Chal moved to the door. Rose turned so her back was to the door. Fifteen years in the 101st with mixed male and female squads had desensitized her to her own nudity, though not to the same degree as Chal, who seemed just as comfortable naked as clothed in any circumstance, but Rose did not want to embarrass the poor private.
Rose heard Chal open the door. "Put the uniform on the bed," Chal said. Footsteps, a man's intake of breath, probably from seeing Rose's naked back, then Chal said, "I am going to see to young Janett's change of wardrobe."
"But--" A man's voice.
The door closed. Rose smiled and shook her head. Another bit of propriety Chal was more relaxed about than Rose.
"This is ... highly irregular," Major Haley said behind her. Rose almost heard him swallow.
She turned to face him. She felt him watching her as she turned around. She no longer had a maiden's body, she knew, or even a young woman's, but she had never had children, so her breasts had not sagged fully and her waist and hips were as slender as they had ever been. She suffered a moment's self-consciousness when she thought of her accumulated scars, especially the flogging scars on her back, but decided she did not care.
The major was not wearing his uniform, which lay on Chal's bed. He had on an old woolen shirt, undyed and sweatstained, and a pair of buckskin trousers. His black boots looked out of place. Except for the boots, and his youth, he reminded her of Nicholas. His eyes met hers.
"I should go--"
"No, Ian," she said. "You should stay."
"I brought my uniform," he said. He looked her in the eye as he spoke, but she knew he was seeing her naked breasts. He gestured to toward the bed to indicate the uniform, then realized what he had done, combined with how she was undressed, and his face flushed. Nicholas had been just as shy, at first, and just as easy to make blush. Nicholas had not been her first, as she had been his. But Nicholas had been the last. Nearly five years ago. Five years suddenly seemed a long, long time. "I should go," the major managed to say.
"It's been nine years since I wore a uniform, Major Haley," Rose said as she stepped closer to him. "And I've never worn an officer's uniform." She reached out and touched his chest with her hands. His muscles beneath the fabric were warm and firm. Her touch made him catch his breath. She looked up into his green eyes. "I think you will need to help me."
"Maybe ... maybe if I put it on again for you?" he suggested.
"Yes, that would be a great help," Rose said. Her fingers slid down his chest to his stomach, then to his waist. She slipped her fingers into his waist band, and tugged. "First, though, take these off for me."
\*
Fewer than a hundred men remained in Fort Russell, and a third of those were wounded. None of them, hale or hurt, slept that night. Every barrel of powder was opened and divided between the soldiers. What could not be carried was packed into the walls and men too wounded to travel were given strikers and told to light the powder at the first sign of the enemy. Likewise, all the crates and barrels and bags of potatoes and cured meat and flour were divided into packs for the men to carry. What could not be carried was left for the rats.
Rose wore Major Haley's uniform with her 101st Pistoleers regimental badge bent and wrapped tied to her right arm. She had wanted to remove the gold knots of his rank from the epaulets, but the major--Ian, she corrected herself, because she liked his name as much as she liked his face--Ian had insisted the knots were part of the disguise. He had frowned at her when she put the badge on her arm, but had not said anything. His uniform was too big for her, but it smelled like him, so she did not mind. Every time one of the enlisted men saluted her, though, she was tempted to take the whole thing off.
With Captain Keele's assistance, she interviewed the older veterans and found ten men, nearly a whole squad, who had served with members of the 101st Pistoleers on past campaigns. None of them seemed eager to do so again, but she took that as a necessary survival instinct of veterans. She assembled the men in a dark corner of the fort. She dismissed Captain Keele, who snapped a salute to her as if she really were a major and not just wearing a major's uniform, then walked away.
"Sergeant Tabart," she said, addressing the most senior of the ten men.
"Sir." Tabart was a wrinkled veteran, maybe ten years older than her, with a pronounced limp.
"Captain Keele tells me you served with the 43rd in Brittany."
"Yes, sir. I left a bit of me leg there, sir."
"You don't have to address me as 'sir', Sergeant."
"Force of habit, sir. I see the uniform, I say 'sir'. Sir."
Rose sighed. "Did you serve with any of the 101st?"
"No, sir. I was with Leftenant Kilburn on the northern flank, sir."
Rose did not remember Leftenant Kilburn, but a lot of men and officers she did not know had died in Brittany. "What about any of your men?"
"Jickell has mentioned it before, sir."
"Corporal Jickell," Rose said, "you're with me."
"Sir," said the corporal, then spit.
Rose eyed the soldier. "Do you have any more, Corporal?"
"Sir?"
"Tobacco, Corporal Jickell. Do you have any more tobacco?"
"I may have a pinch or two I can spare, sir."
"I wouldn't dream of it, corporal. I'm going to need pistols, though. As many as you can find."
"Yes, sir."
"And all the shot and powder you can carry. All of you. Myself included. It will be a long night, I expect. Followed by a much longer morning."
\*
Just before dawn, Corporal Jickell followed a pace behind her right shoulder as she walked through the chaos of the fort's preparations looking for Chal. Sergeant Tabart and the rest of her men were sitting in the dark. Most of them were probably asleep by now. She longed for some shut-eye herself.
She found Chal, Ian, Margaret and Janett huddled near the northwest corner of the fort. Ian smiled when he saw her, then looked away, embarrassed by the smile and wink she gave him back. Chal looked satisfied, as if she were the village matchmaker, but said nothing.
Janett and Margaret both wore raw cotton shirts and buckskin trousers. Margaret looked like one of the Mancino children, she thought, rumpled, with her brown hair scarcely contained. Janett, though, managed to look more like a lady on a fox hunt than a scout. Margaret was clutching a pistol in both hands, and Janett had a rifle slung over her shoulder.
Rose had wanted Chal to lead Ian and the girls out of the fort in middle of the night, but there had been no way to properly cover them. A few soldiers had deserted the fort once darkness fell. Ducoed had sent their heads to the main gate as a reminder that the terms of the surrender did not take effect until dawn.
Rose told Corporal Jickell to wait for her, then walked up to Ian and put her arms around him. She went up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. Trying not to think that she might never see him again, she asked, "Have you ever been kissed by a major before, Mr. Haley?"
"Not that I am at liberty to say, Miss Bainbridge," Ian replied.
Margaret was waiting for her and hugged her when she backed away from Ian. The pistol in Margaret's right hand thumped Rose on the back. "I wish you were coming with us," Margaret said. "You will take care of Da, won't you, Miss Rose?"
"I will try, Margaret."
Janett curtsied, then shook Rose's hand. She noticed Rose looking at the rifle on her back, and Janett said, "Chal has been showing me how to load and fire."
"What did your father have to say about that?"
"He only learned about it tonight."
Rose nodded. "Take care of Margaret," she said.
Janett nodded.
Chal waited for her, smiling, standing with her arms crossed. Before either one could say anything, Colonel Laxton appeared out of the darkness, flanked by Major Eason and Captain Keele.
Margaret ran to the colonel and hugged him, thumping him on the back with the pistol as well. Janett joined her.
When the colonel had untangled himself from his daughters, leaving them in the hands of Ian, he came to Chal. "Thank you," he said, with a quick bow. He gave Rose a nod, then walked away.
Rose watched the officers walk away.
"Dawn is almost here," Chal said. "The waters prepare to sing to the sun."
"Our song is not over," Rose said.
Chal's brown eyes shone in the dark. "I wish it were so, Rose Bainbridge. But the song of the waters is ... less certain."
"I will find you. Just keep everyone alive and get to New Venezia. I will join you there."
"I will try, Rose Bainbridge. I will try to keep them safe for you. Margaret, Janett, and the pretty major."
"And yourself, Chal."
Chal's mouth smiled, but her eyes were sad.
\*
Colonel Laxton ordered the main gates opened when the first cold, yellow arc of the sun cleared the horizon. The colonel rode at the front of the ranks on one of the few remaining horses. Major Eason and Captain Keele also rode, just behind the colonel and the standard bearer. Rose walked, with Corporal Jickell a pace behind, surrounded in a tight square by Sergeant Tabart and the other men in her squad. She had her rune-engraved pistol in her hand and two others in her belt. Corporal Jickell carried three loaded pistols in addition to his musket. The rest of the squad all carried a spare pistol as well as their muskets.
Behind them came the men bearing stretchers with the wounded. Under the blankets of the wounded were loaded muskets. Finally, the last of colonel's command marched in ranks four abreast, steps in sync with the drummers.
The battlefield looked very different under the gray light of dawn. The trenches and embankments remained, as did the wreckage of grunzers and mortars. Of all the men who had fallen, though, only dark stains remained. And sometimes their shredded flesh.
The column snaked its way back and forth across the battlefield, following the route picked by the colonel to get around and through the lines of trenches. Rose ignored the blood and entrails and looked at what they were up against.
Ducoed's force stood in an arc along the base of the hill, running from the northeast along the treeline to nearly the river. Only a small avenue remained open along the bank of the river, to the south. The arranged troops were a mixture of black and white and native, in no consistent mode of dress. Swedish and Italian uniforms were present, as were English army, and farmers and slaves in old cotton rags and men in buckskins. Behind those stood the squat grunzers that seemed to be all boiler. None of the grunzers had smoke stacks, she noticed, making them look very different from the grunzers she was used to. How could they work without fireboxes to heat the water?
More importantly, Rose thought, where was Ducoed?
A group of fully armored men hissed and clanked, leaking steam as they walked, broke away from the line of enemies and came toward the head of the English column. Except for the steam leaking from their joints, they could be old-style heavy cavalry, without the horses. Rose had never seen anything like them on the battlefields of her life. The men in armor moved like grunzers, but could not be grunzers. They were far too small, just over man-sized. Steam-powered armor, maybe? But steam-powered armor would be too hot-- Too hot for a normal man, she thought. But who knew what was in those suits of armor?
Colonel Laxton continued to lead the column forward until it was even with the oncoming group. Then he raised his hand and gestured for the halt.
The armored troops spread to create a shallow vee. At the point of the vee, Ducoed, still in his Leftenant's uniform, stood next to a big man wearing buckskins and a cloak of pelts. The big man had his arms crossed. Even from nearly a hundred feet, Rose could feel the power of the big man. A cold darkness emanated from him, giving Rose gooseflesh. Maybe Ducoed was not the threat here, after all. Again she wondered who or what Ducoed had allied himself with.
"That is far enough, Colonel Laxton," Ducoed shouted. "You may step aside and inspect your command as it leaves the field."
Rose risked a look back at the column. The tail end had fallen behind, stretching the column from the northeast to the southwest. As the front of the column halted, so did the rest. Few of the stragglers made any attempt to rejoin the main group. Rose nodded to herself. She looked at the fort, but saw no sign of anyone. The fort looked deserted with its unmanned towers and naked flagpoles. She turned to face the front.
"I am surrendering command of Fort Russell," Colonel Laxton shouted. "In accordance with the terms of our agreement."
Ducoed nodded. The big man next to him did not move.
Colonel Laxton stepped his mount forward. When he was halfway between the head of the column and the waiting Ducoed, he reined his horse to a stop again, then turned to face the column. He drew his saber and held it up in a salute. All along the column, men saluted in response. Rose tensed, her pistol in her hand, held low along the line of her leg.
It seemed to take an eternity for the first of the packed charges in the wall of the fort to explode. Then the ground shook as four more explosions in rapid succession destroyed the silence of the dawn. Rose had added what energies she could spare to the packed charges, amplifying them, directing their force outward from the center of the fort.
The colonel pulled on the reins of his horse and spun the beast around. Saber still raised, he spurred his mount at Ducoed. "Attack!" he shouted. Up and down the line, the men of his command echoed the shout. "Attack!"
Rose resisted the urge to look at the smoke billowing from the fort--either the walls were breached or they were not--and the even more personal, powerful urge to target Ducoed. She spun on her heels, raised her pistol to clear the heads of her men, and squeezed the trigger. Lightning and fire arced and exploded in the ranks of Ducoed's forces near the northeast bank of the river. The bullet was consumed in the magic, adding to the destruction in a way that mere lead never could. She saw bodies broken, and blown apart by the blast.
She dropped the pistol into Corporal Rickell's left hand and took the pistol he held in his right. She was aware of Rickell handing her spent pistol to Private Gartside for cleaning and reloading, but she focused on the line of the enemy. She fired again. She felt the magic tearing against the unreinforced barrel of the pistol as the exploding powder and hot shot were taken apart and added to the magic. The barrel held, though only just. Rose decided she would risk one more shot through the gun. She handed the pistol to Rickell again and took the next one he gave her. Shot after shot, she walked fire and lightning along the line of creatures that blocked the northeast treeline, trying to clear a path for the soldiers even now advancing and firing in that direction.
After the fifth shot, she had her own pistol again. The enemy was recovering from the surprise of the explosions at the fort and the fury of her attacks and the line of creatures had begun to move forward. Where she had fired, the line had been thinned, but not cleared. She hoped she would have a chance to assist that part of the battle again, but now she needed to see to the other escape route.
"Turnabout right," she shouted. The cold of her magic had already begun to seep into her chest. Her breath misted despite the warm, humid air. "Two paces and set."
Sergeant Tabart echoed her order.
"Now!"
She turned to the south and took two steps, Rickell moving in orbit about her and the rest of her men staying in formation around her as they matched her step. As she turned, her eyes slid over the sight of Colonel Laxton and his officers, still mounted, fighting against the hissing and clanking armored men. She refused to take time to wonder why she had not heard nor seen any return magic from Ducoed. She saw that Ducoed's creatures were already beginning to close the gap along the riverbank. She aimed and fired.
The soldiers with litters of wounded streamed past her and Sergeant Tabart and Corporal Rickell and the rest. The wounded had their guns out now, but held their fire, trying only to hang on to the muskets against the bouncing and jostling--and to not fall off the litters. Rose fired over their heads like a human artillery piece, one shot after another, her lightning and fire keeping the path in front of them clear.
"Advance five paces," she ordered after another nine shots, "then turnabout." She did not hand the pistol she had just fired to Rickell. She dropped it. Her breath misted in front of her as the red-hot barrel hissed where it touched morning dew on the churned earth. That was one pistol used up, and three others about to go. "Now!"
Five paces forward hardly seemed to move them any closer to the south bend of the river which was their planned escape route as well, but she was the only artillery the fort had left. Facing back to the northeast, she again concentrated her fire toward the riverbank there. Only three shots, though, as the center of Ducoed's arc had now advanced enough to need attention. The squat grunzers were moving out on to the field. They stomped and struck when targets were in reach, but they were all heading toward Rose.
"Steady, lads," Sergeant Tabart said, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the battle.
Rose had never seen grunzers like these before, but they were still grunzers. She targeted the ground in front of the nearest grunzer, aiming to trip its jointed metal legs by exploding the dirt beneath its segmented feet. That grunzer fell forward after only two shots, so she shifted her attention to the next.
When she next held her pistol, she aimed for the boiler of the tripped grunzer as it struggled to regain an even keel. A normal bullet had no chance of penetrating the plated iron of the boiler. A magically infused shot from a normal pistol had a chance, though not a chance worth betting on. With her own pistol-- As the grunzer's boiler burst and pulled apart its chassis with a screech of tortured metal, Rose wished she had a full rack of rune pistols. Though even that might not be enough--
She pushed down thoughts of losing, and dying. They were none of them trying to win this battle. Only to survive.
Besides, if she were wishing, a pole-mounted 3-pounder with a crew to load it for her, would be even more useful than a rack of rune pistols right now.
She heard some of her men shouting in surprise and fear.
"Steady!" she shouted.
With her next shot, she built on the cloud of steam from the disabled grunzer, pulled in the fog now dripping off her and the smoke from her shots and the shots of a hundred men across a bloody field, and sent it out to create a wall of churning gray across the battlefield.
"Now, Sergeant!" As she shouted, she turned around to run with her men to the southwest. "Holy Mother of God," she said, and pulled up short.
A boiling black cloud stood like a pillar of night along their path. Standing atop the pillar as if it were a solid object was the big man with the mottled skin. He had his arms spread, and he was shouting words that Rose could not understand. The black clouds sprang from the palms his hands, dripping and roiling on their way to the ground.
A soldier in a red uniform ran out of the black cloud, coughing and gagging. Rose saw the soldier trip and fall. One of the black, spider-like skeletons came out of the cloud behind the soldier, stabbed the soldier with its claws, then picked the screaming soldier up like a farmer might use a pitchfork to lift a bale of wheat.
"ROSE!" Ducoed's voice boomed across the battlefield louder than a cannon. "I AM SO GLAD YOU COULD JOIN US, ROSE."
Rose turned around, trying to look in all directions at once, trying to spot Ducoed. Then she saw him. He was mounted, sitting tall in the saddle, the red and gold of his uniform bright in the first direct sunlight of the day. And he was uphill of her. He had somehow ridden around the west flank of the battle up toward the still-smoking fort.
Rose raised her pistol. As she did, a line of black clouds rolled across the battlefield between her and Ducoed, obscuring the sight of him as he pulled on the reins. She squeezed the trigger. The chill of her attack left a trail of fog in the air and caused the blackness to twist and spin.
"SO COLD, ROSE. ALWAYS SO COLD."
She dropped the pistol and grabbed the next one from Corporal Rickell. She fired it after the first, the cold rushing out of her creating a dusting of snowflakes that melted into tiny drops of water.
"I DO HOPE THAT MEANS THE LOVELY CHAL IS WITH THE GIRLS, ROSE. I HAVE BEEN SO WANTING TO GET TO KNOW HER."
"No!" she shouted. The bastard could not have anticipated her again. He had not even known she was in the fort. How?
She grabbed the next pistol from Corporal Rickell, but before she could fire it again, black clouds swirled around her and engulfed her, blocking the light. But not blocking the sound of Ducoed laughing at her. Again.
Fort Russell
1742 A.D.
Margaret huddled in the darkness at the back of the stall, sitting on the horse blanket that Janett had spread over the straw. She clutched the pistol Chal had given her, holding it to her chest even though the claw of the striker dug into stomach and the cold metal of the barrel made her shiver. Not for the first time, she thought about dropping the pistol. It was heavy, and it was loaded. She did not even know whether she would be able to use it.
She felt more than saw Janett shift positions. Janett had the long musket in front of her, butt resting against the ground. She had laughed when she first saw Janett with the rifle slung over her shoulder, looking for all the world like a cross between Miss Rose and Chal. Prettier than either of the women, of course, because Janett could not help but be pretty.
She had thought that Da would have a fit when he saw his daughters with guns, especially her, his Little Puncher, but he had said nothing. He had only repeated the instructions Chal had given her. "Pull back on this until it locks. Aim low, Margaret, because it's going to kick when you pull the trigger."
The cold metal of the gun touched her and she shivered again. She wondered why she was not more scared. Maybe because all of it was so unreal, like a dream. A nightmare. Especially here in the darkness where she could not see, it was easy to believe it was all a fever dream. She had not seen what she had seen. She had not heard Mr. Thomas say the things he had said. Da was not riding out to his death to save her and Janett. She would wake soon, and there would be Mum, comforting her, maybe with a cold, wet cloth on her forehead, telling her that everything was alright and what a fright she had given everyone.
"Maybe I should go check the men." Major Haley's disembodied whisper made the dark seem even darker. "It's been more than long enough."
"They are brave men," said a man's voice, one of the soldiers, also only a voice in the darkness. "Do not question them now."
"You are right, of course, Corporal," the major said.
"It has not been as long as you think, Major Haley." Chal's voice now. "But more time may have passed than I think. Either way, you do not want to be in the open when--"
The ground shook under Margaret as if lifting her to meet the thundering roar of the explosion. She stifled her scream but nearly dropped the pistol. She felt Janett beside her, trying not to fall. Dust and straw fell on them from the unseen ceiling above them.
The first explosion had only just begun to subside when four more happened. This time Margaret screamed. Or she thought she did. Her mouth was open, but she could not hear anything but the continuous roar of a thunderclap that hit her over and over and over. Something hard hit her on the back and she realized she had fallen forward and had her face pressed against the horse blanket. She clutched the pistol as something soft and warm stretched across her back. She screamed again.
She was still screaming when the warmth across her back pulled away and hands pulled on her shoulders and waist. Then someone was shouting at her and shaking her.
"Margaret! Margaret!" She heard Janett's voice, though only barely, and collapsed forward into Janett's arms, sobbing. Because she knew it was not a dream.
\*
Major Haley picked her up as if she was a toddler and held her against his chest as they ran out of the stable. As they came out into the gray light of morning, Margaret put her arms around the major's neck so she would not slip down. She almost dropped the pistol when it knocked against his back. Over his shoulder she saw black smoke and dirt rolling across the deserted fort. Bits of wood still fell out of the air around them and on them. The front gate of the fort was a gaping hole. Large, splintered fragments of the gate were scattered everywhere. The east wall had been reduced to rubble. She heard more explosions coming from outside the fort, to the east. Behind her, the three soldiers who had responded to Major Haley's request for volunteers came out of the stable. Two of them carried a canoe. The other carried long coils of rope and a set of pulleys.
The wooden stairs that went up the back, north wall of the fort were badly askew, but Major Haley managed to carry her up without losing his balance. On the top of the wall, Margaret wriggled, forcing Major Haley to set her down.
In front of her, Chal paused and looked to the south. Margaret followed her gaze. She could hear still more explosions, like lightning and thunder, more distant than before, and gunshots and even some shouts, but she could not see much of the field that surrounded the fort because of the smoke. She could not see Da. Or Miss Rose.
The soldiers dropped the canoe and the rope and pulleys on the top of the wall. One of them began tying off the pulleys around a crenellation while the other two went back down to the stable and fetched the party's packs.
Chal whispered words that Margaret did not recognize, then went to the wall. She took her short rifle in her left hand, then stepped on the rampart and stepped off on the other side, into nothing. Margaret ran to the wall to look down. Chal stood on the lip of the cliff below the base of the wall, smiling up at her.
One of the soldiers came up beside Margaret and threw down a line. Chal caught the line and wrapped it around her waist.
Margaret and Janett followed Chal down the wall, but they held on to knots in the rope and were lowered. The slope of the wall was steep, but with enough of an angle that they could walk down it backward, as long as they held the rope. Margaret had put her pistol in her belt. It would have slipped through her pants leg and fallen if the hammer claw had not ripped a hole in her pants and hung there. The metal barrel was even colder against her legs inside her pants.
She stumbled when her feet hit the ground, and the gun in her pants tried to trip her. Chal caught her and helped her lean back against the slope of the wall. The edge of the cliff was at least two yards away, and she probably would not have gone over even if she had tripped, but her heart was racing and she was panting. The edge felt much closer as she looked at it.
Margaret forced herself to breathe normal again. Then, still leaning against the wall, she undid her belt and the laces of her pants to free the weapon.
"Margaret, please," Janett said beside her.
Margaret ignored her.
The girls had to move to one side as the canoe was lowered. The plan was that the soldiers would lower the canoe down the cliff, with the packs providing ballast. Then Chal and the girls would be lowered to the base of the cliff. If there was time, the major and the soldiers would join them. If there was not time, Chal was to cut the rope and she and the girls would escape down river.
The rush of the river at the bottom of the cliff muffled the sounds of the battle in front of the fort. And, somehow, tried to warn Margaret. She looked up and saw that Chal was listening too. Both of them stepped up to the edge of the cliff and looked down.
"Margaret!" Janett called out. "Be careful!"
Climbing out of the water was one of the cold women that had escorted-carried-dragged Margaret to the fort. Behind that woman were others of the walking dead, dozens of them clawing at the smooth, wet rocks that littered the bank, trying to pull themselves out of the water and to the bank. Margaret saw the little girl who had worn her clothes fighting the current, then being pulled downstream, still trying to reach the cliffs. The cold woman looked up then and her dead eyes met Margaret's.
A hand grabbed the back of Margaret's shirt and pulled her back from the edge. Her unbelted pants slipped and she fell backward, dropping the pistol. She scrambled to pick up the pistol again and clutched it to her chest. She was shaking and her heart was beating in her chest so hard that she thought she might explode from fear.
Then Janett crouched in front of her, looking so much like Chal or Miss Rose with the rifle slung over her shoulder again, saying, "Margaret. Margaret."
"They--they're coming," Margaret said. "They're coming." Mr. Thomas had known they would try the river. He had known. And he had sent the cold women to get her back.
"East or south, Major Haley?" Chal's voice, shouting to be heard over the river and the battle and Margaret's cries.
Margaret did not hear Major Haley's reply because Janett had taken her by the shoulders and pulled her up to her feet again and into an embrace. Janett wrapped her arms around Margaret and crushed Margaret to her breast. Margaret could hear Janett's voice in her ear, but she could not understand what Janett was saying. All she could think of was that Mr. Thomas had sent the cold women to get her back, and to get Janett too. She squeezed her eyes closed so she would not see the cold hands reaching over the edge of the cliff.
Janett's arms went loose around Margaret, then another set of hands was trying to pull Margaret away from Janett. Margaret held on, screaming, until she realized that the hands were warm and it was Chal gesturing for her to follow. Margaret saw one of the soldiers beyond Chal, running along the foot of the wall to the west, toward the bend in the river. She started to take a step, and her unbelted pants slipped to her hips. She grabbed the waistband with her left hand and yanked them up. She still held the pistol in her right hand, her knuckles white.
Gunshots boomed above her, then a thunderclap and a bright flash. She looked up and saw one of the soldiers, his chest and face burned black, falling between the crenellations on top of the wall. She watched his right arm swing backward as he fell, releasing his grip on his rifle. The rifle went over the cliff as the body of the soldier slid down the face of the wall toward her. Janett pulled her backward again and the soldier landed where they had been standing.
"Go!" shouted Major Haley behind them. "Stay with Chal!"
Margaret turned to see Major Haley with his rifle braced against his shoulder, aiming up the wall, waiting for a shot.
Janett still gripped Margaret's shirt, and now pulled her forward. Margaret slowed as she tried not to step on the dead soldier. His teeth and eyes were bright white in the black, smoking ruin of his face. Cracks in his blackened skin show bright pink. Janett pulled her past the body.
Another flash and a thunderclap sounded above them. Margaret kept her face down, watching where she put her feet as Janett all but dragged her along. She heard Major Haley coming behind them.
They caught up with Chal at the corner of the wall. The corner of the wall was low enough that Margaret could see the river beyond it. She saw many heads, hundreds maybe, bobbing in the current, moving from the far side toward the fort.
Then the soldier they had been following came backing up along the west edge of the cliff again, swinging his musket like a club at the grasping hands of the attackers.
Behind her, Margaret heard Major Haley's rifle boom, the sound almost a physical blow to the back of her head and the smell of burned powder was thick in her nostrils. Then there was a wash of heat that hit behind her followed by a man screaming.
Above the screams, she heard a laugh. A laugh she had learned to hate.
Margaret looked up and saw Mr. Thomas standing on the rampart. He wore his Leftenant's uniform, his peaked hat square on his head, and in his right hand he held his pistol. White smoke leaked from the barrel, which glowed red with heat while unfamiliar letters and symbols flashed along its length. Blood flowed from a cut on his right cheek.
She saw Major Haley on fire, rolling on the ground, slapping at his clothes and his hair, trying to put out the flames.
She raised the pistol and pointed it at Mr. Thomas. When she saw him notice her, and smile, she pulled the trigger.
The kick of the pistol pulled it out of her hands and the smoke of her shot blinded her. Her ears rang, but she could still hear Mr. Thomas laughing. Laughing at her now.
She blinked her eyes against the smoke and bent over. She felt around for the pistol. Her fingers closed on the stock and she picked it up.
A gun boomed beside her ear as Janett fired her rifle. The sound was like another blow to Margaret's head, but it drowned Mr. Thomas' mocking laughter. Dazed, Margaret watched Janett shift her grip on the rifle, brace the butt against the ground, and pull out a pouch of powder and a lead ball to reload. When had Janett learned to load a rifle?
In front of them, Chal spun to face them. The native girl grabbed Janett, ignoring the girl's protests, and threw both girl and gun over the side of the cliff.
Margaret looked at Chal, new horror growing in her. She would have backed away, but Chal was too fast. Chal's eyes, she saw, were no longer brown. They had become bluer, like the color of the river after a rain.
"It is time to get our feet wet," Chal said, grabbing Margaret's shoulders with warm, wet fingers. "Time to answer the call."
Chal dragged her to the edge of the cliff. The warmth from Chal's fingers spread down Margaret's arms and into her chest. Chal's facial features seemed to flow and change as she pulled Margaret, to become less human, as if Chal were melting.
Margaret's shoulders were wrenched as she and Chal went over the cliff and fell toward the rocks and water below. She saw Janett tumbling head over heels through the air ahead of her, one hand still holding the rifle.
"No!" shouted Mr. Thomas above them.
Margaret smiled as she realized that Mr. Thomas would not have her, or Janett. Then she saw Janett's fall stop yards above the surface of the water, bouncing as if hitting something hard, just as the air in front of her became a transparent wall and her own fall came to an abrupt halt.
From high above, Mr. Thomas' laughter mocked her again.
King's Coven North
1718 A.D.
Rosalind, Private Bainbridge, stood at attention, presenting her pistol, elbows bent, right hand holding the butt, left hand supporting the short stock, exactly as she had been trained to do, drilled daily for six months. The cold winter wind whipped around her as it darted in and out between the privates in her squad and all the privates of the six other squads lined up on the mustering field of the King's Coven. Her red uniform took off the edge of the chill that penetrated. Months spent standing, drilling and marching in as bad or worse had taught her to ignore the rest.
Leftenant Laxton, with Corporal Edwards a pace behind, stepped forward until he was in front of Rosalind. He turned to face her.
"Private Bainbridge," Corporal Edwards said, as if introducing her to the Leftenant for the first time.
The Leftenant looked her up and down. He reached forward and adjusted the angle of presentation of her pistol. He moved it up, then down, and finally left it where she had held it to begin with. Rosalind never blinked or changed where she was looking just over the Leftenant's right shoulder. The Leftenant stepped back, looked her up and down once more, then nodded.
"Shoulder your pistol, Private Bainbridge," the corporal said.
Rosalind snapped into the new position, holding the pistol against her right shoulder, right hand holding the butt now, left hand on the stock above the trigger guard.
Corporal Edwards stepped in front of her and touched the rune-worked iron bracelet on her left wrist. The bracelet snapped open, the sound loud enough to make Rosalind blink. Or maybe it was the odd feeling in her mind, the sudden chill in her chest, as the shackle that had stifled her magic for six months fell away, taken off her wrist by the corporal and hung on a ring with the other shackles already removed. Rosalind's breath misted in the wind, then blew away. Somehow, she felt less of the chill from the wind than before, than she had in the last few months.
While she maintained the shouldered pose, Corporal Edwards then pinned the badge of the 101st Pistoleers with its crossed lightning bolt and musket to the front of her peaked, bearskin hat. Rosalind would have to sew the badge on herself that evening. For now, it was held in place by a single straight pin.
Rosalind tried not to think of Mum and that this ceremony was a far cry from the wedding Mum had planned for the elder Bainbridge daughter. Mum and Father and Elizabeth, and thoughts of marriage, everything about her past seemed like distant memories now. There would be no more rumors and allegations of witchcraft now. As of today, Rosalind, Private Bainbridge, was a full member of the 101st Pistoleers of the King's Army. She was a gunwitch.
The Leftenant and the corporal turned and stepped up to the next private in line.
"Private Rames," Corporal Edwards said.
Rosalind kept her eyes forward as the Leftenant inspected Private Rames and wiped imaginary dust from the private's left cuff. The corporal pinned a badge to Rames' hat. The ceremony moved on.
\*
Rosalind opened her eyes as the guard changed after midnight. It was dark and cold in the tent she shared with Privates Gadge, Wad, Carlell, and Rames. The tent was roomier since Private Millsom had died in a magic-fire drill exercise a month ago, but the loss of a warm body kept the tent from getting as warm as it could have. Even with the small, woodburning stove in the corner of the tent still showing small red flames through its front grill Rosalind's breath misted in front of her.
Private Carlell's magic could have warmed the room easily, in the opposite way that Rosalind's could have taken all the heat from the burning bits of wood while the flame remained. With their shackles removed, any of them could have heated the room, even Rosalind. She had been taught how to draw forth heat with her magic, like the others, though the heat seemed to resist her more than it resisted the others. None of the young women in the tent, however, had made any magical effort to warm the air. A lingering effect of the shackle, maybe, like dogs trained to stay in the yard even when the fence that hemmed them in was removed.
Regardless, the cold no longer seemed to touch her, now that the shackle was gone. She had stripped naked--except for her pistol, of course--before getting into her cot. She had stood there, Private Carlell eyeing her, Private Rames ignoring her, and Privates Gadge and Wad scandalized by her nudity, waiting for the cold air of the tent to force her back into her clothes. Not until Rames muttered, "Yeah, we all got scars, missy," did she got into her bed, still naked, and pull the covers up to her chin. That the cold did not touch her made her new status more real than any ceremonial inspection or regimental badge.
She was a witch now. But not a wild witch. A tamed witch, in His Majesty's Army. A gunwitch. All the women in the tent with her were gunwitches. Dangerous, capable of blasting, burning, or in other ways killing anyone within line of sight, but only when their superior officers directed them to. Without orders, they did not even use magic to warm their tent.
Tomorrow, they and the rest of the latest crop from the King's Coven would be sent out to join the English Army, the real army. Which meant if she were going to do anything about Thomas, it would have to be tonight.
She sat up and swung her bare legs over the side of her cot. The cold, still air continued to ignore her as she stood.
Her face flushed when she thought about visiting Thomas naked, walking through the winter night wearing nothing, carrying her gun, joining him in his cot. The cold could not touch her, but maybe Thomas would. She shook her head at the thought. She was not so brazen as that. And what if Thomas still refused to talk to her? She did not want to think of that either.
Thomas had said no word to her in the three months since they were both disciplined for "attempting to strike a superior officer". His crime, their shared punishment. He would meet her eyes, sometimes, but he would not speak to her. Or to any of the privates, unless ordered to.
The rest of the squad, all the other privates who had survived to become full members of the 101st Pistoleers in the ceremony today, despised Thomas. Some openly hated him. But when Rosalind looked at him, she still saw the frightened boy with the bruised face and she still wanted to help him, to take him in her arms and comfort him. And since his one, failed attempt to kiss her, she had also seen him as a young man--and she wanted to kiss him. Her face no longer flushed at the thought of kissing him. Now other parts of her grew warm.
She pulled on her uniform as quietly as she could. She did not care if the others saw her dress and leave, but she did not want to disturb their rest.
Before she left the tent, she performed her first act of rebellion, an amusing prelude to the next, much bigger act she expected. She touched the iron belly of the woodburning stove with the muzzle of her pistol. Heat poured out of her, chilling her insides even as the iron edges of the stove began to glow a dark red. The air in the tent had become noticeably warmer even before she reached the front flap.
The December wind took away the warm air that surrounded her as she walked, but it could not touch her.
\*
She did not see any guards as she walked between the quiet tents, though she could hear them occasionally. She reached the tent Thomas shared with five other young men, Privates Holland, Holtes, Symond, Towneley, and Woolmer, then stood in the wind, suddenly afraid of continuing her plan.
She had not met Thomas after midnight since that last disastrous time. He had not even spoken to her since then. He had to know that she had thought of him. She had tried time and again to speak to him. She had apologized, and even once had whispered into his ear, "If you tried again, I would not pull back." But he had never responded. Why would he speak to her now?
She felt a presence behind her. Her first thought was that it was a guard on patrol, then her unshackled senses somehow told her that it was someone like her. A gunwitch.
She turned around, prepared to nod to whoever it was and walk away, to go back to her tent and her cot and be miserable and probably never see Thomas again after the morning muster.
Thomas stood there. She could not see his face clearly in the dark, only the flash in his eyes and the whiteness of his teeth as he smiled at her.
"I knew you would come," he whispered and held out his hand.
First the smile, then the words, then taking his hand in hers. Rosalind's heart beat faster and she felt her face grow warm.
"Thomas, I--"
"Shh," he said and held up a finger.
Thomas led her through the tents, then out of the tents to the firing range.
"Where--?"
"Shh," he said.
Once they were behind the earthen embankments at the far end of the firing range, Thomas finally stopped walking. He pulled her to him and put his arms around her.
Rosalind realized that with her newfound, unshackled immunity to the cold, she did not need either shelter or cover. She and Thomas could--her face became hot with the thought--be a woman and man--be with each other--almost anywhere in this cold, dark night. Though a blanket or something under her back would doubtless be more comfortable than bare dirt. At least she had her uniform on. Her coat could be a cover for the ground. Maybe Thomas would offer his coat, as well.
"Did you think I would forget?" he asked, whispering in her ear.
"What?" she asked, his hands on her back, her breasts pressed against his chest, the feel of his lips and his breath against her ear, the presence of him so close to her, all causing her to tingle.
"Did you think," he said again, his voice no longer soft, "that I would forget?" His hands moved from her back and gripped her forearms, no longer gentle.
She sensed the magic stirring in him an instant before she felt the invisible bands of force wrap around her, hold her in place as he stepped back from her. She wanted to ask him what he was doing, but she could not open her mouth. She was immobilized.
The wind blew against her. Now she could feel the cold, but she could not correct her balance. Thomas laughed and stepped to one side as she first teetered, then fell forward. She could not move her hands or shift her legs. Her right wrist and left elbow took the fall, the pain in both joints making her cry out in pain, her cry muffled by the lips she could not open.
She felt again Robert Phillips' arms around her, holding her, making her watch while William Phillips stripped Elizabeth.
Rosalind forced the pain out of her mind and reached deep inside for her own magic to defend herself. Her pistol was in her pocket instead of gripped in her right hand, but she had not needed the pistol against Robert and William, she would not need it now--
Behind her, above her, Thomas laughed. At her.
She could feel the magic inside her, but it was just out of reach. As if she still had her shackle on. She strained and pulled and pushed, but neither the binding nor the forbidding could be budged. More than the wind chilled her.
"I learned that from Corporal Strauss," Thomas said. He was not laughing any longer, but Rosalind could feel the smirking smile on his face. "Not intentionally, though. She didn't exactly teach me how to do this. She demonstrated it for me. She demonstrated it on me. Remember? She taught me this at the same time."
The unseen bindings that held her shifted and pulled and Rosalind was flipped to her back. She grunted as the breath was knocked out of her.
"I'm sure you remember, Rosalind," Thomas said. "You were there too."
The bindings pulled her arms out straight, twisting her wrists and elbows painfully, wrenching her shoulders. She wanted to scream against the pain, to shout for help, but she could only groan and grunt, her own lips and teeth stifling her cries.
"You could have helped me. You could have joined me. Together we could have--" He stopped. "You could have let me kiss you," he said after a long pause, his words almost a shout now.
She wanted to tell him she was sorry. That she would kiss him now. That he did not have to do this. That she would forgive him even now. She wanted to beg him to stop.
Her legs pulled apart despite her efforts to keep them together.
"But, no." He stepped close to her and leaned over her. "No. You could have done all of those things, but you did not."
He did not use magic to unbuckle her belt.
"Did you ever wonder what happened to Private Millsom?" he asked as he pulled off her boots. "Corporal Edwards taught me that one. How to turn the magic back on its source. I very nearly died by my own lightning." He tugged against the legs of her trousers. "I was behind Millsom that day on the range. She was shooting flame out of her pistol. And then, suddenly, all that flame came right back at her. Whoosh! All of us behind her were burned, but none as bad as her. Or as fatally." He had to force her legs back together to get her trousers off without tearing them. Then he spread her legs again.
The wind found her bare flesh and tried to freeze her, in the same way she had frozen William Phillips. She tried to lose Thomas' words in the sound of the wind, but she heard them all. She could not get away from them.
"Millsom was the one that reported us," Thomas went on. He unbuckled his belt. "She was the one that put us in the situation that proved so educational for me. Do you think she appreciated my little thank you?" He squatted between her legs, his trousers pushed down to his knees, his manhood extending in front of him. "Here's my little thank you for you, Miss Bainbridge."
She was cold. So cold. Even the tears that leaked from her unblinking eyes were cold. Thomas' legs were hot against hers as he pushed himself into her and pulled himself out, over and over. She could not ask him to stop. She tried not to think of anything as she lay there, tried not to remember that only a few minutes before she would have given him what he was now taking. She did not want to believe that she had never seen past his eyes and his smiles.
He said nothing as he pounded against her and did not kiss her or touch her anywhere else. He grunted and sighed when he finished. His seed was like liquid fire inside her. She tried not to think about what that could mean.
"You don't have to worry, Rosalind," he said as if he could sense was she was refusing to think. He sat back and grabbed her trousers from the ground where he had dropped them. "You ever seen a pregnant gunwitch?" he asked as he used a leg of her trousers to clean himself. "There's a reason for that, you know." He dropped her soiled trousers on her loins and stood.
Rosalind thought--or maybe she wished--he would leave her there. To die in the cold. Maybe to die of shame. But he only backed away a few steps.
As suddenly as it had bound her and cut her off, the magic holding her limbs vanished, blown away with the wind. Her arms and legs rotated in their sockets, her elbows and knees relaxed, and she cried out in pain. The cold of the air no longer touched her, but Rosalind could not stop shaking and shivering.
"You could take your revenge, Rosalind," Thomas said. "There is nothing stopping you."
Rosalind did not look at him as she sat up, wincing at the pain in her joints, shamed by the pain in her loins and the blood and semen on her trousers. Wanting to cry, but refusing to do so in front Thomas. She did not want revenge. She just wanted to be warm again. To be whole again. Clean again. To again believe that Thomas Ducoed was her friend, and that she would let him kiss her.
"Did you hear me, Rosalind?"
Her lips pulled back and bared her teeth. Suddenly she did want revenge. She wanted to reach deep into the cold depths of her and freeze him where he stood. She wanted her hands around his neck, squeezing his throat as she took all the human warmth from him and released it into the wind. But she did none of these things. Because she was not like him. She wanted to tell him that. I'm not like you. But all she said was, "Don't say my name."
He watched her, saying nothing more as she stood, and pulled her trousers back on, first one leg, then the other.
She made each motion deliberately, with full concentration. Because she felt if she did not give each step her full attention, she would find herself drawing her pistol and shooting him. And she knew, somehow, that was what he wanted. She could see, with no recourse to any magical sensing, that he wanted her to attack him more and more with each second she refused to do exactly that.
She turned her back on him as she pushed her belt through the loops, pulled it around and buckled it. She wondered if he would attack her again. She shook, no longer from the cold, no longer from the shame, but with rage. She ground her teeth against the shaking--and against the wish that he would attack her again. So she could fight back this time. And maybe kill him. Because he wanted her to attack him. He was ready for her to. She could sense that. He was ready for her to unleash her cold magic on him. So he could turn it back on her, like he had done to Private Millsom.
"Do you know how I learned to do that?" he asked from behind her, as if he had again read her mind. "It's not so much being taught how to do it. It's knowing that you can do it. Like when you shot that sheep. 'At first you did not know you could,'" he said, quoting from Corporal Edwards' speech at the ceremony a few hours before. "'Then you knew you could. Then you did it.'"
"You don't know me," she said, and realized only then that he had never known her. Just like she had never really known him.
As she started to walk away from him, he called after her, "I knew you would just take it. Like you took that punishment with me."
She did not respond. She did not know how to respond. She still could not quite believe what had happened to her. She had thought-- She tried not to think. Not now. She continued walking.
"I am a bit disappointed, though, Rosalind. I had hoped you would fight back."
"Don't say my name," she said. "You don't know me." She did not say the words loudly. She did not care if he heard them. He must have heard her, though, or guessed, as he always seemed to guess what she was about to say or do, because she heard him laughing behind her.
Southwest Wall, Fort Russell
1742 A.D.
Ducoed laughed as he drew magic through his empty pistol to throw off the mantle of blackness Umoya had thrown over him. He had felt Rose's cold blast as it passed him. If he had not pulled up on the reins when the darkness rolled over him, his horse have broken its leg and thrown him, and Rose's cold magic might have killed him. He wondered which of those outcomes Umoya had been hoping for.
He hated Umoya. Umoya hated him. They were the best sort of allies, and their Ubasi masters had recognized that.
Ducoed laughed again and kicked his horse back into motion. He forced the horse to leap the trenches, enjoying the thrill of the jump, as if he were riding in some upper-class competition, enjoying the sounds of battle that raged around him.
There were few English defenders visible this far up the hill toward the smoking, broken fort. Those men were, after all, trying to get away from the fort and into the trees. He did not care about them. Most of them would be izidumbus for him to order about before the sun set again. What he sought was still in the fort, probably trying to escape down the cliffs.
A mass of ithambofis and izidumbus were moving up the hill on his left. Between leaps, he pulled up his horse and looked across the river. He saw the izidumbus he had sent over the night before coming back over, walking into the water and the current with no fear or hesitation. Some of the creatures were washed downriver, but most of them would make it across to the cliffs. Some of those might even make it up the cliffs.
The morning air was electric with the magics being released behind him. Beneath the electricity, though, was the singular chill of Rose Bainbridge. He could almost point to where she stood behind Umoya's black wall, she was that familiar to him. He smiled at the memory of teaching her how to summon the lightning. Did she think of him every time she pulled the trigger?
As he reloaded his pistol, balancing in the saddle, he again thought about going back to face Rose. To fight her, to best her. To take her and to taste her one more time. Then he would wrest Colonel Laxton from the gauntlets of the ayinafi, kill the man in front of Rose as his last gift to her. A gift to himself, as well, delivered slowly and painfully. But neither his debt to the Ubasi, nor his hope for immortality and power they offered, would allow him that pleasure. At least, not yet.
He rode through the blasted gate of Fort Russell, amazed at the damage that had been done. He had not thought the fort's supplies included enough powder to do more than a token amount of damage. Rose must have lent some additional power. The Ubasi would not be pleased. They did not want the fort destroyed, only taken. They had plans for the Misi-ziibi and the lands around it. Taking the fort was the first part of those plans. Having to rebuild nearly half the fort ...
When Umoya was dead, the big sorcerer could bear the blame for many things.
Behind him, with a dry, swishing sound like men walking through a wheat field ready for harvest, the first of the ithambofis entered the fort. He turned to face them. Empty eye sockets in stripped skulls faced him. Behind the ithambofis, the izidumbus came to a halt, having reached the extent of their orders.
"Go around on the outside of the walls," he ordered. "Along the cliff. Apprehend," he added. "Do not kill." Ithambofis were much more intelligent than izidumbus, but intelligence also meant initiative. He did not want any mistakes. He could not afford mistakes now.
He felt the stinging wind of the bullet as it passed his right ear an instant before he heard the report of the rifle.
He kicked his feet from the stirrups and slid off the back of the horse. He spun and ran for the cover of a piece of the gate still hanging from its hinges. He heard another shot as he ran, but did not see where it hit. He only cared that the bullet had not hit him.
From cover, he looked out and saw two soldiers on the back corner of the fort reloading their rifles. One of them finished reloading and brought the rifle up to shoulder and aimed toward the gate, fired again. One of the izidumbus still within the gate stumbled and fell, then started climbing to its feet again.
Taking his pistol from his belt, Ducoed stepped from behind the broken wood of the gate. He aimed at the second soldier as that man finished loading his rifle and started bringing it up. A normal pistol did not have the accuracy to be much of a threat to a single target that far away, and elevated besides. Even a marksman would find the shot a challenge, maybe impossible. Ducoed's was not a normal pistol. Nor was he a normal marksman. He focused on the soldier's chest, letting his hand do the aiming, then squeezed the trigger.
Lightning laced with fire exploded from Ducoed's pistol, arced through the air between him and the soldier, and struck the soldier in the chest. The soldier's rifle discharged but the shot went wild. The soldier flew back against the crenellations on top of the wall. His rifle fell out of his hands as he fell out of sight.
The other soldier had been knocked aside by the blast, but he recovered and resumed reloading his rifle.
Ducoed started walking forward as he reloaded his pistol.
He and the soldier brought up their guns at the same time.
He stepped to his left two crossover paces as the soldier fired. Then he aimed and fired. Another soldier died.
Ducoed reloaded before he ran toward the wall where the soldiers had shot at him. His immortality waited for him just beyond that wall. He saw the twisted stairs leading to the top of the wall, but he was beyond stairs. He laughed and leaped, throwing his chest forward, his arms stretched behind him.
He felt the magic of the air and the winds and grabbed them with his mind through his pistol. He forced the winds to bear him up and up until he could step on the top of the wall. The strain pounded in his heart and in his head, but the wind whipping around him, carrying him, felt like nothing he had experienced before.
His breath came in great gasps as he stood on the wall, looking at the world that seemed spread before him. He felt like a giant, a god. He laughed and clenched his left hand as if holding the air, keeping it subdued and under his control. Maybe he did not need Umoya after all. For anything.
He heard a girl's scream and recognized Margaret. First the girls, for his debt, then Umoya, for his pleasure.
He stepped up on the ramparts, between the crenellations, and looked down. He saw Chal fighting hand to hand with izidumbus trying to get around the corner of the wall. Margaret huddled behind Chal while Janett raised a rifle and took aimed at the izidumbus. Behind Janett was Major Haley, also lifting a rifle. The major, though, was aiming at him.
Ducoed brought his left hand around in front of him as the major fired, using the winds he still held as a shield. He had never heard of such a thing before, but as he stood there with the winds in hand, it was the most natural thing in the world. The winds did not stop the bullet, as he had hoped, and he flinched as the bullet grazed his right cheek.
The pain was nothing compared to the shame of flinching. Ducoed pointed his pistol at Major Haley and unleashed fire. No lightning this time, just pure flame. The fire flowed like water and tried to drown the major, who screamed and dropped his rifle as he fell to the ground. Ducoed watched him roll and slap at the flames, laughing, wondering what Rose would think of the major's pretty face after this.
He almost did not notice little Margaret down there, looking up at him, her hatred of him plain on her face, pointing a pistol at him that looked ridiculously huge in her small hands.
He jerked against the winds again, to his left this time, and harder as Margaret's pistol fired. He did not flinch this time as the bullet flew wide of him. He laughed as despair mixed with the hatred in her eyes.
He saw Janett fire at the izidumbu trying grab Chal, then begin a clumsy attempt at reloading. He saw Margaret go to her hands and knees to pick up her dropped pistol. He watched Chal chop at an izidumbu with the edge of her hands and heard the crunch of an arm bone breaking. He bared his teeth in a grin. He had to give up Margaret and Janett to the Ubasi, but there were no other claims on Chal than his own. How he would enjoy--
As if she could hear his thoughts, Chal's head came up and turned slightly in his direction. She did not look at him, though. She spun and kicked backward with her right leg and sent the izidumbu with the broken arm over the cliff. Then she stepped up to Janett, grabbed the girl and threw her over the cliff.
Ducoed's smile was whipped away by the winds and his laughter died in his chest.
Chal picked up Margaret and with two steps had launched both herself and the girl over the cliff after Janett.
"No!" he shouted. He pointed his pistol and pulled the trigger. The striker only sparked since he had not reloaded.
He had to release his grip on the winds as he reached forward with his magic to create a barrier of raw force between the surface of the river and the falling girls. Janett first, then Margaret, then Chal. He nearly lost his grip on his pistol from the strain of halting the falls of three people. Janett's fall especially, since she fallen the farthest. The magic pulled against him and tried to pull him off the wall to fall with the girls.
The magic continued to pull. It did not ease up, even when all three bodies had ceased falling. The muscles on his arms and his chest strained against a resistance he had never felt before. He shifted his stance, trying to brace his feet against the edge of the wall. He pulled.
It was like pulling on the mooring line of a fully loaded trading skiff. He remembered as a boy being amazed that anything that floated on water could be so heavy and difficult to move. He remembered his father whipping his back, shouting at him, ordering to pull, damn your eyes, pull!
Ducoed pulled.
The resistance did not diminish, but it did not gain ground either.
Braced now and no longer in danger of being pulled off the wall, Ducoed looked down at Janett and Margaret and Chal. The three girls were stopped in midfall. Margaret and Janett looked as he expected, immobilized, caught in the grip of his magic. Chal, though, still moved. He could feel her as she shifted. As her form morphed and grew.
Chal was the source of the resistance. She was the force that pulled against him, still trying to break free.
As he watched, Chal's form became bigger, but less distinctive. She swelled and the edges of her body engulfed her clothes and the pack on her back. As she grew, she became transparent. She became a wave, halted as it tried to break across the river below her.
The wave-Chal engulfed Margaret, wrapping the girl in wet, pulling the girl into the center of what had once been the native girl, Chal.
The wave rolled forward, tumbling Margaret within it, reaching for Janett.
The runes on his pistol burned as bright as the sun and the barrel glowed red from the magic that pumped through Ducoed, through the gun and into the barrier. All the muscles in his body were tensed, threatening to pull him apart.
He almost let go, refusing to kill himself in his quest for immortality, then he found a new source he could tap.
Chal herself.
Images flashed in his mind too fast and too alien to comprehend, but he knew, somehow, that Chal was sacrificing herself to save the girls. She had made a choice, a choice that she could not unmake. A choice that left her vulnerable to him.
Ducoed smile. He knew what to do with vulnerable women.
This was not the way he had planned to take Chal, to consume her and kill her. It was so much better.
The wave that had been Chal, with Margaret in its midst, came to a stop again, before it could reach Janett.
Ducoed laughed as he felt the raw power coming into him, pulled, taken, pillaged out of what once been Chal the native girl. She really was more than she seemed. More than he could have ever expected.
He saw Margaret looking up at him through the haze of water that engulfed her. He pulled back his lips to show his teeth in a grin. He no longer needed the Ubasi. Margaret and her sister, the lovely Janett, would be next.
Battlefield, Fort Russell
1742 A.D.
Ducoed's laughter still rang in Rose's ears, mocking her as it had too many times before. She longed for a target to shoot at. Especially Ducoed.
She stumbled about in the darkness that had wrapped itself around her, shouting for Corporal Rickell or Sergeant Tabart or any of her men. And her pistol. She had to have her pistol. She still had the last pistol she had taken from Rickell, and it was loaded, but it was not her pistol. She would need her own pistol to take on Ducoed. And she would need to rest. Or draw from one of the men. The magic she had already performed had taken a lot out of her, and she had not had a chance to rest.
She tripped over something--or someone, since it seemed to move against her--and fell forward. The fall took longer than she expected, continuing after she took the first impact on her left shoulder and the side of her head. She flailed with her right hand, looking for the ground, and lost her grip on the pistol as the back of her head struck hard, packed earth at the bottom of what must have been a trench. Lights streaked visible pain across the darkness of her vision.
The sharp pain in her head, the loss of the pistol, the dirt in her mouth, the smells of fresh earth and death sent her to the edge of panic. She teetered on the edge of losing control. She rolled off her wrenched left arm and into a sitting position. That helped.
She stood slowly, right hand feeling the side of the trench, left arm curled against her chest. The sounds of the battle seemed muffled, either by being below the battle here in the trench, or because of the darkness. Or maybe from the throbbing pain in her head. She also heard the sounds of a struggle in the trench with her, not far away, in front of her. She thought about moving toward the struggle. Sudden memories of the mud and death in Brittany, though, made her start to back away from it. The trench walls she could not see suddenly seemed to hem her in on all sides. She started to turn around. Then she stopped moving, forced the memories from her mind, and tried to regain control of herself again.
This was not Brittany, and there was no mud trying to suck her in even as she lay in it trying not to be seen, hoping that the next groundshaking explosion and rain of mud would not be her last. Then, after that blast, hoping the same thing again. Then again.
By comparison, her current situation was almost idyllic. Except for the darkness, which still pressed against her.
She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. She would need to be calm if she were going to go after Ducoed. She took another breath and let it out slowly. If she were going after Ducoed--and there was no doubt about that--she needed to get rid of this darkness. Another breath, in and out. If she was going to get rid of this darkness, she needed the gun she had dropped.
After a final deep breath, she squatted and felt around with both hands. Her left hand found the last loaded pistol Corporal Rickell had handed her and she grabbed it again with both hands and pulled it to her chest. She hoped the gun was still loaded. No way to check. She hoped the corporal was still alive, for both their sakes. No way to check that either.
Still squatting, she raised the gun over her head with her right hand and pointed it straight up. Some magic did not require aiming. For what she was about to do, "up" was as specific as she needed to be, but she did not want the bullet--if it were still there--if the gun were not jammed with dirt and about to blow up in her hand--to hurt anyone. She paused to think about how to counteract the blackness, and decided on a simple shredding--with a lot of effort behind it, since a man who could suspend himself in midair probably drew on some stalwart magic--plus a gunwitch flare. She covered her eyes with her left hand, ignoring the pain in her left shoulder, opened herself up to the magic inside her, and pulled the trigger.
The effort yanked the air out of her lungs and she felt the pistol disintegrate in her grasp. Cold splinters of wood rained down on her. She had no idea where the barrel went. She lost her balance as the kick of the pistol and the force of the magic pushed against her and she fell back. Her head thumped off the side of the trench, but she kept her face covered.
Bright white light leaked around the fingers of her leather glove and she felt heat like the noon sun warm the air around her and drive away the cold in her chest. She uncovered her eyes and saw that the black cloud had been driven back. The bright light came from where the flare and the blackness still fought against each other, sizzling and popping in the air over the battlefield.
Corporal Rickell spotted her as she climbed out of the trench. She stumbled as she stood, fatigue from the shredding and the flare trying to drag her back into the trench. Rickell had been squatting where she last remembered seeing him. She looked around for Sergeant Tabart and the rest of her squad, but the contest between flare and darkness left green streaks on her vision, making it hard to see. She looked back at Rickell and saw that he had stood into a crouch and was running to her, holding her gun and another pistol out to her, both of them butt first. She noticed that some of the creatures were running away from her and from the intense light of the gunwitch flare suspended above her. Not all the creatures, though.
She took the guns from Corporal Rickell just as a red and black skeletal form fell on him seemingly from out of the black-and-bright sky and spiked him to the ground. She fired the gun in her offhand at the monster and blasted its torso backward. Her fatigue and the magical stresses she had already pushed through that pistol destroyed it, as well, and it fell apart in her hand.
When her eyes could focus again, two of the monster's long spiky arms still quivered before her, stuck in Rickell's prostrate form. She pulled the spikes free one at a time, then knelt beside the corporal and turned him over. She sighed. She did not need her limited training in healing to tell her that the corporal was already dead. One of the spikes had pierced his heart. She took the two other loaded pistols Rickell had on him, and his bags of shot and powder.
Something black and menacing pounded through the air over her head and bounced, sizzling and popping off the flare. Before she could see what it was, the ground beneath her lifted and threw her and Rickell's corpse forward. She landed on Rickell's body, then flipped over and off him, losing her grip on the pistols.
Sergeant Tabart appeared beside her as she scrambled, trying to get the guns again. She found them and checked the loads as the sergeant picked up the bags of shot and powder. Sergeant Tabart put his arm around her as she stood, and helped her walk away from Rickell's body, away from where the flare still defied the blackness and drew the attention of the attackers. The sergeant made her sit behind an earthen rampart. He took the extra pistols from her and squatted next to her. "If you don't mind me saying so, Major," he said, "I think you'll be wanting to catch your breath before you do much else."
"Ducoed," she managed to say. "I have to ... find Ducoed." Then she added, "And stop ... calling me ... 'major'."
"Again, begging the Major's pardon," Sergeant Tabart said, "but I think you had best be dealing with yon big fellow first." He pointed with his chin. "He seems to be the more immediate problem."
Rose looked up and over her left shoulder. The big man with the hide cape still ... flew, or hovered, or whatever ... over the battlefield. He was spinning in the air, his dark eyes squinting against the glare and looking all over the battlefield. Looking for her, she was sure, since she had ruined his black cloud. The regulars on the ground might have been able to shoot up at him, since he was distracted, but they were engaged with the other, more monstrous creatures Ducoed had brought with him.
Ducoed. He was the one she wanted to kill.
"I'm not sure," she said, "I don't have ... the strength." Not for both Ducoed and this man, to be sure. Maybe not even for one of them.
"We'll have to address that then, won't we, Major?" The sergeant stood just enough to see over the embankment. "Stringefellowe, you lazy dwarf," he shouted, "get over here. And you too, Gilbody. And Bradley."
The three men scrambled over the embankment and squatted in a line beside the sergeant.
"Stringefellowe, you're up first, come over and take the major's hand."
Stringefellowe, a short, barrel-chested man with oversized forearms that reminded Rose of a woodcutter she had known back in Phillips on the Birchwood, came in a crouch around the sergeant and knelt before her with his right hand stretched out.
Rose took the offered hand with her left, grasping her pistol with her right. She took a deep breath, and let it out slow and cold and misting as she concentrated on drawing Stringefellowe's strength, pulling it from him and into herself. If their formation had not been disrupted by the black cloud, she would have been able to pull from all the men in her squad, a breath at a time, spreading the burden of her efforts among them all. This way was more direct, but more fatiguing to the man. Especially when she needed to draw so much. Frost formed on his fingers, but he did not lessen his grip on her hand until she let go.
"Thank you," she said.
Stringefellowe only nodded in response, then sat back on his heels, breathing hard, as if he had just spent the day marching with a full pack with a wrenched shoulder. How Rose had felt before she shifted her physiological burdens to him. She was breathing hard too, but for her it was like the rush after lovemaking. Like she had felt when Ian had finally left her room the night before--only a few hours ago. Her arms and legs twitched with readiness, her skin tingled, her eyes could see every detail of the world around her. She saw Stringefellowe's day-old stubble on his cheeks and the flecks of gold in his green eyes--like Ian's. She could almost see his hair growing. And she could smell his sweat and his breath and that he had had a drink of brandy and that he had fired his pistol eight times since the battle began.
She thought of Ian, with Chal and the girls and the need to help them with Ducoed. She longed to reach out, to find them and save them. But there was something she had to do first.
She pulled her feet under her and turned, still squatting, to look up at the man in the air again. She wished she knew the secret of what he was doing. At first you did not know you could. Then you knew you could. Then you did it. Corporal Edwards' words at the King's Coven. But she had heard those words from Ducoed's mouth for more than twenty years. His last gift to her. Something else she hated him for.
On the other hand, even if she could fly, she did not know whether she could take Sergeant Tabart up with her, or that he could reload her pistols while floating behind her. Further, if she or any other gunwitch had hung themselves like that over a battlefield in Europe, the snipers would have had a field day. Still, it looked damn impressive.
"You ready, sergeant?" she asked. She focused on the man in the sky and his multihued skin, his bare chest gleaming with the sweat of his exertions. She saw the sweat on his brow as he sent another black bolt against the flare and where she had been standing just a few minutes before. The flare had lasted longer than she expected, then it went out as if a black bag had been pulled over it.
"Kill the bastard," Sergeant Tabart said.
"Oh, I will," she said. "But I have to take care of this big fellow first."
She stood. She held her pistol in her right hand and a second pistol in her left. She raised both pistols, aimed them both at the man in the sky, whose eyes locked on hers as she looked at him between the two barrels. His hands jerked. She fired.
Lightning crashed and burst from her and flew with the bullets. The air burned in an arc from her to the man in the sky.
Black power erupted from the man's clenched fists and leaped out to meet her attack. Before she lost sight of him in the resulting conflagration, she saw the man stagger, pushed backward through the air, and maybe there had been a slash of red blood visible across his right arm.
She dropped both pistols and took the next two that Sergeant Tabart gave her. She could not see the man in the sky any longer. Smoke writhed and coiled obscuring where he had been. She aimed through the smoke, reaching for him with her mind and her enhanced senses, and fired again. This time fire and ice twisted around each other as they raced across the sky, punched through the smoke and came together in a red and blue explosion that scattered the smoke from her last shot.
Both pistols came apart under the stress. She dropped the smoking, frost-covered debris.
Two more pistols from the sergeant. Out of the side of her eye she saw Private Stringefellowe reloading her pistol. At the rate she was going through them, hers might be the only one she had left all too soon.
She waited for the smoke and fog to clear from the sky this time, waiting for her shot.
"Did you get the bastard?" Sergeant Tabart asked.
"I don't see him," she said. That worried her. She might have killed him, but if so she expected she would have seen him fall from the sky. Or pieces of him, at least. She cast about with her enhanced senses--
"Major!"
She saw the grunzer steaming and stomping toward them, huge axe upraised, at the same time that the sergeant shouted. She shifted her aim and fired at the grunzer, again discharging both pistols. The grunzer's boiler burst open, spewing black water and rotting body parts as it crashed and fell less than five yards away. The smell of the steam that rolled over them was rank and fetid, like a hot, wet grave.
The pistols had survived, so she handed them to Stringefellowe in exchange for her pistol. She put another bullet plus lightning bolt through the still-moving, still-clanking, still-hissing wreckage of the grunzer. She handed her pistol to the sergeant, took the pair of pistols he handed her, and she continued looking for the man in the hide cape.
As she looked around, scanning the sky and the ground that sloped away from her, a change came over the battlefield. The creatures that she could see stopped attacking, even the few remaining grunzers. Both creatures and grunzers just stood there, some of them having paused in midstrike. Then, as one, all of them turned to the southeast and began walking away, ignoring the attacks made against them.
"Did we win, major?"
She wanted one more shot against the man in the cape. She wanted to make sure he was dead. But she could not sense him.
"I hope to god, private," Rose said. "Find the colonel, sergeant," she added. She didn't say, The girls will want to bury him. She pushed that thought aside as she tucked her loaded pistol under her left arm. "Find as many survivors as you can. Take them all downriver." She put the two loaded pistols she held into the front pockets of her coat, then took her own pistol, loaded again, from Sergeant Tabart's hands. "I'll catch up."
"Aye, major."
Rose turned from the sergeant and held out her left hand to Gilbody. She had not quite used up what she had taken from Stringefellowe, but she did not want to face Ducoed even slightly fatigued. "Private," she said. "If you would."
Private Gilbody hesitated only a second, then put out his hand. Her lungs were like bellows blowing fresh air on hot coals as she pushed her fatigue into Private Gilbody and took strength from him.
As she did this, her heightened senses felt another change, a fundamental change, as if the air around her and the earth she stood on had shifted somehow. And under that shift, she felt pain and frustration and fear.
"Chal," she said, her friend's name and face coming to her with the pain and fear.
She dropped the private's hand, and turned and ran up the hill toward the fort. The sergeant might have said something to her--she heard his voice--but she paid no attention. Chal needed her. And if Chal needed her--
She leaped the first trench she came to, hardly bothering to notice that she did so. A step and a push and she was on the other side, her stride unaffected. Then the next trench. By the third trench, she knew she must go faster. Chal was growing weaker.
At first you did not know you could, Corporal Edwards had said to her and the rest of the privates at the King's Coven. Maybe because she was thinking of Chal, but she did not hear Ducoed say the words this time. Maybe because Chal needed her and she could feel that need through both the earth and the air, there was no place in her thoughts the man who had raped her. All she could think of was: Had Corporal Edwards ever seen anyone fly? Then you knew you could. Because the man with the hide cape had flown or floated or stood on a column of black smoke. Whatever it was he had done, if he could do it, she could too. Then you did it.
Rose threw herself forward, running faster than she had ever run in her life. Then, no longer content to leap just one trench at a time, she decided to leap them all. She pushed against the earth with her right foot while she brought her left knee up.
Maybe the earth moved under her foot. Maybe the air picked her up and pulled her forward. She did not know. She had never done this before.
The hazy air of the battlefield rushed past her, whipping the borrowed tricorner off her head and streaming her plaited single braid behind her. She leaned into the wind of her passage and it bore her up even as it pulled her faster and faster. Below her she saw English infantry regulars look up at her in wonder and shambling bodies and skeletal creatures that paid her no attention. She paid no attention to any of them.
She crested the top of the hill and went up and over the remains of the gate and forward walls.
As the winds held her aloft, she saw Ducoed through the smoke. He stood on the far corner of the wall, facing away from her. Power of an intensity she had never seen radiated from Ducoed, shimmering around him, obscuring the view past him.
Too much power. There was no way she could overcome him.
She could not see Chal or Major Haley, but she could see what could only be Margaret, suspended in the air beyond the cliff, halted in her fall from the cliff.
Rose...
She could not see Chal, but she could hear the woman's voice fading in her mind and feel the woman dying as who and what Chal had been was bled off and pulled into Ducoed.
Making him even stronger. And he was already too strong.
She clenched her pistol and the runes flashed up and down the barrel. It was time she did something about Thomas Ducoed.
But not with the lightning he had taught her how to draw forth so many years ago.
She pushed the pistol into her belt.
Her sister was in danger. At least there was only one man this time.
She spread her arms wide as she rose even higher. Then she fell toward Ducoed, arms still spread, as if to embrace him.
The air misted and fogged around her as she fell. The cold hammered in her chest and became deeper with each heartbeat. Frost formed on her fingers and spread down her arms, then ice crystals that broke off with the speed of her descent.
Ducoed spun to face her, the smile on his face faltering, right before she hit him and took him in her arms.
Lightning burst from them, between them, around them as they fell off the top of the wall.
Above the Misi-ziibi
1742 A.D.
The warm water surrounded Margaret, growing from the touch on her shoulder, where Chal had grabbed her to throw her over the cliff. The shock of Chal's choice drained away as the warmth and wet swelled and retreated across her chest and back and up her neck like the rising tide. She did not know where the water came from. The river was still far below her, and was not warm. She could feel the coolness of the Misi-ziibi even suspended so far above it.
The Misi-ziibi stretched and twisted below her like a giant snake sunning itself on the rock of its bed, the faceted surface reflecting the gray dawn skies and the accumulated sunlight like a million scales. She blinked against the reflected sunlight and wondered how she had never seen the life of the river--any river--before. She thought of the immensity of the Atlantic Ocean she had crossed with Janett and wished she could see it now, with her new understanding. Was this how Chal had always seen the river? And Lake Patrizio? Was This how Chal would see the ocean? A giant living creature?
She could not see Chal or turn her head. She could see Janett face down just above the current of the waters that sang to Margaret in low voices, the voices of the river dulling the edge of Mr. Thomas' sharp laughter that still fell down on her from behind.
Mr. Thomas' laugh became a chuckle, then a growl with an edge of strain as more and more of Margaret became warm. Only her face and hands and feet were still outside the wetness she could not see. She could feel herself become heavy and pulling forward, like the moisture of a rain cloud as it condensed and gathered and began its fall to earth.
Whatever had stopped her fall and held her in midair gave away and she tumbled forward. She had only an instant to take a breath before the water enveloped her completely. She thought she saw Janett splash into the river. As she fell, her body rotated lengthwise, head first, until she was facing up again. Then her fall came to another abrupt halt. Less jarring this time because she seemed to be suspended in a wave. Her interrupted momentum caused her slosh back, then forward, before she was held immobile again.
She could no longer see Janett, but she could also see no sign of Chal. Not suspended with her in the wave, nor back on the edge the cliff. As she wondered about Janett and Chal, Margaret's lungs burned, the air they contained becoming stale.
Above her, through the water, she could see Mr. Thomas. He stood on the wall where she had last seen him. He had his hands extended before him, his pistol in his right hand pointed at her heart. The fingers of his other hand were tensed and hooked, as if he had his fingers dug into the wave around her and was holding it up with his own strength. She could see the strain in his features. Despite the strain, though, he was not getting weaker. Quite the opposite, she realized.
You are strong. Mum's words came back to her, but she did not feel strong. She was getting weaker. She could not hold her breath much longer.
Above her, through the water, beyond Mr. Thomas, she saw a red bird flying higher and higher.
Rose...
Chal's sudden cry echoed in her mind and she realized that the red bird was Miss Rose. Flying.
Margaret's mouth opened and her last breath escaped in surprise. The warm water rushed into her mouth. She expected to choke, but did not. She went to spit out the water, but it was not choking her. She swallowed the water. It tasted sweet and spicy in her mouth, like an unusual brew of tea laced with herbs and sweetened with honey, but with a brackish tang just beginning to spoil it.
Once she swallowed, she could breath.
When she took a breath, no water entered her mouth or nose or flowed into her lungs. When she let the breath out, bubbles rose through the water in front of her face.
Drink, Margaret Laxton...
Chal's voice again, but much softer this time. No longer echoing. Not a cry of pain this time. A quiet supplication.
"Chal?" she said, her words bubbling up through the water in front of her.
When she spoke, she tasted the water again. The brackish flavor was stronger this time, threatening to overwhelm the honey and herbs.
I am here, Margaret Laxton...
Margaret saw herself standing in the bow of the Puncher again as Mister Zeek piloted that little boat across Lake Patrizio, away from Fort Gunter and New Venezia, toward Da. You like being on the waters? Chal had asked her. Yes, she had replied. I do.
I am at home wherever the waters take me, Chal had told her.
I am ... the voice of Chal in her mind whispered. I am ... the waters ... I am ...
Understanding rippled through Margaret's mind. Chal was the water that surrounded her. Chal was the wave caught by Mr. Thomas, stopped in her decision to rejoin the river. Chal who never touched the water.
Miss Rose was flying, hardly a speck in the sky now, and Chal was the water and the wave. Margaret wondered that she did not wonder about any of this.
Margaret saw Mr. Thomas again. He was difficult to look at now. His form shimmered and seemed to stretch with the power he had taken. From Chal.
Chal was the water. And Chal was--
... dying ...
Mr. Thomas was killing Chal, somehow. Draining her. Taking Chal's life out of the water that had been Chal.
... please ... drink ...
Margaret opened her mouth, not to breathe, not to drink, but to cry out against what Mr. Thomas was doing. When she opened her mouth, though, the water flowed in, and she drank. After the first swallow, nearly gagging on the taste of death that overpowered the variety of flavors she had tasted before, she no longer had to drink. She absorbed the water. She became the water, and the little girl suspended in the water. The water entered through her skin and her eyes. The brackish taste of death was strong, but there was life in the water yet. Her life and Chal's life and--
The faces of women appeared and disappeared in front of Margaret's eyes, in her mind, the images flashing and fading, one after the other. She recognized none of them, but all of them were familiar. All of them were Chal. All of them were Margaret Laxton. All of them were old and young, smooth and wrinkled, smiling and laughing and weeping tears of joy and pain because all of them were mothers and daughters and grandmothers and wives and--
Her head felt like it would explode.
You are strong, Mum had told her.
You are strong, Margaret Laxton, Chal had told her.
Her head did not explode, it expanded to fill the wave around her.
Water flows, my child. The voice of the Water Mother came to Margaret, from her past--no, from Chal's past--from across time and distance, in a language she did not understand but which had been the first language she ever spoke, even before she was born.
Water flows, the Water Mother had told her time and time again. It does not choose its own course. It does not ask where it flows.
What if I die, Water Mother? she and Chal had asked. Before I can return to you?
All waters return to the source, child. Water flows, my child. Water flows.
"I am the waters," Margaret said, and heard Chal's voice in her own. This time, no bubbles formed with her words. Her words were the water as she was the water. As she was Chal. Below her, the waters of the river sang to her in a deafening chorus.
She was the Water Mother.
With her eyes, and with Chal's eyes, and with the eyes of the river below and the clouds above, Margaret saw Miss Rose flying--or falling now--down toward Mr. Thomas. The waters of the air condensed in the chill of Miss Rose's passage and left behind a trail like a meteor of stone and ice. Like the finger of Bolon Yotke K'u pointing at the heart of Mr. Thomas, judging him and condemning him. Coming to take him to the underworld.
Margaret saw Mr. Thomas turn to face Miss Rose right before Miss Rose hit him and wrapped her arms around him. Thunder and lightning exploded from and around the man and the woman as they fell.
Margaret, Chal, the wave that was both of them, resumed their fall, their flow, as water will.
Water can be pushed uphill, Water Mother.
Margaret felt the river below her coming up to meet her, to greet her, to welcome her to its midst. Or maybe she was bringing the river up to her. Because all waters were one water. All rivers were one river.
The roar of the river rising to meet her drowned the pitiful explosions of Miss Rose and Mr. Thomas as they fought. Then waters encompassed the fighters, as if trying to drown them both.
Margaret felt-saw-heard-tasted Janett in the water, struggling to breathe as cold hands clamped on Janett's arms and legs and refused to let go. Margaret crushed the source of the hands and brought Janett to the surface of the water with a thought.
She heard-felt-saw-tasted Miss Rose as she struggled with Mr. Thomas, the two of them locked together, each one holding fast to the other as they tumbled through the tumult that was Margaret and Chal and the Misi-ziibi. Both Miss Rose and Mr. Thomas possessed great strengths that they were expending against each other, but even combined they could not hold back the tide of the ocean. Not even the earth itself could stop water. Water flows. Water pushes. Water wins.
Margaret forced Miss Rose and Mr. Thomas apart. Both of them fought her, continued trying to fight each other.
"Rose," she said into Miss Rose's ear. Then, embarrassed by this lapse of etiquette, added, "Miss Rose."
Miss Rose stopped struggling, her surprise plain in the look-feel-taste of her. Margaret pushed Miss Rose up to the surface with Janett.
Mr. Thomas did not stop struggling. He tried to strike her with his lightnings, as if lightning could hurt water. His screams of rage were lost in the bubbles that came from his mouth. He tried to burn her. He tried to consume her. He tried to find the weakness he had exploited before, Chal's sacrifice. But Chal's sacrifice was complete now, and Chal and Margaret and the Misi-ziibi were one. If Margaret had not stopped the river, it would have drowned Mr. Thomas in his attempt. One man cannot drink a river.
Margaret did not want Mr. Thomas drowned. She pulled the water from his mouth and lungs and pushed air into them.
She tasted-saw-heard-felt Major Haley enter the waters of her river, of her, as she pulled herself and the river up and up. She tasted his burns and felt his pain. Another charge against Mr. Thomas. Major Haley was not dead, though. She almost knew how she could help him, heal him, but she was distracted by her rage against Mr. Thomas.
She moved Major Haley to be with Janett and Miss Rose, saw-heard-felt-tasted Miss Rose wrap her arms around Major Haley and start crying. Miss Rose's tears tasted of salt and sadness. Margaret would take a moment to comfort the woman, but she had a grief of her own to attend to first.
Margaret looked outside herself again and saw the broken fort on its outcropping of granite and the stripped and blasted plain that sloped up to it. She saw her father's men coming together and tending their wounded and searching for survivors. She saw the men see her and saw their looks of fear and awe as they beheld what she had become.
She saw the Seeker, come for Chal. Come for her.
She saw the wrongness that had come with Mr. Ducoed moving away from the fort, away from her and the wrath of Miss Rose. The wrongness had moved too far away for her to deal with it as she was now. She did not trust that the river would spare Da's men, even if she was the river and the river was her. The Misi-ziibi was a serpent not easily controlled.
She looked for Da and found him. He was dying, the last of his life's red waters pumping out of him from under the armored wrongness that he had killed even as it killed him. She could not save him. She could not even get Miss Rose to him in time to save him.
Da had tried to save her and Janett and as many of his men as he could.
She could not save Da, but she could avenge him.
She had stacked the waters of the Misi-ziibi up to a height that showed her miles and miles of bayuk, islands and streams, trees and flowers. She had pushed the waters of the river uphill.
Yes, child, the Water Mother said. But once you release the water, again it flows, and all of your pushing and carrying is for nothing. That is the nature of water: to flow.
"It will not be for nothing, Mother," Margaret said, her voice like the roar of the ocean in a storm.
Margaret moved Mr. Thomas to the crest of the wave she had become. He fought to break free, but the hands of the river held him fast.
She held Mr. Thomas there, wriggling, struggling, failing, so he could see. When she knew he had seen, she released the waters.
If she had still had a mouth to smile with, she would have smiled at Mr. Thomas' scream as the weight of the waters carried him down and smashed him into the quarried stone of Fort Gunter's north wall, then washed away the stain of his death as it washed away the fort Da had refused to hand over intact to Mr. Thomas and the wrongness.
Misi-ziibi
1742 A.D.
Rose held on to Major Haley, her arms around his chest, as the water around them swirled and followed the wave down toward the fort. Or to what remained of the fort. The crest of the wave had hit the north wall of the fort and pushed, millennia of erosion happening all at once. The wave had erased the fort from the outcropping, leaving only the foundations and a few broken bits of quarried stone. The wave had also wiped clean most of the south face of the hill. She could see men in red uniforms clustered like islands, somehow spared from the fury of the river.
Rose did not understand why she and Major Haley and Janett had not been pulled under the surface of the water as the wave fell. She had felt Chal within the water, though, had heard Chal's voice speak to her to calm her when Ducoed had been taken away from her by--the water? She did not understand how the river could rise like it had. She did not want to think that the waters of the river had been summoned. No one should have that much power.
Despite that power, though, and the ferocity of the wave that wiped away Fort Gunter, the water holding her, Major Haley and Janett remained gentle. Instead of pulling them under or breaking them against the rocks, the water receded and left them standing on the bare rock at the top of the hill.
Rose stumbled under the sudden drag Major Haley's weight, then Janett was there, helping her ease Major Haley to the ground. Rose knelt beside Major Haley--Ian; she had never expected to see him alive again; she should call him Ian--and used her hand to push the drops of water off his face. He was breathing, but the right side of his face and neck and chest were badly burned. His right shoulder was broken, as well.
"Can you--?" Janett asked. The girl had also knelt.
Rose nodded. It might kill her, trying to heal this much damage by herself--even with Janett to draw on, without her pistol as a focus, it would be a close thing--but she could do it. "Give me your hand," she said.
Before she could take Janett's outstretched hand, she heard footsteps running toward them. She stood, looking around, wishing again that she had her pistol.
A native man was running up the east side of the hill, along the bank of the river, jumping the trenches as he came to them. He wore no headdress or helmet, only a jaguar skin cloak with eagle feathers around the neck. His dark hair, pulled back in single plait, bounced as he ran. His chest was bare, but he wore leather trousers and moccasins. Both the trousers and the moccasins were decorated with figures of eagles and jaguars and the faces of gods that Rose did not recognize. The man carried a maquahuitl in his right hand, the obsidian blades positioned around its edge alternately flashing in the morning sun and absorbing all light that struck them.
Rose moved to put herself between the man and Janett and Major Haley. She had lost her pistol in her fight with Ducoed. She pulled the one pistol she still had from her coat pocket. She did not bother checking the load or pulling back the hammer. The gun was all but useless, but it felt better to have it in hand. She stood there, dripping wet, holding the gun down by her side, waiting for the man.
The man crested the hill and pulled up. He nodded to Rose, then turned to face the north.
Rose turned, following his gaze. She stepped back. The river, she saw, still rose to the top of the cliffs on which she stood. Water lapped over the edge of the north cliff, then fell away around the bend of the river to the south.
As she watched both the man and the water, the surface of the water churned and the crystalline form of a woman rose from the water. No, not a woman. A girl, on the verge of becoming a woman.
The native man placed his maquahuitl on the ground before him, then knelt on his knees and bent his head.
"Miss Rose," said the form standing on the water, the words coming from the mouth but resonating through entire body of water. Rose felt the words through the rock under her feet. The form spread her arms to encompass the river, the cliffs, everything. "Look!"
Rose looked, but she could think of nothing to say. In her mind, she saw Margaret on the docks of New Venezia, pulling up her skirt to display the rolled cuffs of the trousers beneath.
"Margaret?" said Janett, stepping beside Rose.
Rose glanced at Janett, then looked back at the blue and green form of the water girl. "Margaret?" She saw Margaret's eyes and chin in the face of the form, just as she had heard Margaret in the voice, but there was more.
"And Chal," the form said, and smiled Chal's smile. "We are here. Together."
"You're so beautiful," Janett said. "I always knew you would--"
"I have buried our father," the form said.
Janett covered her face with her hands. Rose put her arms around Janett's shoulders as the young woman sobbed. The form of Margaret-Chal looked on. Rose thought she saw tears on the face of the form, but it was difficult to be certain.
"What about Ducoed?" Rose asked.
"Mr. Thomas is gone."
Again Rose felt the words through the rock she stood on. Gone. She had never heard anything more final.
The form of Margaret-Chal stepped from the water to the naked rock. She walked around the kneeling native man, each step leaving a clear pool of water, then past Rose and Janett. The form knelt beside Major Haley--beside Ian--and touched him with her hand. Where she traced her fingers over his features, his injuries disappeared. He groaned as his right shoulder was moved back into place, then his labored breathing relaxed.
Margaret-Chal stood again and came to Rose and put a warm, wet hand on Rose's stomach. Something within Rose untwisted and became whole again and she found herself weeping with Janett. Poor Nicholas. He always wanted a child.
Margaret-Chal walked around the kneeling man, walking in the pooled steps she had used before, and stepped back to the water.
"Margaret?" Janett asked.
The form turned around to face them again. Rose saw that Margaret-Chal was crying. Raindrops formed in the air around them, refracted the sunlight into a thousand tiny rainbows, then fell lightly.
"I am Margaret Laxton. I am Chal. I am Chalchiuhtlicue." The words were spoken with a soft, bubbling voice, like a brook, but they were even more final than the death of Ducoed. The words shook the raindrops from the air.
As if those words had been what he was waiting for, the native man sat back on his heels, picked up his weapon, then rose, all in one fluid motion. He turned and ran back down the hill the way he had come. With each step became harder to see until he was nothing but a shimmer moving along the bank of the river. After a second, even that was gone.
Rose turned back to Margaret-Chal. "Chal," she said. "And all this time I thought I was protecting you."
"You were, Rose Bainbridge," said Chal's voice from the form. "But you do not have to anymore. I have returned to the waters."
"Margaret," Janett said. "What about Mum? What about me?"
"Tell Mum ... tell her about Da. And me."
"I will miss you, little sister. Miss Margaret Laxton."
"Remember me, big sister," Margaret-Chal said, her features becoming less and less distinct. "But you don't have to miss me, Miss Janett Laxton. I will always be here. All waters," she added, her voice becoming the sound of a stream over worn stones, "are one water."
The form of Margaret-Chal disappeared into ripples on the surface of the water. As Rose and Janett watched, the river ebbed and pulled away from the rocks. There was one last peak and crest of water over the edge of the cliff, and something hard and metallic fell on the rocks and skittered, sending up a few damp sparks and flashes of runes as it slid toward Rose.
Rose picked up her pistol and checked the load out of habit. Then she flicked the gun, scattering drops of water across the still-wet rocks. She doubted she would be able to give it a proper cleaning before getting back to Fort Gunter. Hopefully, Sergeant Tabart was able to preserve a few guns and some dry power.
"Where do we go now, Miss Bainbridge?" Janett asked.
"You can go back to England, if you would like, Miss Laxton," Rose said, pushing the pistol into her belt.
Janett's eyes met hers. "Maybe, in time," Janett said. "It hardly seems right to come all this way to see Da--" Her voice broke, but she continued. "I think I should stay awhile."
"There's plenty of time to decide," Rose said. She peeled the red and gold officer's coat off her shoulders and arms. She pried off her regimental badge for the 101st Pistoleers, then dropped the coat on the top of the cliff. "We have to get back to New Venezia. General Tendring needs to know what's happened." She gave Janett's wet clothes an up-and-down look. "At least you're dressed for the bayuk this time."
Janett nodded.
"Give me a hand with the major, will you?"
With one of Ian's arms over each of their shoulders, they walked down the hill. Sergeant Tabart and Private Stringefellowe and other men that Rose did not know met them before they had gone halfway. The men had brought a litter. As they moved Ian to the litter, Rose asked if any other officers had survived.
"Just yourself and Major Haley, sir" Sergeant Tabart replied.
"I'm not an officer, sergeant. I'm not even in the army anymore. Stop calling me 'sir'."
"Yes, Mum."
Rose sighed and shook her head, and found herself missing Chal. She walked to the riverbank and squatted on her heels. She touched the water with one finger. Her finger felt ... wet. She put the finger on her cheek. The drop of water on her fingertip evaporated against her cheek. Like a friend's kiss. She kissed her finger and touched the water again.
She heard Janett's wet moccasins and the damp earth, coming up behind her.
"The sergeant says that the men are ready to move out," Janett said.
Rose stood and turned. Janett still wore her wet traveling clothes. She had found another rifle, though, and had it slung over her shoulder, the muzzle poking up past her head. She carried a second rifle in her hands. She offered that rifle to Rose.
Rose took it, checked the load, and rested the long barrel against her right shoulder.
"Alright then," she said. "Let's go."
THE END of
GUNWITCH
A Tale of the King's Coven
# # #
About the Author
Most days, David Michael is a software developer and a writer. Some days, he's a writer and a software developer. Other days, he's an amateur photographer. Because, really, who is the same person every day?
David is the designer and developer of DavidRM Software's The Journal, personal journaling software for Windows. He has also designed and developed video games, and has written two nonfiction books and numerous articles about video game development.
David lives with his wife and kids in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
David blogs about writing at Guns & Magic: www.gunsandmagic.com
Other novels by David:
The Girl Who Ran With Horses (Young Adult)
Ebook stories and collections by David Michael:
Serene Morning & Other Tales of a Little Girl
About the Cover
Cover painting, Deadly Thorns, by Don Michael, Jr.
See more of Don's paintings at his Web page:
DavidRM Software's The Journal
http://www.davidrm.com/thejournal/
Keep a journal on your computer!
Whatever your journaling or writing needs, The Journal gives you unmatched convenience, flexibility, and security. The Journal is always available when you need it, and lets you make entries with text, images, and just about anything else.
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GUNWITCH
A Tale of the King's Coven
by David Michael
Published by Four Crows Landing
Tulsa, Oklahoma
Table of Contents

