Witchy Winter
Page 1
Table of Contents
MAP
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
WITCHY WINTER
War Comes to the Serpent Kingdom
D.J. BUTLER
SEQUEL TO WITCHY EYE. Next in series, which debuted with the stunningly reviewed Witchy Eye. Butler delivers another brilliant Americana flintlock fantasy novel.
TOIL AND TROUBLE
Sarah Calhoun paid a hard price for her entry onto the stage of the Empire’s politics, but she survived. Now she rides north into the Ohio and her father’s kingdom, Cahokia. To win the Serpent Throne, she’ll have to defeat seven other candidates, win over the kingdom’s regent, and learn the will of a hidden goddess—while mastering her people’s inscrutable ways and watching her own back.
In New Orleans, a new and unorthodox priest arises to plague the chevalier and embody the curse of the murdered Bishop Ukwu. He battles the chevalier’s ordinary forces as well as a troop of Old World mamelukes for control of the city and the mouth of the great Mississippi River. Dodging between these rival titans, a crew of Catalan pirates—whose captain was once a close associate of Mad Hannah Penn—grapples with the chevalier over the fate of one of their mates.
Meanwhile, a failed ceremony and a sick infant send the Anishinaabe hunter Ma’iingan on a journey across the Empire to Cavalier Johnsland, to a troubled foster child named Nathaniel. Ma’iingan is promised that Nathaniel is a mighty healer and can save his imperiled baby, but first Nathaniel—a pale young man with a twisted ear who hears the voices of unseen beings—must himself be rescued, from oppression, imprisonment, and madness.
BAEN BOOKS by D.J. BUTLER
Witchy Eye
Witchy Winter
Witchy Winter
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 D. J. Butler
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 978-1-4814-8314-8
eISBN: 978-1-62579-633-2
Cover art by Daniel Dos Santos
Map by Bryan G. McWhirter
First printing, April 2018
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Butler, D. J. (David John), 1973– author.
Title: Witchy winter / D.J. Butler.
Description: Riverdale, NY : Baen, [2018]
Identifiers: LCCN 2017054265 | ISBN 9781481483148 (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Magic—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Historical. |
FICTION / Fantasy / Epic. | FICTION / Alternative History. | GSAFD:
Fantasy fiction. | Epic fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.U8667 W59 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017054265
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)
Printed in the United States of America
Electronic Version by Baen Books
www.baen.com
Acknowledgements
Few books are written truly alone. Big thanks to Jim Minz for joining me in the exploration of this imaginary-and-yet-not-wholly-imaginary land that I love and for providing great editorial guidance.
For all the reasons that I want to write this story, I want to find people who will read it. I owe gratitude to the entire Baen team (editors, writers, and readers) for their efforts on this score, and especially to Corinda Carfora and Christopher Ruocchio, for their advocacy, their time, their enthusiasm, their wisdom, and their marketing mojo.
Thank you, my friends.
For my father, Dick Butler, who knows all the stars.
And for my friend John Lundwall,
who reminded me that I should know them, too.
“You didn’t ask me to survive.
You asked me to show you how to find the healer.”
CHAPTER ONE
With one last push and a hiss of triumph, Waabigwan gave birth to their child. Ma’iingan’s sister Miskomin scooped the baby up, cut and knotted its umbilical cord, dried its face, and as it emitted its first soft cries, began to swaddle it.
“Go.” Waabigwan’s eyes glittered in the dim light.
Ma’iingan yawned and stretched. “Fishing?” he asked his wife. “You hungry for walleye, again? Maybe lake trout? You know it isn’t the season to harvest manoomin. At least I’m awake for your strange cravings this time.”
“Go, my wolf.” Waabigwan smiled, forgiving Ma’iingan his sense of humor again. “If you want this child to be one of the People, you must defend it.”
Ma’iingan took his good German flintlock from where it leaned against the wall of the wiigiwaam. “If I’m to defend this child, I must alert the attackers, no? Good thing your brother is such a skinny, toothless pup. This baby will be a Loon baby, safe from whatever the Catfish might try.”
He pushed aside the hide hanging in the wiigiwaam’s doorway and stepped into the chill spring night. The bright fire burning at the center of the camp stole his vision for a moment, but Ma’iingan didn’t need to see to perform his duty. He’d carefully loaded and primed his German rifle when Waabigwan had gone into labor early in the afternoon; now he raised it and fired his gun at the night sky, announcing the birth of their first child.
The shrill whoop of attack in his ear caught him by surprise, and then Ma’iingan hit the ground hard. He swung his elbow at the attacker’s solar plexus but missed; the other man was already up and bounding into the door of the wiigiwaam while Ma’iingan still struggled to catch his breath.
Ma’iingan knew Waabigwan’s brother Omagakiins by his skinny ribs and the long braids bouncing down his back. The Catfish weren’t sleeping, then.
No matter.
Ma’iingan rolled to his feet, tossing his rifle against the stack of firewood beside the wiigiwaam. He settled into a crouch before the door, ready to snatch the baby from his wife’s brother when the younger man emerged.
The women’s cries from inside the wiigiwaam were full of energy, but no real distress. No one wished harm to the baby; Omagakiins was doing his sacred duty just as Ma’iingan was.
But then Miskomin’s tone of mock-fear turned to real surprise. “You can’t do that! This is Ma’iingan’s wiigiwaam!”
Eyes still adjusting to the firelight, Ma’iingan nearly missed Omagakiins. The young Catfish sprinted out from behind the wiigiwaam. With one hand, he sank a tomahawk into a birch trunk as his passed. It was Ma’iingan’s own tom
ahawk, made of steel and purchased from the same Dutch Ohio Company traders who had sold him the rifle. In his left hand, Omagakiins clutched a bundle against his chest.
He’d cut an exit out the back of the wiigiwaam, the clever snake.
And he had the child.
Ma’iingan sprinted after him. As he passed the wiigiwaam’s corner, an old Catfish warrior stepped forward from the darkness and threw a bowlful of water into Ma’iingan’s face. The water was cold—there was still ice on the lakes—and Ma’iingan shivered as he lowered his shoulder to knock the Catfish to the earth.
In return, the Catfish grabbed Ma’iingan’s ankle and tripped him.
Ma’iingan bounded to his feet again and raced after Omagakiins, now visible only as glints of flesh occasionally showing between the trees. The younger man was running for his own wiigiwaam.
Would this baby be a Catfish after all? And would Ma’iingan be a laughingstock for that?
Leaning forward onto the balls of his feet, Ma’iingan ran faster.
Another Catfish stepped from the trees with a bowl in his hands. Ma’iingan swerved, but not far enough, and the hurled flour struck him squarely in the bare chest, exploding upward and down in a cloud that coated him with fine white grit and also blinded him momentarily.
Ma’iingan hit a tree.
“Wiinuk!” he cursed.
Hands grabbed Ma’iingan’s shoulders. He didn’t have to see to be able to wrestle; Ma’iingan stepped into the attack, ducked, and got his shoulder under the attacker’s weight. Grabbing the other man’s knees, he straightened and tossed the Catfish back over his shoulder.
Wiping soggy flour from his eyes, Ma’iingan turned toward Omagakiins’s wiigiwaam and ran. “Father!” he yelled. Where were the warriors of his own doodem, the Loon? Where were his father, his brother, his two nephews?
As Omagakiins reached his own wiigiwaam, women beside the fire cheered. Omagakiins raised the little bundle over his head—
and old Animkii barreled out of the wiigiwaam door.
Animkii was Ma’iingan’s father and he was nearing sixty years old, but age hadn’t slowed him a bit. He crashed into the much younger Catfish and sent him staggering backward until his calves struck a small boulder and Omagakiins sat down suddenly on the earth.
“The baby!” Ma’iingan shouted.
Animkii waved an empty blanket. “That’s no baby, Moosh Koosh! You’ve been tricked!”
Two Catfish men stepped from the trees, hitting Animkii simultaneously with flour and water. Omagakiins fell back to the earth, laughing hysterically.
There were too many Catfish in the tribe. Maybe I should have married a Marten instead.
But then he thought of Waabigwan’s open smile and her gentle hands and he turned to race back toward his own wiigiwaam.
Miskomin emerged from the wiigiwaam door as he reached it. “The baby?” Ma’iingan asked.
“Another Catfish came into the wiigiwaam as Omagakiins left it. He took the baby and ran that way.” Miskomin pointed.
Clever Catfish. “Cheaters,” he said. “Have you seen Waagosh? Giniw?”
She shook her head. “Ma’iingan…”
Was something wrong? “Waabigwan is well, no?”
“Heya,” she agreed, “Waabigwan is well.”
“Then I must get this baby, if it is to be a Loon.”
Miskomin nodded quickly and retreated into the wiigiwaam. Something made her uncomfortable; after he rescued his child, Ma’iingan would find out what it was.
Ma’iingan ran in the direction indicated by Miskomin, and almost ran into his brother Waagosh. Waagosh was older by nearly ten years, and heavier. A wool blanket over his shoulder flapped behind him as he charged ponderously toward Ma’iingan. In his arms he cradled a bundle. His long black hair was white with flour.
“That’s the baby, no?” Ma’iingan held his arms forward as he ran to meet his brother.
Battle whoops sounded in the trees.
Waagosh puffed. “I was hiding in the trees and I saw this Catfish run by with your son.”
“Son?” Ma’iingan wanted to say something, but all he could do was grin stupidly.
“Henh, son. The swaddling is loose.”
Water splashed Waagosh in the face, and Ma’iingan heard his son’s clear cry again. The Catfish who had thrown the water stepped forward to grab the baby.
Ma’iingan stuck his leg between the attacker’s feet and pushed him. The Catfish fell to the ground yelping.
“Take the baby,” Waagosh grunted.
Ma’iingan needed no further encouragement. He grabbed the child from its uncle and turned left, racing in toward the camp’s large fire. He filled his lungs with air, preparing to shout the victorious chant that would announce his son as one of the People and a Loon.
Two Catfish ran toward him, between Ma’iingan and the fire. Each held a wooden bowl, and Ma’iingan braced himself to get wet or powdered again, or both. The child would get wet too, but he would be mostly sheltered by Ma’iingan’s body, and the shocks of cold water and flour now would prepare the boy to be a warrior later.
But then Giniw was there. Ma’iingan’s nephew burst from behind him and charged the Catfish. Lowering his head and raising his arms, and boy struck both bowls at the same moment. Two fountains of water rose and fell, splashing the Catfish and Giniw as they all tumbled together in a tangle of adolescent knees and elbows in the dirt.
Ma’iingan rushed past. He reached the fire and raised his son over his head, whooping and howling like his namesake the wolf. Animkii joined him, bellowing like the thunder for which he was named, and Ma’iingan joyfully passed his son to the baby’s grandfather.
“This boy,” Animkii roared, “is a Loon!”
Giniw joined them, shoving himself under Ma’iingan’s arm for a hug of approval. Ma’iingan gave the boy the embrace and tousled his hair as well. Giniw was a good shot with bow and rifle, and with the kind of courage he had shown tonight, he would be a productive hunter. Should the Free Horse People cross the river to attack, or should the Germans of Chicago call on their allies among the Anishinaabe to go to war, he would be a mighty warrior, as well.
Omagakiins threw himself onto Ma’iingan’s back and laughed as the people of the Catfish doodem joined the dance. “My sister has a brave husband,” the young Catfish said.
“My wife has a clever brother,” Ma’iingan shot back. “The Catfish are a mighty people.”
“We’re no Loons,” Omagakiins said, pointed up and north at the celestial Loon, hidden by the fire’s light. “Keeping all the People pointed in the right direction.”
“That’s just stubbornness.” Ma’iingan grinned. “If you don’t know how to turn, it’s very important to convince everyone else you’re walking in the right direction.”
The dancing and singing had become general. The baby boy had passed from Loon hands into Catfish and Marten hands and back again, but it didn’t matter now. The boy was a Loon.
As, really, he had to be. As everyone had known he would be from the beginning.
And he was one of the Anishinaabe, the People.
Ma’iingan embraced Waagosh as his brother lumbered to the fire, grimacing. “I believe I’ve sprained an ankle,” the older brother said.
“Henh.” Ma’iingan nodded solemnly. “If only you had two.”
Waagosh grunted his acknowledgement of the joke. “Where is this nephew of mine? I want a closer look at the evidence before I’ll admit you’re really a man.”
“You’ll have to take the baby from his grandfather. He seems to think the boy is his.” Ma’iingan pointed—Animkii turned around and around the fire, refusing to hand the child over until finally Ma’iingan’s mother Niibin planted both feet squarely in front of him and scowled.
Shaken like a fruit tree in the autumn, Animkii dislodged the boy into the arms of his grandmother.
“Well done, little brother.” Waagosh clapped a hand on Ma’iingan’s shoulder.
“H
enh.” The racing of his heart, the adrenalin in his veins, the sweat and flour and cold water on his flesh, and the cool prickle of the night air together made Ma’iingan tremble. “Thank you for fighting to keep the boy in the doodem.”
“My doodem is Loon.” Waagosh chuckled. “My brother’s son’s doodem must also be Loon.” He squeezed Ma’iingan’s shoulder one more time and advanced toward the fire.
Ma’iingan found himself standing with Miskomin. She held her hands folded in front of her and she looked at the earth.
“Thank you, sister,” he said. “The men of our doodem have fought for my son this night, and you have fought for my wife.”
Miskomin said nothing.
“How is Waabigwan?” Ma’iingan asked. Again, something was not quite right. A small shadow of uncertainty crept into his pride- and joy-filled heart.
“She is well,” Miskomin said. “As is your…son.”
“Son?” Ma’iingan looked over his shoulder at the crowd surging about the fire, passing his firstborn child from hand to hand. “You mean…?”
Miskomin shook her head no.
Ma’iingan spoke slowly. “You mean…I have…?”
“I mean your second son.”
Standing in the darkness outside the circle of the fire, Ma’iingan suddenly felt fear.
* * *
“The wiigiwaam is ready,” Ma’iingan said.
“You’re making too much of this, Animoosh.” His father shook his head. Ma’iingan was the People’s word for wolf, and it was the name given to Ma’iingan by old Zhiishiigwe, who was a member of the Midewiwin as well as a respected namer. Animkii was also in the Midewiwin, but Zhiishiigwe’s dreams had power.