Witchy Winter

by D. J. Butler

  “Get back!” he advised the others.

  The slate snapped in half. Bursting through the dark gray stone at a running pace came a golden wedge; it took Jacob’s mind a moment to recognize the wedge for what it was.

  The Heronplow.

  “Woden’s missing eyeball!” The earl nearly fell from his horse, but George caught him and calmed the animal.

  The plow raced forward toward Nathaniel, reached his ankle—

  and stopped.

  It stood upright, biting into the earth, and trembling. It dipped from side to side, slid back several inches, and then lurched forward again.

  Nathaniel gasped, his back arching again.

  Jacob wanted to help, but he was afraid anything he might do to try to interfere with Hooke’s magic could just as easily interfere with Sarah. He contented himself with crossing the fingers of both hands and giving encouraging smiles and nods to the Indian and the two Cavaliers who stood with him.

  The plow staggered forward several more lengths. A long, slow, shuddering breath wheezed through Nathaniel Penn’s lips.

  “Kom, kom,” Hop found himself whispering in Dutch. He bit his lip.

  The plow emitted a shrill whine, and fell back a length. Then the whine rose in pitch and the plow shot ahead, riding all along Nathaniel’s length, turning to enclose his head within the furrow it was plowing, and then turned again to descend his other side. The plow was picking up speed—

  and then suddenly stopped.

  Nathaniel screamed. Blood burst from both nostrils, spattering his chin and his shirt.

  “Kom!” Jacob yelled out loud.

  “Makwa!” the Indian shouted. “Makwa, wiiji’!”

  It didn’t sound like a spell, the Indian’s cry sounded like the same sort of involuntary cheering that escaped Jacob’s lips. But suddenly, despite the bright morning sun, there was a dark shadow in the shape of a bear crouched over Nathaniel Penn.

  Jacob staggered back.

  “Makwa, wiiji’!” the Indian shouted again.

  The bear hunkered down on Nathaniel’s shoulder and gripped the Heronplow with its front paws and its teeth. Jacob Hop found he was holding his breath, and he sucked in cold air. Gripping the plow as if it were a bear pulling a salmon from a stream, the bear leaned forward with its shadow-bulk and pushed—

  and the plow moved forward.

  Nathaniel screamed, arching his back.

  Something invisible resisted. The plow jiggled and quivered, and the blood flow from Nathaniel’s nose increased. But the bear pushed…and pushed…and abruptly, the plow turned its final corner and found the furrow in which it had started.

  The bear disappeared.

  And Nathaniel collapsed.

  For a moment, all was still and silent.

  Then the plow turned and leaped again, back whence it came, shattering the slate into dozens of pieces and disappearing, as if the slate were a rabbit hole and the plow had entered it.

  Jacob Hop took a deep breath.

  “Now what?” George Isham asked. He had helped his father down from the horse, and the earl now leaned on his son’s shoulder. Both men looked astonished.

  Jacob felt astonished.

  “Now we plant,” the Indian said.

  That didn’t seem right to Jacob, but perhaps the Indian’s words had been a spell after all, and the spell was not yet complete. “In the furrows? Plant what?”

  The Indian shrugged. “Beans and corn and squash, I guess. My people aren’t really planters. Our lakes give us wild rice without planting, and we hunt for meat.”

  “Plant? To what end?” Hop was puzzled. “And who…who are you?”

  “That was a joke, German,” the Indian said. “What do you do after you plow? You plant, I think. I’m Ma’iingan. If that name is too hard for you, you can call me Ani. I came here to rescue this boy.”

  He pointed at Nathaniel.

  “I’m Dutch,” Jacob said. “My name is Jacob Hop. And I came here to rescue him, too.”

  “Henh.” Ma’iingan nodded. “I hope you’re good at sharing.”

  Seven men in black and white rode up. Six were soldiers, in coats and riding cloaks, and armed with carbines. The seventh looked like a Wodenist godi, with black tunic and cloak, long black hair and beard, and a rune-carved spear in his hands. The priest wore a patch over one eye.

  “We heard about the Isham boy,” the godi said, dropping from his horse. Then his eyes widened. “Isham!” He looked about as if uncertain. “Isham, are you well? Do you know where you are?”

  “I’m on my own land, godi,” the earl said firmly, “where you are welcome…as a guest, and no more than that. And whether we are on my land or not, you may address me as My Lord.”

  “My…yes, My Lord.”

  George Isham gestured at the burning remnants of the curing barn. “See the last remnants of the Yule log we’ve burned this night, One Eye. Do you smell the burning branches of the tree of life? I do.”

  The earl laughed. “Perhaps you can find us a sheep to slaughter, godi, but I tell you this: the College is done officiating. My son and I rule this land.”

  Nathaniel opened his eyes, blinking repeatedly in the bright light.

  * * *

  The descent through Alzbieta Torias’s city house was bloody mayhem, a hurricane of gore and death.

  Not all the Firstborn participating in the siege on the side of the Imperials were Torias’s men, who had trained with Bill on the ride north, but many were. When the sun rose, and the Firstborn, if Bill understood correctly, all suddenly realized that their goddess had chosen Sarah Elytharias Penn for Her own, and Bill had blown his horn, those Ophidians had responded as trained.

  They had attacked.

  Mostly, they had had the presence of mind to attack the Imperials. They were not in formation, but they attacked suddenly, and as if from ambush. Shouts of outrage, screaming, and gunfire, erupted from the floor beneath Bill.

  Chikaak led the charge down the stairs. The Imperials at the bottom were distracted, having been suddenly attacked from behind by their former allies, and Sarah’s beastkind fell on them without mercy.

  As Bill descended, blowing again the signal to attack, some of the other Cahokians—the city’s wardens—were switching sides as well. “The Serpent and the Throne!” an older man shouted, rallying pikemen and archers to him in the ruins of what had once been a part of Alzbieta’s library.

  Bill wasn’t ready to regroup. He blew attack a third time, and charged into the fray himself, slipping between two hulking warriors of his own troop and snatching a brace of pistols from the hands of an Imperial skirmisher who had been trampled so thoroughly he’d split in half. The expression frozen into his facial features was one of mild surprise, as if he’d taken a bite of meat that had gone slightly off.

  Bill fired at the retreating Imperials. He wanted to hit the heavyset woman who was their leader, but he found no sign of her. Instead, he shot a man who was reloading.

  He charged out into the street, firing again, this time at a man about to stick his knife into Bill. In the street, he blew regroup and then square, and was grimly satisfied at the speed with which the beastkind formed into their column around him; he was even more satisfied as Alzbieta Torias’s men fell into their places in the formation.

  The other Cahokians had either fallen, or now formed up around the older soldier still shouting “the Serpent and the Throne!”

  Bill surveyed the situation.

  Ahead of them, the street was blocked with an array of Imperials. They were motley, some in uniform, some apparently traders, and some looking like leatherstockings or coureurs pressed into duty. They crouched behind barricades made of wagons, horse corpses, and furniture, pointing firearms at Bill and his fighters.

  The woman who commanded them stood at the rear. She wasn’t exactly taking cover, but she stood beside a heavy wagon stacked with lumber, within one step of shelter from bullets.

  Behind Bill and to his side, similar
groups of enemies blocked the other escape routes.

  “Stop!” The woman had a voice like a bargeman, capable of ringing out over miles of foggy river. Her own men crouched, still aiming, and she directed her gaze at Bill.

  Bill would take casualties. He eyed the ranks of the Imperials, trying to calculate how deep he could get into that mass and whether he could cut all the way through before his men were destroyed. He wasn’t sure he could.

  And dying here meant an end to service to Sarah, and to Kyres.

  “Are you surrendering?” he called back.

  The woman laughed. “I love a brave man. No! Rather, I’m doing you the courtesy of pointing out the true odds.” She extended her arm to point at the nearest wall.

  Bill looked. The cannons lining that stretch of wall, operated by leather-caped Imperial artillerists—the so-called Pitchers, famous once for admitting women and now for consisting mostly of women—had been turned around. They now pointed at Cahokia itself.

  At Bill, or his general environment.

  A snicker ran along the Imperial ranks.

  Bill was supposed to be daunted. To hell with that.

  He raised the Heron King’s horn and blew attack.

  A volley of musketfire and arrows erupted from Bill’s men and struck the enemy ranks forward. Bill swiveled an eye back over his shoulder to see that similar volleys had struck the Imperials to the side and behind.

  The answering volley was fierce, a hail of lead that swept across the front of the square, dropping every third beastkind warrior with serious wounds. The Firstborn behind were sheltered from the worst of it, as were the wardens.

  In three directions at once, Bill’s soldiers charged.

  As tactics, it was a disaster waiting to happen. If any of the three assaults failed, Bill would have enemies at his rear. Bill was exposed to the cannons, and unless he closed immediately with the enemy so as to render cannonfire too dangerous, he would be mowed down by the big guns on the wall. The only things he had going for his maneuver were the desperation of his men, and a small element of surprise.

  He rushed forward with his musketeers, behind charging pike- and bayonet-wielding warriors, slamming into the barricade and tangling with the Imperial soldiers on the other side.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! The cannons began to fire.

  Bill anticipated the Pitchers’ attack and he gritted his teeth, expecting his men about him to be maimed and shredded, even if he himself managed somehow to avoid death. Instead, the first cannonball struck far back in the enemy ranks, plowing a bloody-soaked furrow of death through the Imperial fighters.

  A bad miss?

  But so did the second.

  Bill looked back at the other pieces of the struggle and saw the same thing—the Imperial artillery was shooting at the Imperial militia.

  Deliberately.

  Could this be some work of Sarah’s? He’d seen her redirect bullets before.

  But…cannonballs? And so many?

  Bill looked at the wall, and a heavy woman wearing a short leather cape waved at him.

  He waved back.

  Did he know any Pitchers?

  It didn’t matter. He blew attack again.

  He found Cathy at his side, raising a Paget carbine to her shoulder. “We are not dead, my lady.”

  “Pray do not sound so disappointed,” she said. Bang!

  “Only surprised, Cathy,” he told her. “Only surprised.”

  The heavyset Imperial woman had vanished. Bill hobbled forward with Sarah’s charging troops. The warriors behind him having routed the skirmishers before them, they fell in around him and charged forward as well.

  “To the Sunrise Mound?” Cathy asked.

  “To the gates, Cathy. To the gates!”

  At that moment, a musket ball struck him in the thigh.

  * * *

  Kimoni Machogu stood, addressing the gathered Electors and proxyholders. Elsewhere, Machogu would have been addressed as Your Serene Highness; here, among his peers, he was Sir, just as Thomas was merely Mr. Emperor.

  To his friends, he might even be Kimoni.

  The Assembly had convened that morning, easily meeting the quorum requirements; it could have convened even in the absence of proxyholders, would likely have been able to meet even absent the Electors Temple Franklin had strongarmed into appearing, tracking them down by their social appearances and extorting or physically coercing their participation. Probably, the high turnout was due to the facts Machogu was describing.

  Machogu looked every bit the prince. He wore coattails and breeches of white, and black riding boots polished to a high shine. Heavy gold rings pierced his ears. He stood in the well of the Assembly Hall with his back straight, his shoulders back, and his feet apart, as if prepared to fight any attacker who might come at him. And this despite the pathos of his tale.

  “This is no ordinary rampage,” the prince, descended of pirate stock, said in peroration. “A rampage of feral beastkind is a matter for the town watch, or for the militia. This is something more. It’s something worse.”

  The Assembly Hall rose steeply from its well on three sides, with seats and tables climbing in tight rows to accommodate all the Electors. There was little room for anything else, despite the hall’s size. As dictated by the Compact, no paintings were allowed in the hall, not even of John Penn or Benjamin Franklin, and the only decoration other than the glittering glass chandeliers was the Imperial Seal, golden and enormous, that hung on the fourth wall. The Seal faced the Electors to remind them of their shared commitment as they debated.

  Hatchet-faced Andrew Calhoun sat beside his neighbor and rival, toothless Charles Donelsen. Calhoun rapped the knuckles of his one hand on the table before him. “You say something worse. What are you thinking it is, Kimoni?”

  Machogu hesitated, but didn’t look away. “Some of my counselors advise me that it’s the return of Simon Sword. My own father taught me not to believe in the bogey of the Missouri, but my mother taught me that there would be things in this world that surprised me. I cannot say what is causing this rampage beyond all rampages, but I won’t say it isn’t the Heron King.”

  “That’s awful damn roundabout of you.” When Calhoun spoke, he kept his Appalachee squeal but managed to sound something like a Pennslander.

  Donelsen’s accent, on the other hand, got the better of him. He was a thin man, but had a fat man’s face and a wild tangle of black hair that looked as if it belonged on a man thirty years younger. More than anything, the flash of pink gums he showed every time he opened his mouth gave away his age. “You ain’t sayin’ it ain’t the tooth fairy, neither.”

  “No,” Machogu agreed. “But I am saying that my land and my neighbors’ lands are overwhelmed by refugees. I am saying that miles and miles of cropland has been burned or flooded. I am saying that a third of my soldiers are dead already, and the others are exhausted. I am saying that the tombs of my ancestors are threatened.” This made it a serious matter; among the Bantu, only the noble dead were buried, and their rock tombs were of extreme worth. Other Bantu corpses were exposed to wild beasts.

  “You sure turning to the Empire is the right answer?” Calhoun asked. “The Empire didn’t help the Abbé de Talleyrand, and the only threat that poor bastard faced was France.”

  A low murmur ran about the room, almost rising to a boo.

  “I don’t know, Andy,” Donelsen said, frowning. “I heard our neighbor the chevalier might have been involved in that one, too.”

  The murmur erupted into babble.

  Thomas banged his gavel on the podium before him, reining in the outrage. He believed the rumors about the chevalier, naturally, since Le Moyne had been blackmailing Thomas for years. The news through Temple Franklin’s network that the chevalier was entangled in some sort of fight to the death with the new Bishop of New Orleans was also welcome.

  “Will you send me enough men to fight this scourge?” Machogu countered, gesturing to the two Appalachee Electors.


  “I’ll send as many as I can.” Calhoun didn’t look at Thomas, where he sat on the low dais in the back of the well, on a chair resembling the Shackamaxon Throne, though made of mere oak. From that chair and with his gavel, a key task of the Emperor (or his designate) was to preside over any duly-called meeting of the Electors. “I’d a sight rather send you men myself than ship money off to Philadelphia so that star-addled numbwit can grow his pile of cash.”

  “And the rest of you?” Machogu looked about the Hall. “Will all of you also send men?” Some of the Electors—Igbo, Appalachee, Ferdinandians, and Ohio Algonks—met his gaze and nodded. Others—Pennslanders and Covenant Tract men—looked away. Still others, like the Haudenosaunee and the Dutch, watched and made no sign. “And the Electors who aren’t here? Chicago, who is burying his son? La Fayette and Champlain, who now argue who will fill the third seat in Acadia?”

  Calhoun nodded sadly.

  “You see?” Machogu asked. “I don’t come of a people that asks for help, and it pains me to be asking now. I’m warning you, if my lands are overrun, Louisiana will be next.” Machogu sat.

  The Memphite proxyholder stood, rings on all his fingers glittering. Memphis always sent a single proxy for all its Electors, since its god-kings and the other members of its incestuous court were too important, or too fragile, or too busy, to involve themselves in Imperial politics directly. It was too bad, really; Thomas enjoyed seeing the seven-foot-tall, red-haired members of the royal family looming over their neighbors. In a way, that image captured how Thomas felt about himself. The proxyholder was some court functionary with a title like Sole Companion and Lector Priest; he looked pure-blooded Amhara or Oromo, just a thin, dark-skinned man from the Mississippi’s shores.

  The Memphite cleared his throat. “Memphis supports a special levy.”

  “You mean a one-time levy.” The lantern-jawed Bishop of Boston stood, one of that city’s two Electors; the Lady Mayor, old John Hancock’s niece, sat beside him at the shared table, scratching furious notes and glaring. The bishop dressed like a burgher, in a simple coat and white neckcloth, but Mayor Hancock dressed to dazzle, in a cocoon of gold thread and shining gold buttons. “Tell us what you have in mind, then. Shall we impose enough tax to send troops to Memphis and the Cotton Princedoms only? And then meet again, when more is required?”