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 aga
inst 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.
Chapter 6
Rose
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 h
ands 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.”
Gunwitch Page 9
