Gunwitch

by David Michael

  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.

  Chapter 7

  Rosalind

  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 m
ade 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 Morr
is, 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.