Gunwitch

by David Michael

  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 s
he 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.”