Gunwitch

by David Michael

  “It has not been as long as you think, Major Haley.” Chal’s voice now. “But more time may have passed than I think. Either way, you do not want to be in the open when–”

  The ground shook under Margaret as if lifting her to meet the thundering roar of the explosion. She stifled her scream but nearly dropped the pistol. She felt Janett beside her, trying not to fall. Dust and straw fell on them from the unseen ceiling above them.

  The first explosion had only just begun to subside when four more happened. This time Margaret screamed. Or she thought she did. Her mouth was open, but she could not hear anything but the continuous roar of a thunderclap that hit her over and over and over. Something hard hit her on the back and she realized she had fallen forward and had her face pressed against the horse blanket. She clutched the pistol as something soft and warm stretched across her back. She screamed again.

  She was still screaming when the warmth across her back pulled away and hands pulled on her shoulders and waist. Then someone was shouting at her and shaking her.

  “Margaret! Margaret!” She heard Janett’s voice, though only barely, and collapsed forward into Janett’s arms, sobbing. Because she knew it was not a dream.

  * * *

  Major Haley picked her up as if she was a toddler and held her against his chest as they ran out of the stable. As they came out into the gray light of morning, Margaret put her arms around the major’s neck so she would not slip down. She almost dropped the pistol when it knocked against his back. Over his shoulder she saw black smoke and dirt rolling across the deserted fort. Bits of wood still fell out of the air around them and on them. The front gate of the fort was a gaping hole. Large, splintered fragments of the gate were scattered everywhere. The east wall had been reduced to rubble. She heard more explosions coming from outside the fort, to the east. Behind her, the three soldiers who had responded to Major Haley’s request for volunteers came out of the stable. Two of them carried a canoe. The other carried long coils of rope and a set of pulleys.

  The wooden stairs that went up the back, north wall of the fort were badly askew, but Major Haley managed to carry her up without losing his balance. On the top of the wall, Margaret wriggled, forcing Major Haley to set her down.

  In front of her, Chal paused and looked to the south. Margaret followed her gaze. She could hear still more explosions, like lightning and thunder, more distant than before, and gunshots and even some shouts, but she could not see much of the field that surrounded the fort because of the smoke. She could not see Da. Or Miss Rose.

  The soldiers dropped the canoe and the rope and pulleys on the top of the wall. One of them began tying off the pulleys around a crenellation while the other two went back down to the stable and fetched the party’s packs.

  Chal whispered words that Margaret did not recognize, then went to the wall. She took her short rifle in her left hand, then stepped on the rampart and stepped off on the other side, into nothing. Margaret ran to the wall to look down. Chal stood on the lip of the cliff below the base of the wall, smiling up at her.

  One of the soldiers came up beside Margaret and threw down a line. Chal caught the line and wrapped it around her waist.

  Margaret and Janett followed Chal down the wall, but they held on to knots in the rope and were lowered. The slope of the wall was steep, but with enough of an angle that they could walk down it backward, as long as they held the rope. Margaret had put her pistol in her belt. It would have slipped through her pants leg and fallen if the hammer claw had not ripped a hole in her pants and hung there. The metal barrel was even colder against her legs inside her pants.

  She stumbled when her feet hit the ground, and the gun in her pants tried to trip her. Chal caught her and helped her lean back against the slope of the wall. The edge of the cliff was at least two yards away, and she probably would not have gone over even if she had tripped, but her heart was racing and she was panting. The edge felt much closer as she looked at it.

  Margaret forced herself to breathe normal again. Then, still leaning against the wall, she undid her belt and the laces of her pants to free the weapon.

  “Margaret, please,” Janett said beside her.

  Margaret ignored her.

  The girls had to move to one side as the canoe was lowered. The plan was that the soldiers would lower the canoe down the cliff, with the packs providing ballast. Then Chal and the girls would be lowered to the base of the cliff. If there was time, the major and the soldiers would join them. If there was not time, Chal was to cut the rope and she and the girls would escape down river.

  The rush of the river at the bottom of the cliff muffled the sounds of the battle in front of the fort. And, somehow, tried to warn Margaret. She looked up and saw that Chal was listening too. Both of them stepped up to the edge of the cliff and looked down.

  “Margaret!” Janett called out. “Be careful!”

  Climbing out of the water was one of the cold women that had escorted-carried-dragged Margaret to the fort. Behind that woman were others of the walking dead, dozens of them clawing at the smooth, wet rocks that littered the bank, trying to pull themselves out of the water and to the bank. Margaret saw the little girl who had worn her clothes fighting the current, then being pulled downstream, still trying to reach the cliffs. The cold woman looked up then and her dead eyes met Margaret’s.

  A hand grabbed the back of Margaret’s shirt and pulled her back from the edge. Her unbelted pants slipped and she fell backward, dropping the pistol. She scrambled to pick up the pistol again and clutched it to her chest. She was shaking and her heart was beating in her chest so hard that she thought she might explode from fear.

  Then Janett crouched in front of her, looking so much like Chal or Miss Rose with the rifle slung over her shoulder again, saying, “Margaret. Margaret.”

  “They–they’re coming,” Margaret said. “They’re coming.” Mr. Thomas had known they would try the river. He had known. And he had sent the cold women to get her back.

  “East or south, Major Haley?” Chal’s voice, shouting to be heard over the river and the battle and Margaret’s cries.

  Margaret did not hear Major Haley’s reply because Janett had taken her by the shoulders and pulled her up to her feet again and into an embrace. Janett wrapped her arms around Margaret and crushed Margaret to her breast. Margaret could hear Janett’s voice in her ear, but she could not understand what Janett was saying. All she could think of was that Mr. Thomas had sent the cold women to get her back, and to get Janett too. She squeezed her eyes closed so she would not see the cold hands reaching over the edge of the cliff.

  Janett’s arms went loose around Margaret, then another set of hands was trying to pull Margaret away from Janett. Margaret held on, screaming, until she realized that the hands were warm and it was Chal gesturing for her to follow. Margaret saw one of the soldiers beyond Chal, running along the foot of the wall to the west, toward the bend in the river. She started to take a step, and her unbelted pants slipped to her hips. She grabbed the waistband with her left hand and yanked them up. She still held the pistol in her right hand, her knuckles white.

  Gunshots boomed above her, then a thunderclap and a bright flash. She looked up and saw one of the soldiers, his chest and face burned black, falling between the crenellations on top of the wall. She watched his right arm swing backward as he fell, releasing his grip on his rifle. The rifle went over the cliff as the body of the soldier slid down the face of the wall toward her. Janett pulled her backward again and the soldier landed where they had been standing.

  “Go!” shouted Major Haley behind them. “Stay with Chal!”

  Margaret turned to see Major Haley with his rifle braced against his shoulder, aiming up the wall, waiting for a shot.

  Janett still gripped Margaret’s shirt, and now pulled her forward. Margaret slowed as she tried not to step on the dead soldier. His teeth and eyes were bright white in the black, smoking ruin of his face. Cracks in his blackened skin show bright pin
k. Janett pulled her past the body.

  Another flash and a thunderclap sounded above them. Margaret kept her face down, watching where she put her feet as Janett all but dragged her along. She heard Major Haley coming behind them.

  They caught up with Chal at the corner of the wall. The corner of the wall was low enough that Margaret could see the river beyond it. She saw many heads, hundreds maybe, bobbing in the current, moving from the far side toward the fort.

  Then the soldier they had been following came backing up along the west edge of the cliff again, swinging his musket like a club at the grasping hands of the attackers.

  Behind her, Margaret heard Major Haley’s rifle boom, the sound almost a physical blow to the back of her head and the smell of burned powder was thick in her nostrils. Then there was a wash of heat that hit behind her followed by a man screaming.

  Above the screams, she heard a laugh. A laugh she had learned to hate.

  Margaret looked up and saw Mr. Thomas standing on the rampart. He wore his Leftenant’s uniform, his peaked hat square on his head, and in his right hand he held his pistol. White smoke leaked from the barrel, which glowed red with heat while unfamiliar letters and symbols flashed along its length. Blood flowed from a cut on his right cheek.

  She saw Major Haley on fire, rolling on the ground, slapping at his clothes and his hair, trying to put out the flames.

  She raised the pistol and pointed it at Mr. Thomas. When she saw him notice her, and smile, she pulled the trigger.

  The kick of the pistol pulled it out of her hands and the smoke of her shot blinded her. Her ears rang, but she could still hear Mr. Thomas laughing. Laughing at her now.

  She blinked her eyes against the smoke and bent over. She felt around for the pistol. Her fingers closed on the stock and she picked it up.

  A gun boomed beside her ear as Janett fired her rifle. The sound was like another blow to Margaret’s head, but it drowned Mr. Thomas’ mocking laughter. Dazed, Margaret watched Janett shift her grip on the rifle, brace the butt against the ground, and pull out a pouch of powder and a lead ball to reload. When had Janett learned to load a rifle?

  In front of them, Chal spun to face them. The native girl grabbed Janett, ignoring the girl’s protests, and threw both girl and gun over the side of the cliff.

  Margaret looked at Chal, new horror growing in her. She would have backed away, but Chal was too fast. Chal’s eyes, she saw, were no longer brown. They had become bluer, like the color of the river after a rain.

  “It is time to get our feet wet,” Chal said, grabbing Margaret’s shoulders with warm, wet fingers. “Time to answer the call.”

  Chal dragged her to the edge of the cliff. The warmth from Chal’s fingers spread down Margaret’s arms and into her chest. Chal’s facial features seemed to flow and change as she pulled Margaret, to become less human, as if Chal were melting.

  Margaret’s shoulders were wrenched as she and Chal went over the cliff and fell toward the rocks and water below. She saw Janett tumbling head over heels through the air ahead of her, one hand still holding the rifle.

  “No!” shouted Mr. Thomas above them.

  Margaret smiled as she realized that Mr. Thomas would not have her, or Janett. Then she saw Janett’s fall stop yards above the surface of the water, bouncing as if hitting something hard, just as the air in front of her became a transparent wall and her own fall came to an abrupt halt.

  From high above, Mr. Thomas’ laughter mocked her again.

  Chapter 18

  Rosalind

  King’s Coven North

  1718 A.D.

  Rosalind, Private Bainbridge, stood at attention, presenting her pistol, elbows bent, right hand holding the butt, left hand supporting the short stock, exactly as she had been trained to do, drilled daily for six months. The cold winter wind whipped around her as it darted in and out between the privates in her squad and all the privates of the six other squads lined up on the mustering field of the King’s Coven. Her red uniform took off the edge of the chill that penetrated. Months spent standing, drilling and marching in as bad or worse had taught her to ignore the rest.

  Leftenant Laxton, with Corporal Edwards a pace behind, stepped forward until he was in front of Rosalind. He turned to face her.

  “Private Bainbridge,” Corporal Edwards said, as if introducing her to the Leftenant for the first time.

  The Leftenant looked her up and down. He reached forward and adjusted the angle of presentation of her pistol. He moved it up, then down, and finally left it where she had held it to begin with. Rosalind never blinked or changed where she was looking just over the Leftenant’s right shoulder. The Leftenant stepped back, looked her up and down once more, then nodded.

  “Shoulder your pistol, Private Bainbridge,” the corporal said.

  Rosalind snapped into the new position, holding the pistol against her right shoulder, right hand holding the butt now, left hand on the stock above the trigger guard.

  Corporal Edwards stepped in front of her and touched the rune-worked iron bracelet on her left wrist. The bracelet snapped open, the sound loud enough to make Rosalind blink. Or maybe it was the odd feeling in her mind, the sudden chill in her chest, as the shackle that had stifled her magic for six months fell away, taken off her wrist by the corporal and hung on a ring with the other shackles already removed. Rosalind’s breath misted in the wind, then blew away. Somehow, she felt less of the chill from the wind than before, than she had in the last few months.

  While she maintained the shouldered pose, Corporal Edwards then pinned the badge of the 101st Pistoleers with its crossed lightning bolt and musket to the front of her peaked, bearskin hat. Rosalind would have to sew the badge on herself that evening. For now, it was held in place by a single straight pin.

  Rosalind tried not to think of Mum and that this ceremony was a far cry from the wedding Mum had planned for the elder Bainbridge daughter. Mum and Father and Elizabeth, and thoughts of marriage, everything about her past seemed like distant memories now. There would be no more rumors and allegations of witchcraft now. As of today, Rosalind, Private Bainbridge, was a full member of the 101st Pistoleers of the King’s Army. She was a gunwitch.

  The Leftenant and the corporal turned and stepped up to the next private in line.

  “Private Rames,” Corporal Edwards said.

  Rosalind kept her eyes forward as the Leftenant inspected Private Rames and wiped imaginary dust from the private’s left cuff. The corporal pinned a badge to Rames’ hat. The ceremony moved on.

  * * *

  Rosalind opened her eyes as the guard changed after midnight. It was dark and cold in the tent she shared with Privates Gadge, Wad, Carlell, and Rames. The tent was roomier since Private Millsom had died in a magic-fire drill exercise a month ago, but the loss of a warm body kept the tent from getting as warm as it could have. Even with the small, woodburning stove in the corner of the tent still showing small red flames through its front grill Rosalind’s breath misted in front of her.

  Private Carlell’s magic could have warmed the room easily, in the opposite way that Rosalind’s could have taken all the heat from the burning bits of wood while the flame remained. With their shackles removed, any of them could have heated the room, even Rosalind. She had been taught how to draw forth heat with her magic, like the others, though the heat seemed to resist her more than it resisted the others. None of the young women in the tent, however, had made any magical effort to warm the air. A lingering effect of the shackle, maybe, like dogs trained to stay in the yard even when the fence that hemmed them in was removed.

  Regardless, the cold no longer seemed to touch her, now that the shackle was gone. She had stripped naked–except for her pistol, of course–before getting into her cot. She had stood there, Private Carlell eyeing her, Private Rames ignoring her, and Privates Gadge and Wad scandalized by her nudity, waiting for the cold air of the tent to force her back into her clothes. Not until Rames muttered, “Yeah, we all got scars, m
issy,” did she got into her bed, still naked, and pull the covers up to her chin. That the cold did not touch her made her new status more real than any ceremonial inspection or regimental badge.

  She was a witch now. But not a wild witch. A tamed witch, in His Majesty’s Army. A gunwitch. All the women in the tent with her were gunwitches. Dangerous, capable of blasting, burning, or in other ways killing anyone within line of sight, but only when their superior officers directed them to. Without orders, they did not even use magic to warm their tent.

  Tomorrow, they and the rest of the latest crop from the King’s Coven would be sent out to join the English Army, the real army. Which meant if she were going to do anything about Thomas, it would have to be tonight.

  She sat up and swung her bare legs over the side of her cot. The cold, still air continued to ignore her as she stood.

  Her face flushed when she thought about visiting Thomas naked, walking through the winter night wearing nothing, carrying her gun, joining him in his cot. The cold could not touch her, but maybe Thomas would. She shook her head at the thought. She was not so brazen as that. And what if Thomas still refused to talk to her? She did not want to think of that either.

  Thomas had said no word to her in the three months since they were both disciplined for “attempting to strike a superior officer”. His crime, their shared punishment. He would meet her eyes, sometimes, but he would not speak to her. Or to any of the privates, unless ordered to.

  The rest of the squad, all the other privates who had survived to become full members of the 101st Pistoleers in the ceremony today, despised Thomas. Some openly hated him. But when Rosalind looked at him, she still saw the frightened boy with the bruised face and she still wanted to help him, to take him in her arms and comfort him. And since his one, failed attempt to kiss her, she had also seen him as a young man–and she wanted to kiss him. Her face no longer flushed at the thought of kissing him. Now other parts of her grew warm.

  She pulled on her uniform as quietly as she could. She did not care if the others saw her dress and leave, but she did not want to disturb their rest.