Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2)

by Aaron Galvin

  “No,” says Father, his voice gruff and low.

  Mercy sits on her heels, rage crossing her face. She grabs hold of the arrow shaft in Father’s chest. His face reddens and he winces as she plucks it free, yet he utters no word, no cry of pain as Mercy flings the shaft away.

  It lands in the brush near me.

  The hooded witch beside me pays it little mind, her attention on her mistress and my father.

  My gaze warily turns to the bloodied arrowhead, and I know it within my reach if only the witch remains distracted.

  “I have thought long on what I should do or say if ever I met you again,” Mercy says to Father. “And for all my hate…all my fury…in the end, I thought only of this.”

  Mercy takes my father’s whiskered cheeks in her hands. She leans to him, kissing his lips, holding him in the moment.

  Father does not return her affections.

  The hooded witch beside me crows at the sight of her mistress kissing Father.

  I use the moment to scoot nearer the arrowhead, and notice Father sees me.

  When Mercy pulls away, he leans forward of a sudden, kissing her fully.

  Again, those around me cheer at the sight.

  I reach the broken arrow shaft. I find myself able to palm and snap off the arrowhead, and tuck it inside my belt ere Mercy pulls away from Father.

  “Goodbye, Priest,” she says. “For now and always.”

  She leaves his side and takes up his dagger from the dirt, the one gifted him by his own father.

  “I will give this to our child,” she says, sheathing it in her belt. “A lone gift from a bastard father.”

  I meet Father’s gaze, my eyes pleading him renounce her claims, or speak one soft word to me.

  He will not. Even as the braves haul him away, he passes on his willful defiance for his captors to me.

  Even then, I cannot form the words as to what I should speak to him.

  In the end, he only nods before the braves force him away, disappearing into the forest.

  “You will truly leave me here then?” Mercy asks Two Ravens.

  “You have your witches,” he says. “And your two prisoners. Is that not what you came for?”

  “A company of women.” Mercy jeers. “We shall be taken upon our first steps into Iroquois lands and burned alive, no doubt. I wonder—” She saunters toward him. “Would you have me speak ill of you when that occurs?”

  Confusion crosses the face of Two Ravens.

  “Should I tell the Six Nations all you have done without their approval?” she asks. “Or will you grant me an envoy and safe passage through Iroquois lands, that I might tell them of your greatness? Whisper in my English father’s ear of how Two Ravens and his people are truly friends to us and ours?”

  Two Ravens grins. “Or perhaps I kill you now.”

  “Aye,” she says. “You could indeed. But you know well the reach of my English father. Kill me at your peril.”

  “Has no one told you how I came by my name, woman?” He asks. “Two Ravens cares nothing for white men. French or English, he bends them to his will and pits them against one another, killing two ravens with one stone. In the end, the Iroquois stay strong.”

  “For now,” says Mercy. “But the Iroquois remain so because they are also wise. Let you be wise now, Two Ravens. Grant my request. Give us safe passage and let you make friends on all sides.”

  I witness the debate in his eyes, his gaze studious of Mercy.

  “I will leave you two of my men,” he says finally. “Let you sing my praises, little bird. All the way through my people’s lands and then into your English father’s ear. For if you don’t”—he looms over her—“you will learn how far my own reach extends. Even into your colonies.”

  Mercy grins at his answer. She spins away from him and hauls me to my feet.

  I honor my father’s silence, saying nothing as she guides me back toward the camp. As her hooded vanguard flanks us for the march, I take careful note of their number, counting fewer than ten since our skirmish.

  Two Ravens and his men have readied the captives from my village by the time we arrive. They wail at seeing Father among them. His body bloodied and beaten, eyes and cheeks already swelling with bruises.

  He lends his courage to them, keeping his silence whilst Two Ravens and his braves knock him with blows until he falls unconscious beneath their strikes.

  It takes all my strength not to cry out for him. I refuse to look away, searing the memory of him handled so poorly in my mind that I might use it to feed my fire.

  My people also honor him, even when the braves rally them over to witness their fallen war chief. They force our people to watch Two Ravens disgrace Father further.

  He binds one end of rope round Father’s ankles, ties the other end off around a stallion’s neck. Then he swings astride the beast, gives a war cry, and kicks its ribs.

  The stallion jerks forward, and I witness Father’s head bounce upon the earth as it drags him away.

  I keep my stare of Father until he vanishes from sight. My gut retches from his loss, but my stomach has little to give over. I glance up, all my strength gone, as the braves march my people away.

  I keep my stare until long after they are gone and Mercy has tied me to the tree again.

  My hatred burns even as the fire embers diminish and the cold of night embraces me. The snores of the hooded guard Mercy set to keep watch signal me to action.

  I scoot my back against the tree, feel the arrowhead press into my back. My fingers pluck it free. The sharp and slick-coated edges cut my skin, twining my blood with Father’s.

  I fix the image of him in my mind.

  Think on Sturdy Oak and our people.

  Remember Sarah and her sacrifice.

  Holding the arrowhead between my thumb and forefinger, I rub its edge against the leather thongs binding me to the tree.

  My gaze homed on Mercy.

  -11-

  My wrists and fingers ache as I whittle at the last of the bonds. The sky lightens with each passing moment, its hue violet with the approaching dawn. I work furiously at the bindings, knowing Mercy and the others will waken with the morning sun.

  The last of the bindings falls.

  I flex my fingers wide and scurry to my feet.

  The guard snores as I slip toward her. My thoughts drift to Father and all he taught me of honor as I kneel beside the witch, slipping the dagger at her waist from its sheath.

  I stare on her face, pockmarked and scratched, picked at. She can be no older than I, yet her body seems more withered and worn. I wonder if she were one that cackled in my village, and I picture her laughing while my sister screamed.

  Then I forget myself.

  I cup my hand over the witch’s mouth and slide the dagger across her throat, granting her a merciful, quiet death that her mistress robbed from Sarah.

  The witch’s eyes flutter open as her spirit leaves, the morning cold making it visible as it rises into the morning sky.

  I change my attention to the remaining guards. I count their number at near twenty, including Mercy.

  The sun peeks beyond the horizon, warning I must hurry.

  Murmuring behind me, Mary stirs in her sleep.

  I make my way toward her with the witch’s dagger in hand.

  Mary’s head rocks from side to side, tortured in a dream, or so I suppose.

  The memory of her waking the guards takes hold of me. I kneel beside her, look on the freshly blooded dagger, then to Mercy and her followers who yet sleep.

  My mind hurries me.

  I cup my hand over Mary’s mouth.

  Her eyes widen as I raise the blade to my lips, ushering her quiet before cutting her loose.

  Tears well in her eyes as she brings her wrists away from the tree and rubs life into them.

  I point to the dead witch then drag my thumb across my throat in silent play at what needs be done.

  Darkness crosses Mary’s face upon my helping her st
and. She hugs me close once finding her feet.

  I pull away, see her face beset with grimness.

  Mary takes the dagger from my hand, surprising me with her quick and silent way. She moves about the witches, falling upon each as if she plucked the heads off chickens.

  I too move among our captors, fetching up a new blade. I gift them the long sleep and think on my loved ones as each death brings me closer to taking the one I crave most.

  Indeed, it seems to me that Mary and I race through Mercy’s guards, each of us hoping to reach her first.

  But I am younger and faster than she, more determined.

  I stalk to Mercy, my thoughts on Sarah as I kneel beside her killer.

  Reaching for Mercy’s hair, a familiar titter calls in the trees above me.

  I glance up.

  A raccoon nestles in the crook of a branch, watching me from behind its natural black mask, its head cocked to the side.

  Creek Jumper’s words rise in my mind.

  I feel no fear now. Only hate.

  A war cry screams behind me—Mary struggling against one of the braves Two Ravens gave over to Mercy.

  The other brave stands beside them, his face plain in confusion as he looks upon the camp and sees the witches slain.

  Our gazes meet and he wastes no time in leaving, springing into the woods.

  Then I am knocked aside with a blow beneath my chin.

  My head rocks back, and I stumble away to see Mercy rise from her slumber with murder in her eyes.

  “Rebecca,” Mary shouts. “Help!”

  The brave sits atop her, holding her fist, forcing the dagger toward her.

  I throw my blade without thinking and see it buried in his throat even as something cuts my own flesh. The pain draws my attention back to Mercy.

  “A kindred spirit indeed,” she says. “We truly ought to have been great friends, Rebecca Kelly.”

  She wields my Father’s dagger before me, taunting me come near.

  The sight of my own blood staining its blade fills me with rage. I scream and rush Mercy, not caring if she slices me again as I reach for her face.

  The blade scratches across my back.

  Mercy cries out as I yank her hair.

  I sweep my foot behind hers, felling Mercy to earth with me upon her. My vision floods red and Sarah’s face rises in my mind as I dash Mercy’s head against the ground, pounding it over and over until she releases the dagger.

  “Rebecca…” Mary says behind me.

  I fetch the dagger up and raise it over my head.

  Mercy looks on me, her nose broke, face bloodied and scratched. “Do it,” she spits.

  The blade’s hilt feels slippery in my hand. I grit my teeth and tighten my grasp upon it.

  “Rebecca,” says Mary. “He’s escaping.”

  I keep my focus on Mercy. My hatred burning, begging my hand fall and take vengeance for my sister.

  “Do it and die,” Mercy says. “Or keep me and learn what I know.”

  The raccoon titters above me, its voice calling the red sight from me. I look to the trees and spy my manitous looking down on me.

  “What could you know?” I ask Mercy.

  She grins at me, despite the blood staining her teeth. “Did you not wonder how your entire war party fell before us?”

  “Your traitorous dog drew them out,” I say.

  “Aye, Two Ravens deceived your people, but we could not have defeated him so soundly without greater numbers.” Mercy grins. “There be more of my kind, girl. A second party, headed north even as we speak.”

  “Why north?” I ask.

  “It be a five day trek by land from your village to your brother’s trading post, no?”

  Fear clutches me at Mercy’s words.

  “What was his name again,” she continues. “George?”

  “No…”

  Mercy chuckles. “George and his wife, Hannah. And Andrew Martin also.” Her lip curls. “Them and the old man.”

  The blade quivers in my hands.

  “Would you know more from me, Rebecca?” Mercy asks. “Make your decision and soon. Two Ravens cannot have gone far yet. No doubt fear hastens the savage your lady servant allowed escape.”

  I glance back at Mary, see her wringing her hands and her face beset.

  “Two Ravens will not return for you,” I say to Mercy.

  “Not for me,” she says. “But the brave you slew, that one over there.” Mercy motions to the corpse with a dagger in his throat. “That was his brother, left behind to keep watch over me and ensure I sang loud my song of praise throughout the land.”

  “Liar,” I say.

  Mercy sneers. “I am many things, girl, but a liar is not one of them. Look to the one behind you if desiring to know the face of betrayal.”

  “Rebecca,” says Mary. “Don’t listen to her. She will say anything to keep her life.”

  “Ha,” cries Mercy. “Let you ask Mary Warren which among us in Salem betrayed her sisters.”

  I look to Mary.

  “No,” she says. “It’s not true.”

  “She abandoned us when the tides did not suit her,” Mercy coos.

  “I came back, Mercy!” Mary says. “Why can you and the others not remember that?”

  The pleading in Mary’s voice makes me think otherwise. I cannot bring myself to silence Mercy, desiring more knowledge of both women in my company.

  “She wilted before her master, John Proctor. Just as she wilted last evening and could not kill the brother of Two Ravens today.” Mercy looks on me. “Was it not her shouts that led to your and Priest’s capture, Rebecca? You and he would be far from here if not for her weakness.”

  Her words ring true in my mind, and my gaze wavers between the two while I discern which Salem sister speaks truer.

  “Please, Rebecca.” Mary trembles. “She is a liar. You must believe me.”

  “I know not what to believe,” I say.

  “Then hear my words,” says Mercy. “Two Ravens will not suffer you when he learns his kin slain by your hand. Let you take me now to your brother’s post that we might warn him. Should Two Ravens fall upon us before we reach it, give me a blade and I will stand beside you.”

  I scoff. “I am no fool to give you a weapon.”

  “Only a fool would say so,” says Mercy. “The wisest accept they cannot know all. Have you not heard me say I mean you no harm? Let us be frank now—I have no love for the savages. All that I do is to carry out my father’s plans.”

  “What plans?” I ask.

  Mercy grins. “Kill me here and you shall never know.”

  “Do not be misled, Rebecca,” says Mary. “Her conniving tongue will bewitch you and earn your trust. Then she will slip a knife in your back as she did to me in Salem.”

  “And Mary will abandon you at the first hint of trouble,” says Mercy. “As she has proven time and again.”

  I hesitate on what to do. My anger wishes me slay Mercy and be done with it, my mind curious as to the truths she sows among the lies, if any.

  “How do I know my brother still lives?” I ask Mercy. “Your dog drew my people out once. Who is to say you do not lead me into another trap?”

  “Perhaps I do, but he will die if you judge me wrongly and us with him,” says Mercy. “You doubt me and I cannot fault you for it, so let me speak more honestly that you might heed my words.”

  “There be no means for me know you speak truth.”

  “Oh, but there is,” says Mercy. “You think of me as whore to the natives, Rebecca, and you are right I allowed them love me for a time, but let your cowardly friend speak now on the reason I came to live in Salem.”

  Her gaze shifts over my shoulder.

  “What brought me to serve in the Putnam house, Mary Warren?” says Mercy.

  Mary shakes her head. “Do not let her sway you, Rebecca. I beg you.”

  “Go on,” says Mercy. “Speak plain of what befell my goodly family at the hands of the Wabanaki. Tell Rebec
ca how they were torn limb from limb and roasted over their fires whilst cowardly men of God like that cursed Reverend George Burroughs escaped the Devil’s minions.”

  Her words fright me for what Father may endure at the hands of Two Ravens.

  “Aye,” says Mary. “And still you serve the savages after that? Your actions alone speak to your treacherous ways.”

  “You could not fathom my sacrifices, turncoat,” says Mercy. “Long reaching plans were set in motion before the trials in Salem began. We favored few were chosen to move the game along. Do you think I should let a savage even look upon me were it not for the greater good?” Mercy spits. “I pity your short-sighted ways, Mary Warren.”

  Mercy’s venom for Mary catches me as one of a deep, underlying hate, a kind to mirror my own and one derived from truth.

  “What is this greater good you speak of?” I ask her.

  Mercy grins. “Take me to George’s post, and I will speak of what I know.”

  “Kill her, Rebecca,” says Mary. “Kill her now and be done with it.”

  I discount Mary’s skittish voice, instead keeping my watch on Mercy.

  “Why do you care so much of my brother’s post?” I ask.

  “I wish to live,” she says. “And we three here are not enough to withstand Two Ravens alone in the woods. It might be your brother and Andrew Martin could help us turn the tide, along with their defenses.”

  “Two Raven is your friend,” I say.

  “Then you are a fool,” says Mercy. “He will kill me the same as you when learning his brother died among my company. Faulting me for the action, no doubt. Now let us be off, and quickly. We may move faster than he, burdened with his captives, but he will not rest at the news of his slain brother.”

  The raccoon above me titters anew.

  I look on its face, then to my captive’s. Creek Jumper warned of overcoming fear, yet Mercy does not fright me. Instead, I find myself drawn to the painted line of black across her eyes, mimicking the raccoon’s, and I wonder what my manitous would have me learn from her.

  The raccoon chatters at me again then leaps from one branch to the next, journeying westward, bound in the direction of my brother’s trade post.

  I pull Mercy to her feet and take my father’s dagger from her. Sticking the point to her back, I urge her toward the tree she tied me to.