GUNWITCH
A Tale of the King’s Coven
By David Michael
Copyright © 2011 by David Michael.
Published by Four Crows Landing.
Gunwitch: A Tale of the King’s Coven. Copyright © 2011 by David Michael. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information contact Four Crows Landing: [email protected]
Designed by David Michael.
Cover artwork and layout by Don Michael, Jr.
Published by Four Crows Landing.
1.00-2011.10.5
This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Most of the locations are made up too.
for
the Three Prawns Crew –
Tick Tock, Bluu & Devlin Darkmantle
Chapter 1
Rose
Lake Patrizio
1742 A.D.
As the moss-hung canopy of the bayuk gave way to the open sky of Lake Patrizio, Rose Bainbridge picked up her paddle and began paddling. Stroke left, stroke right. Stroke left, stroke right. She kept her rhythm steady, matching the speed of the pirogue as the small boat moved across the surface of the water toward the rusted and smokestained skyline of New Venezia. Force of habit driving pointless precision, she thought. Because she rowed only to preserve the illusion that rowing was necessary, to hide the truth that the boat moved across the water at the will of the pirogue’s other passenger.
Continuing the pantomime of rowing, Rose looked over her shoulder at Chal. The native girl sat in the stern, her paddle in the bottom of the boat, untouched, her long black hair loose and streaming behind her in the wind of their passage. Chal saw Rose look at her, and used a finger to push stray wisps of hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear.
“Maybe we’re going too fast?” Rose said.
That made Chal laugh, a sound like water over rocks. The speed of the pirogue increased.
Forcing her lips into a line to prevent a smile, Rose faced forward again. She resisted the temptation to row faster, because that would only encourage Chal further. Sometimes the girl could be such a … a … little girl. Not for the first time, Rose wondered if this was what it was like to be a parent. And not for the first time, she regretted the thought. Because she would never know.
You ever seen a pregnant gunwitch? The question rose from the past to mock her again.
Rose gritted her teeth and stopped that line of thought. Now was not the time. What was done was done.
The pirogue went faster. The rushing water nearly pulled the oar out of Rose’s hand.
She gave up on rowing, braced the oar on the bow in front of her and looked back at Chal again. The wind whipped loose strands of Rose’s hair across her face and pulled against the metal clasp that held back the rest.
Chal met her gaze and laughed.
In spite of herself, in spite of bad memories, in spite of the unexpected and unwelcome summons from General Tendring, Rose laughed as well. She could not say precisely why she laughed. Whatever the reason, the laughter was a welcome release. Even if it lasted only seconds.
As her laughter subsided, the pirogue settled into the water again, its speed diminishing.
Rose faced forward again and resumed her needless rowing. “I’m just trying to protect you,” she said with a quick look back over her shoulder.
Chal’s teeth flashed in a smile. “And I you,” the girl said. “The waters move the boat, so you row to hide what they do. The storm clouds follow you. So I help you outrun them.”
“Some storms you can’t outrun,” Rose said.
Chal’s smile turned rueful, and her apparent age matured, the little girl gone. Rose did not know how old Chal was. In their five years together, companions in the bayuk, scouts leading and protecting ambitious colonists to the frontier, the girl would never give a straight answer to the question. “I am a child among the children of the world,” Chal would say. Or, “I am not so old that I cannot dance in the rain.” Mostly, though, Chal would only laugh that bubbling laugh of hers and look mischievous and even younger. Rose judged the girl to be no more than twenty, maybe as old twenty-five. Maybe young enough to be Rose’s daughter. If Chal had been born half a world away. If …
Rose turned to face forward again.
Behind her, Chal sighed. “The storm clouds still follow.”
Rose did not reply. She focused on keeping her rowing steady. Left, right. Left, right. Focus. Concentrate. Repeat. The mantra from her instructors. In repetition there is concentration. In concentration there is focus. In focus there is power.
In focus there was no memory. No lost child. No lost innocence. Only the oar in her hands, the water of the lake, and the companionship of Chal.
With focus, though, also came increased sensitivity. Now, when her paddle dipped into the water, Rose could feel the subtle shiftings that created the improbable current that pushed the pirogue along. Magic, not unlike her own, but she did not know how Chal did it. The subtlety of the moving current belied the power invoked.
With her pistol, Rose could make a man explode at five hundred yards, further if she had a scope and properly measured powder. Then she could do a right-face and engulf a small building in flame or rip out its supporting walls. But all of that seemed insignificant to what Chal did so easily from the back of the pirogue, directing the currents of a lake the size of Lake Patrizio. Rose needed concentration and her pistol. Chal seemed to need only a laugh and a whim.
More than once Rose had speculated on how she might move the waters the way Chal did. At first you do not know what you can do. Then you know. Then you do. More words from her training. The corporals at the King’s Coven did not teach the conscripted privates of the 101st Pistoleers. Rather, the corporals demonstrated what was possible, sometimes on the privates, then insisted that the privates duplicate their results. But in this Rose had chosen not to know or to do. She knew and had done much that she wished she could forget and undo. She would not pry into Chal’s native secrets. She preferred the mystery. She had not asked Chal who or what the native girl was running from, hiding from. And Chal had never asked her the same questions.
The lake water, so blue after the murk of the bayuk, became dirty again as they neared the city, but dirty in a way very different from the shallow streams of the bayuk. Here sunlight gleamed a rainbow along the oily surface and highlighted floating trash and debris. Other boats, pirogue’s like theirs, as well as rafts and barges and fishing boats with sails or outboard paddles and belching smokestacks spread from the city’s lakeside docks and piers.
Rose maintained her pretense of rowing as Chal threaded a path through the other boat traffic. She only stopped when they approached an open berth on a mostly empty pier. A few other pirogues had been tied up to the pier, and a dilapidated barge was being unloaded. She stepped out of the boat to the dock and tied off. She looked around as she pulled her pistol from her belt to check its load.
None of the laborers or slaves unloading the barge paid her or Chal any mind. But the big foreman barking orders in a mixture of German and English paused midcurse to stare at her.
Rose returned the man’s stare, blank expression in response to leer, then inspected her pistol. Satisfied that the load and the priming were still dry, she pushed the runecarved muzzle into her belt again and turned her back on the foreman. In the pirogue, Chal picked up Rose’s rifle and tossed it up to her. Rose caught the rifle with both hands and automatically checked its load. Also still dry. She adjusted the strap so the stock would not hit her legs as she walked, the
n slung the rifle over her shoulder. Trained and disciplined as an infantryman in the King’s Army, Rose had often wished she was as tall as one, as well.
“Well well well.” A man’s voice, thick with a German accent. “What is this? A couple of savage beauties?”
Rose turned around. And looked up. The foreman was even bigger up close. She smiled and put her hand nonchalantly on the butt of her pistol. Then dropped the smile and pulled out the gun. The foreman was not looking at her. No need to be subtle if he was watching Chal.
“Mädchen!” he shouted over Rose. “Be careful. You will tip it–”
He watched in shock as Chal walked down the center of the pirogue, then leaped to the dock. Rose did not have to look to know the boat had scarcely shifted. And had certainly not tipped over. Chal refused to go into water, whether river or lake–and never the ocean–not even up to her ankles, but boats on those waters did what Chal told them. Even without the boat, though, Chal turned men’s heads, drew their attention away from more pressing dangers.
Rose stepped up to the man and poked him in the ribs with the muzzle of her pistol. She did not bother pulling back the hammer. She hoped he would just back off and let them go. It was already hard enough to get work in New Venezia. Men had a difficult time hiring a woman who could–and had, in front of multiple witnesses–beat a man senseless with just the butt of her gun, her bare hands, and a pair of dirty moccasins. She doubted the foreman was looking to hire a scout to guide his barge through the bayuk, but people would talk. And, judging by the size of him, she was not sure she could take him alone. She was an inch or two taller than the rifle she carried, but he was another twelve inches taller still. And at least three stone heavier. At least.
The pistol pulled the man’s attention from Chal. He looked down at Rose. “Now now now,” he said, backing up, “there is no reason to being hasty.”
Rose stayed close, moving with him as he stepped away, keeping the pistol pressed against him but letting it slip down until the muzzle rested against the man’s heavy belt buckle. Now she cocked it. The man’s face went pale and he stepped back again, this time trying to twist away. Rose still followed him, pushing the muzzle hard into his stomach, forcing him further back until he teetered on the edge of the wooden platform over a short drop to the water. “We’re in a hurry,” she said. “Versteht?”
“Ich–I–yes.” His eyes moved from her to behind her, then back to her.
Rose nodded and resisted the urge to push him off the dock. She turned her back on him. As she expected, Chal stood to one side, cradling her short-barreled cavalry rifle, stock in the crook of her right arm, hand resting near the trigger, barrel only coincidentally pointing at the center of the big man’s chest.
Chal smiled at her and Rose smiled back.
“Hunde!” he yelled at them from behind as they walked away.
* * *
Rose and Chal walked along the pier and through the busy docks, ignoring the catcalls of the laborers and the sullen glares of the slaves. They stepped around the steamgrunzers that loaded and unloaded the larger seagoing merchant vessels and filled the air with the white hiss of steam, the black smoke of burning coal, and the clank-thump-clank-thump of heavy gears and metal feet.
They walked through the lakefront quarter of the city, where the wooden structures of the original natives and first wave of Italian settlers still predominated, though under the looming shadows of steel and concrete put up by the German and, more recently, English trading companies. They pushed through the crowds of sailors, soldiers, rivermen, colonials, and natives to reach the wide street that led to the front gate of Fort Gunter.
In the heart of New Venezia, away from the docks, two more women generated little notice. Even one with a long rifle and another with the high cheekbones and smooth dark skin of a native queen. The crowds thinned as they neared the fort, though, and they stood out again, two women entering the world of men.
On a flat parcel of cleared ground before the fort’s main gate, a line of wargrunzers stood awaiting maintenance, idle, with only thin steams of black smoke leaking from their high-mounted smokestacks. A group of mechanics had removed the arms from the first wargrunzer, and were reboring the cannon arm and recalibrating the loader arm. The torso stood near the mechanics, a temporary double amputee but still standing more than twice as tall as the tallest mechanic. Unlike the other grunzers, who seemed to be inactive, the head of the grunzer being serviced turned back and forth with a clicking of gears, looking first at the mechanics, then at the other side of the field. Once it looked at Rose and Chal, then turned its blank “face” back to more immediate matters.
Across the field from the wargrunzers and the mechanics, sergeants and corporals drilled colonial conscripts and volunteers under the watchful eyes of a leftenant.
“Company halt!”
“Left face!”
Rose felt her muscles flexing, remembering the responses to the shouted commands.
“Present arms!”
On a whim, Rose stopped resisting and brought her rifle around and held it in front of her. She adjusted her step and her pace to match the cadence of the callers. She saw that she had drawn the attention of a few recruits.
“Shoulder arms!”
She shouldered her rifle and kept marching. Out of the side of her eye, she saw Chal beside her standing straight, balancing her carbine on her shoulder, parodying Rose’s high marching step. And she could see that even more of the recruits had noticed them. Or noticed Chal, at least. So had the leftenant. He leaned over to the master sergeant and gave instructions.
“Right face!” bellowed the sergeant.
In ragged lines the recruits turned their backs on the women. The leftenant scowled at Rose and Chal, then turned his back on them as well.
* * *
Rose, rifle again slung over her shoulder, presented herself to the sergeant on duty. “Rose Bainbridge,” she said. She resisted the urge to give him a salute. “Scout,” she added. She pulled the folded summons out of her blouse and handed it to him. “Here at the request of General Tendring.”
The sergeant took in Rose, her worn cotton and buckskin clothes, and her similarly attired native companion, and managed to express extreme annoyance and displeasure, all without moving a muscle on his lined face. Then his eyes landed on the regimental badge bent into a bracer on Rose’s right arm. The metalwork tracery, once bright red, was now faded with age and soiled with sweat and dried blood, but the badge still plainly showed the crossed musket and lightning bolt of the 101st Pistoleers. The sergeant raised one eyebrow, ever so slightly.
“Right,” he said. Then looked away and muttered, “Bloody witches reunion.”
“What was that?” she asked. Then added, “Sergeant?”
The sergeant turned back to her, met her eyes. “Private Donalsonne will take you to the General,” he said. Then added, “Mum.”
A man who had been standing against the wall behind the sergeant snapped to attention and came over. He saluted the sergeant, then turned to Rose and Chal. “If you will follow me, please, Mum.”
Rose held the sergeant’s gaze for a few seconds more, but she learned nothing from his gray eyes. She indicated to the private to lead on. A witches reunion? The King kept the 101st Pistoleers, what the rest of the army called “the gunwitches” or just “witches”–and sometimes, usually out of earshot, “the bitches crew”–in England, though sometimes the small groups of gunwitches were detached to the Continent. But never to the Colonies. At least, not while they still wore the uniform. Rose put her hand on the butt of her pistol. Beside her, she felt Chal pick up on her new tension.
She and Chal walked side by side behind the private. The private did not look back.
Around them, men in red uniforms went about the duties of the fort. The men noticed the women, of course. Military discipline, and proximity of officers, kept the catcalls at an almost subvocal level. Still, men would nudge their comrades and indicate Rose and Ch
al with nods of their heads or even outright pointing. Only a few noticed Rose’s regimental badge. But those who did, she knew, spread the word. No catcalls from those men. Just furtive whispers of “gunwitch”. And those who heard the whispers stopped leering. Some turned away, crossing themselves. Some spit into the dirt. But none of the men they passed acted as if they had seen another woman from the 101st.
Rose ignored the insults, just as she ignored the catcalls.
A reunion meant more than one. More than just her. In his summons, though, General Tendring had not mentioned another gunwitch. How many of the 101st had she ever heard had been brought to the New World? Five? Six? Of those, Rose was the only enlisted. And of those, only three had come over in the last nine years.
Who could it be, the other gunwitch? Or gunwitches. It had to be someone like her, who had been dishonorably discharged and transported in lieu of execution. Witches had not been burned at the stake in Jolly Olde England for more than seventy years. But neither a renegade witch, nor an uncooperative–or no longer cooperative–gunwitch of the 101st would be allowed to run free. And it was impossible to hold them in prison. A gunwitch who did not want to be held was very difficult to hold. That did not leave many options. Specifically, it left two. Beheading or transporting.
General Tendring had been a Colonel when he commuted the sentence of Master Sergeant Rosalind Bainbridge. Usually only officers were transported, out of deference to their rank, not mere sergeants. The colonel had spared her from the headsman after her defiance and revolt only because she had saved his life at the Battle of the Seine outside Paris.
Rose tried to relax her grip on her pistol, but her fingers would not cooperate. Not since she had stepped on the deck of the boat that transported her to the Colonies, and then had walked off that boat and into the bayuk had she felt like this. She was scared–but this time scared of what she knew, not the unknown wilds of the Colonies–and the gun was the only comfort available.
Gunwitch Page 1