Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) (10 page)

Father raises a single finger to his lips, ushering me silent.

I lean back to the tree, listening to the scratching sound of his blade upon the bonds holding me. The constriction around my wrists loosens, bit by bit, until the last of them breaks. My arms fall limp at the sudden freedom.

Father places his guiding hand beneath my arm and helps me stand.

Tears sting my face as I throw my arms around him. My body heaves as I pull him close and feel his strength wash over me when he returns my embrace. I struggle to keep him near when he releases his hold and pulls away. He looks me in the eye with a tenderness that tells me I need not speak of Sarah’s fate.

My mind floods with questions at the sight of him injured also. Deep cuts line his body and one wound upon his chest yet bears a broken arrow shaft.

He uses his hands to speak with me, motioning we must be off southward.

I look over my shoulder toward the campfires, my thoughts going out to Numees.

Father shakes his head when I glance at him.

In my heart, I know him right. We two cannot risk rescuing all our people, especially not with he injured and me worn from travel. The thought of leaving her to torment and slavery tears at me though and keeps me from leaving.

Dried leaves rustle by the tree, and Mary snorts awake.

“Wh-who’s there?” She asks.

Father pulls at my arm and jerks his head that we should leave.

“Rebecca?” Mary asks. “Is that you?”

She struggles against her bonds.

“
Rebecca
,” she hisses. “Speak to me, girl.”

Father wastes no time in yanking me away.

“Don’t leave me,” she near yells. “Rebecca. Please, come back!”

Father leads me into the forest. We leap over fallen logs and sprint through brushes that tear at my skin.

Men shout behind us and horses whinny.

“Rebecca!” Mary calls.

I glance back, spying lit torches and hearing new voices.

Both gift my legs new strength.

Father stops of a sudden, and I near tumble beside him. He motions for me to head right, then pushes me off.

My pulse quickens when he goes the opposite direction, knocking his blades against the trees. Running over dried leaves. Making his presence known to all creatures of the forest.

I chance another look over my shoulder and witness the torches veer in Father’s direction. A few continue on toward me.

Father howls a war cry, and the few meandering torches right themselves toward him.

I hesitate to move onward. My thoughts torn between what Father would have me do and the thought of losing him.

The sounds of scuffling fill the air—blades clashing, and the screams of those in death’s throes.

I wheel about, running in the direction of the torches, then skulking in the shadows as I near the battle. I find Father encircled by not a few braves.

Several others lie twitching near him.

Blood flows from Father’s open wounds, yet still he fends them off, making each pay with their lives for any misstep.

A brave passes near me without noticing my presence. He lifts his flintlock, taking aim at Father.

I grab a nearby rock and leap from my position and dash his head in. I waste little time in stealing his knives, then take up his rifle also. I swing its aim to bear. Smoke fills the air before me as I shoot dead a hooded witch come up behind Father. I drop the rifle and leave off, knowing the smoke gives away my position.

I keep to the shadows, sneaking upon any who chance my path, taking two more braves in the same manner before the scuffling halts.

I look to Father and see he yet stands, the braves and witches backing off him.

Then I understand why.

Swinging Whistling Hare’s club in practice, Two Ravens steps toward Father.

Jeers rise from those around them as both men square off.

Helplessness pangs my gut at learning us far outnumbered. Though the many are distracted, my conscience warns I might take only one or two before the others make an end of me.

Instead, I am forced to watch as Father and Two Ravens battle.

Several times, I think the larger warrior’s swing will be the end of Father, yet always its stone edge catches naught but air. And for every swing Two Ravens makes, a new wound is made upon his body.

Father’s tomahawk and long knife dance in such a way to distract the eye of any who watch. Twice he makes Two Ravens pay for biting at his feints.

My hopes rise, witnessing the anger plain in Two Ravens face. He again mistakes his strength for victory when he brings his club down in a swinging arc.

Father catches it between his blades, twisting the club from his enemy’s grasp, then knocking his head against Two Ravens.

The rival champion stumbles back, and I near shout when Father hooks his ankle, tripping him up. With a feral cry, Father raises his tomahawk high to end Two Ravens.

Someone yanks my hair back and presses a cold blade’s edge upon my throat.

“Alden!”

The shout in my ear near deafens me, but Father stays his hand. Turns to learn who called him by his true surname, his face awash with anger. Upon the sight of me held captive, he tosses both his weapons aside with little regard.

“Walk,” Mercy whispers, then guides me closer to Father.

Two Ravens climbs to his feet. He picks up the war club and raises it to cave in Father’s head.

“Wait.” Mercy bids him. “His life is worth more than all the captives you have.”

Two Ravens lowers the club. “Why?”

“You know him as Black Pilgrim,” says Mercy. “And I once called him Priest. Only later did I learn his truth. His father were an Alden, and his family has long plagued my adopted father. Let him live now and profit from the bounty on his head.”

Her words and voice strike an odd chord in me. She speaks in such a way that lends me to believe she knows Father well.

Two Ravens kicks Father in the back, knocking him into the dirt.

“Bind him,” he commands his braves.

“Stop!” I cry.

“Aye,” says Mercy. “Do not harm him.”

The braves do not listen. Each falls upon Father like vultures on a carcass.

Despite it all, he endures their rough treatment wordlessly.

“I said leave him be,” says Mercy, shoving me into the arms of a hooded witch and slinking toward Father.

Two Ravens meets her in the middle. “We take no more orders from you, woman.”

“You defy me?” she asks.

“I have always defied you,” he says. “But in silence until this night. He is my prisoner.”

“You should be dead if not for me,” Mercy hisses. “He stopped only when hearing me call his name.”

“Then you should not have named him,” says Two Ravens. “And he would belong to you still. It was Two Ravens who fought him. He belongs to me.”

Mercy looks on Father and chews her lip.

“Let you name your price then,” says Mercy. “And my father will pay it when I arrive in Boston.”

“Your money and father mean little to me,” says Two Ravens. “The white slavers will pay me enough for our captives. As for Black Pilgrim, I will gift him to our newest nation in friendship.”

“You would give him to the Tuscarora?” Mercy asks.

“I will,” says Two Ravens. “Their hatred yet burns great for that night long ago when he killed their people and your witches. And I hear others are angry with me for raiding without their leave.” He points to Father with the war club. “His blood will heal the wounds of all and earn me honor for his capture.”

Mercy draws close to Two Ravens, her finger grazing across his chest.

“Perhaps we can make a trade,” she says.

Two Ravens laughs. “You have nothing left to offer, witch. I have no wont for your Devil’s powder and my braves have little need of your women now that we have captives. As for your offer”—he bats her hand away—“what man desires more of the soured fruit he has already tasted?”

Mercy shrieks and swings her blade.

Two Ravens catches her by the wrist.

Mercy’s witches hurry to her aid then retreat when Two Ravens’ braves step toward them.

He looks to his men. “Get him up and ready the others. We leave now. I’ll not wait for this murderous witch to kill me in my sleep.”

Mercy rises, her gaze flitting between Father and Two Ravens, his braves and her witches.

“Let me speak with him,” Mercy says, her voice pleading. “Please.”

Two Ravens glares at her. “You think me a fool? That I should let you kill him before my eyes?”

I pull back when Mercy throws her weapons aside, and I witness the same confusion in Two Ravens.

“Why should you wish to speak with him?” he asks.

“Because,” her voice flutters, “I would speak with my husband one final time.”

My mind reels at her words, warns she misspoke.

“Husband?” Two Ravens asks.

“Aye,” says Mercy. “Though he left me long ago…and with child.”

I look on Father, expecting him to rage at such blatant lies, but when he meets my eyes there be no denial in them. No anger. Only shame.

Two Ravens steps aside, motioning Mercy over to Father.

Tears well in my eyes as she kneels beside him, brushes matted and bloodied hair from his brow.

“F-forgive me,” says Mercy to Father. “I had not thought it should ever come to this.”

Father says nothing in reply, yet he does not look away.

“I have missed you so, Priest,” says Mercy. “You were ever the only man to keep my affection. Will you speak now? Tell me why it is you left me with child, never for me to see you again until this day?”

I wish he would denounce her claims, name her liar and spit on Sarah’s killer.

He gives only silence.

“I knew you for a rogue when first I took you into my arms,” she says. “And hate has long burned in my heart from your leaving. Yet as I look on you now, I know that I should make the mistake again for the child you gave me. Will you not ask about h—”

“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?”