Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) (18 page)

“Aye,” I say. “And would again.”

He lunges forward, swinging the war club down toward my skull.

I miss the attempt easy enough, but he surprises me with a second blow.

The strength of his fist grazing my cheek rattles my brain and causes me to stumble.

Two Ravens laughs.

My sight dizzy, two of him approach me though I cannot rightly determine which one is real and the other his shade.

He kicks my stomach, finishing the job his fist did not. It steals the wind from me, leaving me gasping, crawling upon the ground.

“What hope did you have to defeat me, woman?” he asks. “I told Mercy you were weak. Now you will die for it.”

He raises his war club to end me.

A shadow knocks him down.

Two Ravens falls beside me with Ciquenackqua atop him, the younger brave plunging his dagger into the seasoned warrior like chipping a hunk of ice free of the river.

Ciquenackqua rolls away, and me with him, before Two Ravens might land his hands upon us.

Two Ravens struggles to his knees, his breath labored and wheezing.

“Look at me.” Ciquenackqua holds his father’s war club.

But he spoke the command not to me, his gaze homed on Two Ravens.

“Who are you, boy?” Two Ravens asks. “That you would kill Two Ravens like a woman? Attacking from behind.”

“I am Ciquenackqua, son of Whistling Hare, and you die at my hands today.” He looks on the war club. “And by my father’s weapon.”

Two Ravens laughs. “You don’t have the stomach for it. I saw you run—”

Ciquenackqua swings the war club with such precision that he near cleaves the head of Two Ravens.

The man who took my father falls to earth, his skull caved in, near the same as it were done to Sturdy Oak.

Ciquenackqua drops the war club and takes a knee. His shoulders trembling and breath panicked for air.

I think to go to him when another rifle barks.

My sight swivels in search of the sound. There be no witch or brave left alive, though dead aplenty.

As for my own people, Creek Jumper limps toward us. Blood streaks his chest and face, though whether it be his own or that of his enemies I cannot be certain.

George yet holds Hannah in his arms, rocking as I left him earlier.

Then I look to the trade cabin.

Andrew sits upon the porch, his arm bleeding, eyes lost in a fog of war, and his head leaning upon a post as the cabin blazes behind him.

My sight falls on Bishop’s cabin, and the kicked-in door.

Fear grabs hold of me at the memory I left through the window.

Inside, a hooded figure moves from one side of the cabin to the other.

I am on my feet and sprinting without thought to what lay inside.

A witch greets me the moment I enter.

I fell her easy enough with a slash of Father’s dagger, ending her with the tomahawk.

It is the witch standing beside Bishop’s table that halts me.

The one with her knife buried in his gut.

“Lass…” Bishop wheezes, coughs up blood. “Kill this bitch for me.”

Then she shoves him backward, tipping his chair to crash upon the cabin floor, pulling her crimson-coated blade free.

Mercy grins at me. “Shall we dance again, white squaw?”

I fly at Mercy, screaming curses, raining blow after blow upon her.

She meets them with her own, knocking mine astray or else dodging them.

The few cuts I connect with and the pain escaping her lips fuel me, as do the few blows she gifts me back. Each of them fills me with rage.

“I told you to kill me when you had the chance,” says Mercy.

I rush her anew, our blades singing upon one another until she again kicks me back.

“I lent you my witches to fight,” she says. “And this is how you repay me? You are a traitor to your vows, girl, just like that scheming coward Mary Warren.”

The mention infuriates me. I duck beneath Mercy’s swing, and catch my tomahawk to her ankle, jerking up and slicing her tendon.

“Ahh!” Mercy yelps, falling to her knee.

I kick her in the back but do not move to end her.

“Get up,” I bid, relishing her pain.

Mercy flies to her feet. She swings her blades, slicing an inch from my nose, missing.

I butt my head into hers and watch her stumble back.

Dropping to my knee, I whirl my tomahawk and catch her other ankle. I jerk up and hear her scream as the edge cuts her other tendon.

Mercy growls on the floor, dropping her blades and feeling for her ankles.

“Get up,” I say.

“Are you soft in the head, girl?” she asks, panting for breath.

“Get up.”

“No,” says Mercy. “I think I’ll lie here and wait for you to kill me—”

“Get…up…”

“Just like your cripple sister.”

My mind goes blank, my vision blazing red.

When my sight returns, I find Mercy’s blood and mine soaks the pair of us so that I cannot discern which of us suffers the greater wounds. Her howls tell me she bears the brunt of them.

“Kill me…” she begs. “K-kill me now.”

I shut out her pleas, thinking of how she turned a deaf ear to Sarah.

Movement in the corner draws my attention—the Wyandot hostage watching me. He shrinks as I rise from Mercy, blood staining my arms and neck, and step closer to both the tipped chair and Bishop’s body.

The old man’s eyes flicker as I kneel beside him, taking his head in my lap.

“Are ye the banshee?” Bishop asks. “Come to sing me home at long last?”

Tears drip down my cheeks as the singsong tone I well remember in his storytelling has gone, replaced by a voice weak and faded. I look on his wounds, and see his breaths slowing, each one taken with great effort.

“No,” I say. “It is I, your favorite…Rebecca. Remember?”

“Rebecca?” He blinks. “I-I don’t…Augh. Aye…I remember now. Did ye hide the wee poppets, lass?”

I cry harder at the realization of his words, thinking he must remember me now as the little girl I was, one scared of the attacks that would come. I recall how he put aside my fears with his gentle voice and once assigned me the simple task of hiding my poppets to occupy my mind.

“Did ye…did ye keep them safe, then?”

“No,” I say, thinking of Sarah and Sturdy Oak, Hannah and Numees, even Father. “I-I could not keep them safe.”

“It’s all right, dear.” Bishop pats my hand. “We’ll find a place…a place for them. Don’t ye worry now…Pr-Priest will help ye.”

His mention of Father’s name bids me cry harder.

“He is gone, Grandfather,” I say through my tears. “Th-they took him too.”

“Don’t worry, lass…he’ll be back,” says Bishop. “Good lad, him. Even if he is a…mouthy bastard. Always comes back, he does.”

He trembles in my arms.

“I’m cold, dear,” he says. “So very cold.”

I leave his side and find his bearskin, lay it gently over his body up to his shoulders.

Bishop smiles at my touch and his gaze wanders before settling upon my face. “Are ye the banshee?”

I rest my forehead upon his, my body racked with pain, my spirit breaking.

“Come to sing me home at long last?” Bishop asks.

I pull away, knowing what I must do.

“A-aye,” I say, stroking his hair. “I am the banshee.”

He grunts. “Funny, that…thought ye’d be older. Ugly. Instead ye…ye look like me favorite granddaughter…R-Rebecca.”

“Do I?” I sputter the words.

“Aye,” he says. “Will ye grant me one last wish, love?”

“Any—anything.”

“Sing,” he says. “Sing me to sleep. Then take me home…I’d have me a pint with St. Peter…and see me poor Annie again.”

My mind struggles to think of a song. I stare into his grizzled face, and sing the one I know best. The one he sang to me many a night when I would cry out for my mother and father, frightened that Hecate and her witches would come take me also. I open my mouth, and then begin his song.

Come, fair lass, just you and me.

We’re bound for them colonies, far o’er the sea…

“Aye, sing,” he says softly, his head nodding. “Just sing…”

I wet my cracked lips and continue, though my throat runs dry.

‘Augh, no,’ she said. ‘You stubborn old fool.

I’ve heard of those lands, and them savages cruel.’

So the Lord took pity and sent me some cheer,

Reb—

My voice quavers, and I fight to continue his lullaby.

Rebecca’s her name, the pretty little dear.

‘Come, lass,’ says I. ‘Let you not fear no witches.’

Your grandpappy’s here—

His head dozes upon my arm as he breathes his last breath.

My tears fall upon his brow, my voice catching in my throat.

And he’ll kill them bitches.

I collapse upon Bishop, my chest heaving as I take in his smell, willing him hold me one last time, knowing it can never be again.

Mercy groans upon the floor. “Kill me…”

I do not stir from Bishop and cannot rightly guess how long I sit with him, only that I recognize my body and soul numb when the sound of footsteps crosses upon the porch.

Ciquenackqua’s face turns ashen seeing me with Bishop. “Rebecca, I…”

“Leave me…”

“We are surrounded.”

I glance up and, seeing Ciquenackqua serious, I lay Bishop’s head gently upon the floor and leave his side to learn the truth of Ciquenackqua’s words. Stepping over Mercy’s hand that reaches out for me, I peek out the open door.

Near a hundred native braves encircle the trade post, all of them armed.

My mind warns I should be afeared at such a sight.

I sweep the thought aside with numbness, leaving Ciquenackqua to stand upon the porch as I reenter the cabin. I look on Mercy, then to Bishop, and finally on the Wyandot hostage. The ringed-tail tattoo upon his chest draws my attention, turning my thoughts to my
manitous
and the path it has led me down.

“Rebecca—”

I point to the Wyandot hostage. “Bring him outside, Ciquenackqua.”

I kneel beside Mercy, grip her hair in my hand and jerk on it that she might look up and know me.

“Do it,” she says. “Kill me.”

I stare into her eyes and, at long last, I understand the silence with which Father shields himself. Knowing now he wears the mask not out of mourning, but hate. Strong enough it needs no words to convey.

I yank Mercy to her feet, and lead her out, forcing her on even when her wounds stumble her.

“Come,” I say to her, my voice steady and cold. “I will not be slowed by a cripple.”

“Rebecca, wait,” she says.

The sight of George yet clutching Hannah’s body bids me hasten Mercy along faster.

I lead her to the middle of the yard where Creek Jumper stands, watching the braves around us. He squints in wonder as Ciquenackqua and I lead our hostages toward him, halting together that all might witness.

“You don’t know…what you’re doing,” says Mercy. “Hear me, Rebecca. I—”

“Are those your people?” I ask the Wyandot hostage, pointing to the braves around us.

Creek Jumper repeats my words in the foreign tongue.

I need not hear the hostage’s reply to understand my assumption right.

“The Wyandot are not our enemy,” I say, raising my voice loud for all to hear. “Nor are the Iroquois. My enemy is the white devil in Boston, the Reverend Cotton Mather. He who sent this woman and her kind to kill my family.”

Creek Jumper repeats my words in their tongue, and the braves look upon one another when he finishes.

I cut the Wyandot brave free of his bonds, then push him away.

He looks on me oddly, as if suspecting a trick.

Instead, I face those surrounding us.

“We give this man back to you. Let him speak the truth of my claims, for I would not war against you this day.” My voice rises as I walk to Mercy. “But I will slaughter any who comes against my family!”

I kick Mercy to her knees. My fingers close tighter around her hair, my nails digging deep in her scalp. I yank her head back and look down into her eyes, bringing the edge of Father’s dagger to her forehead.

“A kindred spirit indeed.” Mercy spits the words, her eyes wild and defiant as they stare up into mine.

I glance up at the Wyandot warriors. Feel them watching me, waiting.

“No.” I stay my hand, though feeling the blade hesitate upon her scalp. “I am not like you, not a savage, nor butcher of innocents. I am of the people.”

“Your people are weak,” she says. “And will be wiped from the histories.”

“Perhaps,” I say. “But you will never see it.”

I lower my dagger to her throat, and feel her tremble.

“Rebecca, no—”

I scream her quiet, shutting my ears and senses to Mercy and everything around me. I live in my pain and lose myself to the blood lust and hate for all who took those I held dear.

When my senses return, Mercy lies dead at my feet.

I look to the braves, and observe not a few nervous glances among them.

“I am the daughter of Black Pilgrim!” I shriek at them. “And I do not fear. Let you learn the strength of my spirit.”

I issue a war cry, long and sharp, meeting their stares, my gaze unwavering.

“Come for me.” I wave Father’s dagger at them. “Come and learn well what befalls those who cross us. Or befriend us now and let me end this white devil who plagues us!”

The hostage we released returns to his people. My blood no longer runs hot at the idea of a fight. Emptiness engulfs me.

“What should we do if they come down on us?” Ciquenackqua asks.

I look on him blankly. “We die.”

I stand by my companions and wait.

But the Wyandot do not come upon us.

Instead, they slip away, back into the wilderness, disappearing.

“Do they mean to trick us?” Ciquenackqua asks. “Where are they going?”

Creek Jumper steps forward, the bones in his necklace rattling. “They find us worthy of life.”

“No,” I say. “They know us already dead inside.”

I leave my companions, and walk to Mercy’s body. As I look into her eyes, I will the hate in me to return, the desire to mangle her body further.

Nothing rises in me. Nothing stirs.

Not until my ears prick at the sound of women’s voices, coming from the woods.

I hesitate, swearing someone calls my name.

“Who is that?” Ciquenackqua asks.

A native woman runs from the wilderness toward us, her raven hair streaming behind her.

“Numees…” I say.

I sprint toward her, noticing others follow her from the woods. Women and children, a few of Ciquenackqua’s younger friends, and all familiar faces.

I beat both Ciquenackqua and Creek Jumper to the survivors of our village.

Numees and I crash into one another, embracing, weeping, touching each other’s faces as if we both doubt the other real.

Ciquenackqua runs past us, lifting his mother off her feet as he reaches her. He twirls her around and cries as he sets her gently back to earth.

“Mother,” he says. “Mother, Father is—”

“You are alive, my son,” she shushes him. “That is all that matters now.”

Creek Jumper kisses his wife. She touches his wounds, her face pained at the sight of them. He merely shakes his head and draws her close.

“Rebecca,” says Numees. “I thought to never see you again.”

“And I you.”

I embrace her again. I look around those from my village, searching for one other face and not finding him.

“Numees,” I say. “Wh-where is my father?”

Her hesitation stabs at my heart.

“After learning of your escape, Two Ravens and his men dragged your father to the river.” She shakes her head. “Two Ravens returned—”

I wilt in her arms, falling to my knees.