Black Moon Draw

by Lizzy Ford

  From the neck down, he’s a man in every way I can see, from his very human hands and fingers to normal shaped feet in boots.

  But his head . . .

  “What are you?” I ask.

  He’s watching me closely with his round panther eyes, his jaw open in a noiseless pant. He hasn’t moved out of his crouch, as if he’s trying to figure me out the way I am him. “You are from the edge of the world?”

  “I’m pretty sure I’m not from here.” I gaze around in confusion. “This isn’t heaven, is it?”

  He laughs, a strange, half-growl, half-guffaw.

  I take a step back.

  “Black Moon Draw has never been mistaken for heaven,” he replies.

  Black Moon Draw?

  “Oy!” someone shouts from the bridge.

  I turn, gripping my head again at the sudden movement. A man – a normal man – is standing in similar clothing in the middle of the bridge. His tunic is white and bears the symbol of a tree on it.

  “Will you be claiming that witch?” he calls to the man with the panther head. He has a Cockney accent I have trouble understanding.

  “She’s on our land!” The panther-man snarls, standing. “You would be wise to heed my warning. If you cross that bridge, none of the gods will stand between you and my master!”

  The other guy is hanging out in the middle of the bridge. It’s clear he’s not going to cross it and I don’t blame him one bit.

  “Did you say Black Moon Draw?” I ask the panther-man.

  “Aye.” He glances at me then returns his golden glare to the man with the tree on his shirt.

  “No, really. Black Moon Draw?”

  “Aye.”

  “Terrifying, isn’t it?” the man on the bridge calls. “White Tree Sound is at peace and ruled by a man nothing like the beast of Black Moon Draw.”

  “My master is not a beast!” Panther-man retorts.

  My ears are buzzing and I’m starting to think I either didn’t wake up or I woke up in hell.

  “Is your master the Shadow Knight?” I ask. “The one with a boar’s head who knows no mercy and chops off the heads of pretty much everyone he meets?”

  “Aye.” Panther-man says with a hint of pride.

  “He’ll deflower and kill you. Come to us and we will treat you well. Our last battle-witch was made a lady and died of old age,” the man on the bridge yells.

  At least, I think that’s what he says. His accent is heavy enough I’m filling in some of the words.

  Black Moon Draw. Shadow Knight. Battle-witch.

  I rack my brain. There must be a reasonable explanation for what’s going on. Perhaps I didn’t wake up from a weird dream? Or did my misery turn into an all-out break with reality?

  It’s all I can think of. I can’t remember most of last night after cracking open a second bottle of wine. This place certainly seems real, from the cool mist settling into the trees to the freak show beside me.

  But it can’t be real. If I were going to be dropped into a book, it’d be Pride and Prejudice or, better yet, Fifty Shades of Grey, both of which contain civilized worlds with Heroes who only need their Heroines to make their lives complete. From what I read, this nightmarish world is plagued by death and war. Why would I be here of all places?

  The two are arguing. I’m having difficulty making out their words and more trouble standing. I sink onto the ground and stare, dazed, confused, horrified. There’s a tiny voice in my head telling me that if I thought my life was bad before, it just got a helluva lot worse.

  Panther-man clasps my shoulder and kneels before me.

  I blink his animal face into focus and recoil.

  “I claim you in the name of the Shadow Knight of Black Moon Draw. Do not cross Blue Star Bridge. They will deflower and kill you.” He places something heavy and cold in my hand. “This will grant you safe passage through our kingdom, should you need it. I will not be gone long.” He stands and leaves.

  It takes me a minute before the sensation of wanting to faint passes. I’m clutching a black jade or obsidian medallion with strange carvings strung on a thick, worn piece of leather. Studying it, I’m trying not to be weirded out by how heavy and real it feels, as if this whole place isn’t a flimsy dream that’ll dissipate soon.

  How can this be real? I’m perfectly sane, or thought I was. Psychosis brought on by mental trauma sounds more likely than I’m stuck in a book.

  “M’lady.” Another voice calls from the bridge.

  Looking up, my gaze lingers.

  Wow. Dressed in a rich red cloak lined with fur, the brunet man on the bridge has the chiseled features of a model. He’s smiling, a perfect, white, even grin, that renders him boyish, charming.

  “I’m the Red Knight of White Tree Sound. I rule all of this.” He motions to the forest beyond the bridge. “I would like to invite you into my lands and home.”

  I really hope Prince Charming has a castle. It figures I have to go to a fictional world to find the perfect man.

  “I think I’ll stay here,” I reply. “In case I can go home.”

  His eyebrows lift. “Home is Black Moon Draw?”

  “Oh, god, no. Never. From what I know of that place, it’s hell.”

  His brow is furrowed.

  I swallow hard. I’m not going to cry, at least, not until I’m fully convinced this isn’t a dream or psychotic break.

  “I would encourage you to cross the bridge,” he says. “Before the Shadow Knight comes to claim you. We are in need of a battle-witch. You will be safe and protected.”

  “Battle-witch?” I’m thinking hard through my headache to recall what LF wrote about the mysterious women that the warriors of this world believed could predict and influence the outcome of battles.

  “Every knight-ruler in the realm has heard of your coming. The last great battle-witch,” he replies. “Come. We have food and clothing to warm you.”

  It’s kind of hard to say no. Jason definitely wasn’t a looker and I’ve never had a man this handsome give me the time of day. While I know nothing of his little kingdom, I do know that I don’t want to be here when the violent Shadow Knight shows up.

  Getting to my feet, I make my way through the grasses to the stone path leading across the bridge. I pull on the medallion Panther-man gave me, just in case.

  Just in case WHAT? I wake up in a different book? Get lost in the forest?

  Nothing is making sense right now, except that I’m definitely hungry and could use a blanket or warmer clothing.

  “No tricks? I’ll be safe?” I ask, pausing at the foot of the bridge.

  “You have my word,” the Red Knight responds quickly.

  Why not? Maybe this man is the elusive Hero I hadn’t yet discovered in LF’s book. Or maybe he’s the Red Herring meant to lead me astray or the Betrayer . . . How the hell do I figure it out?

  The panic bubbling within me makes my head pound worse. Whatever I think of the Red Knight, I at least know the Shadow Knight will probably behead me if he finds me.

  I walk and join the Red Knight in the middle of the bridge, pausing to gaze up at him. My gods – he’s utterly beautiful.

  “You will need new robes,” he observes, gaze lingering on my breasts. “You are in the correct color, but not the correct cloth.”

  Purple. I’m remembering more details now. The battle-witches of this world wear purple. The color is rare and only the elite seers wear it.

  What happens when they realize I’m not a battle-witch?

  The thought makes my head ache. I touch it gingerly.

  “You are unwell?” the Red Knight asks.

  “Drank too much wine last night.”

  “Ah. A common ailment.” He waves over one of the three men waiting in the area between the bridge and forest. “Come.” He starts down his side of the bridge.

  I glance over my shoulder, noticing for the first time how the mists hanging in the branches of trees on the Black Moon Draw side of the bridge are absent in White Tree
Sound. There are birds on this side of the forest, and it smells of pine. The forests are different – one alive and one dead – yet divided only by a stream. It’s sunny on this side of the stream, too.

  This is too weird. I need time to think or maybe to get rid of my headache first because thinking is too difficult right now.

  Trailing the Red Knight off the bridge, I pass the three guards waiting for him and follow him onto a deer trail. We don’t walk far and stop on a rustic road hedged by trees. There’s a shoebox looking, wooden wagon with four horses out front and a driver in the middle of the road.

  Another guy in white opens the door for the Red Knight, who sweeps off his cape before climbing in. I get in as well and sit opposite him. There’s a trunk between the two benches and a lantern hanging from the low ceiling in the center whose light doesn’t reach the corners of the wagon.

  The wooden benches are covered by pillows. It’s warmer in here and I rub my upper arms to help warm me.

  “’Tis a half day ride to my hold,” he tells me. “You are hungry?”

  I nod.

  He taps the trunk. The top slides off as if by magic and he reaches into its depths to lift a tray of food: jerky, cheese, bread, and whole fruit. There’s a pitcher and two stocky goblets as well.

  Another tap and the trunk slides closed.

  “Eat,” the Red Knight urges me. “The moon apple is a specialty of my lands.” He holds up a white apple.

  “Thanks.” I accept it and put it in my lap. I’m not much of one for apples. Bread, though, is my weakness, as evidenced by my thighs, and I grab a piece. “You said you’ve been waiting for me?”

  “Battle-witches are rare. The knight-rulers of our realm are sent visions or dreams when a new one is to come,” he explains with another charming smile. “The Shadow Knight has been eyeing my lands for many years. We are at peace, but I’d like to be ready.”

  What do I say to that? “I don’t blame you,” I reply awkwardly. I take a huge bite of bread and then a sip of wine. The bread is dry and hearty, the wine a little stronger than I’m used to.

  The carriage jolts into movement and I rock back, catching myself on a pillow.

  “His was recently killed,” he adds. “I know he is looking for a new one.”

  “What happened to yours?” I ask.

  “’Tis the fate for any battle-witch captured by an enemy. Deflowering and death. But mine died of old age since there has been no war in years.”

  “Deflower? You mean rape?”

  “Rape or seduction. Most battle-witches are young like you and fall for a handsome knight who brings them flowers. I barter such services to any kingdom that needs it. It’s how my coffers stay filled with gold and I stay on good terms with all.”

  He’s a damn gigolo. Why am I not surprised?

  “Why not just kill her?” I demand, not understanding the need to seduce a woman before lopping off her head.

  He laughs, like I’ve asked the stupidest question on the planet. “Because your kind can’t die! If I chop off your head, it’ll grow back by tomorrow morning. But you can lose your powers, if you are no longer pure, which makes you vulnerable.”

  I lower the wine. Do I make a joke about it being too late to be pure and risk him beheading me to prove a point, or do I play along and hope I’m never challenged to prove I’m a battle-witch?

  You wake up. That’s what you do. I close my eyes and will myself out of this mess.

  “They say if an ordinary man even kisses a battle-witch, his man parts will fall off. I have a certain immunity to such a fate,” he adds.

  Are these wacky rules made up by LF? Because they don’t make much sense to me. Have these people ever chopped off the head of an alleged battle-witch to test their theory?

  Opening my eyes, I’m not surprised to see I haven’t been magically transported back to my home. I start eating again. I’m guessing sleeping with the fine specimen of a man before me is off the table as well, though I’d rather not sleep with a man-whore in the first place.

  Unless he really knew what he was doing in bed, à la Christian Grey and unlike Jason.

  “The guards said you appeared last night,” the Red Knight says and leans forward, as if he doesn’t want anyone to hear his words. “You were not there and suddenly you were. From whence came you?”

  I sip my wine, once again at a loss as to how much I should say. The Red Knight is waiting patiently, his friendly, open features encouraging me. He’s not giving me the vibe I’m used to, that I’m about to be judged or made fun of.

  “From another world,” I reply honestly. “I don’t know where or how. I went to sleep there and woke up here.”

  “Someone sent you here,” he guesses.

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Let’s just say you’re not the first who’s been sent.” He’s frowning, his eyes moving to stare at some point in the distance.

  Is it possible the people of this world are aware of mine? How crazy would that be?

  “My head hurts so bad.” I can’t even entertain such a deep thought.

  He’s too distracted. “This world, is it magical?”

  A glance around reminds me these people don’t know what electricity is let alone the Internet. “You can say that.”

  He sits back, pensive.

  I eat quietly, uncertain what’s bothering him. The cheese is awesome, much better than the bread and wine. I’m not a fan of jerky and quit after choking down one piece.

  “What is your name, witch?” he asks finally.

  “Naia.”

  “Naia.” A flicker of surprise crosses his features. He shifts forward again. “You must not tell others of this magical world from whence you came or the person who sent you or even your name.”

  “Why not?”

  “A battle-witch, such as you are, is expected to have knowledge of the unknown and magic. But another world?” He shakes his head gravely. “You will be flogged or worse, put to death, for even mentioning it. And . . .” He pauses, as if not sure he should continue, before he does. “I’m going to track down the person who sent you. I don’t need others getting in my way.”

  Ummm . . . yeah, right. No book character can find its author, because they aren’t real.

  Listening and growing more confused, I’m surprised by the severity of his expression and the sudden way he’s looking at me as if he wants to feed me to Panther-man after all.

  It hits me then that this man, the Red Knight, is a warrior, one trained to lead men into battle and kill, even if his kingdom is at peace. It’s not like he’s a Starbucks barista or coworker at the library. He’s armed with a sword and knife and friendly – but dangerous. If he wants to track LF down, I doubt it’s to thank her for creating his world.

  “If you find that person, tell her to send me home,” I reply finally.

  “I shall,” he said. “In the meantime, listen to me carefully. When asked, battle-witches always say they are from the edge of the world. You and I know differently. No one else can know.”

  “I’m sorry.” It seems like the right thing to say. “I didn’t know. I won’t say anything to anyone.” I want to ask him if he knows he’s just a fictional character. By the look on his face, it’s not a good time to point that out.

  “And if you are asked by anyone, you are to tell them you were found on my side of the river. Do you understand?” His gaze is piercing, his face stony.

  “I think so.”

  “You must know so. I will ensure you never return home if you admit the truth to anyone.”

  Things just got real a little too fast for me. I nod and then find my voice. “I understand.” My heart is slamming into my chest, adrenaline racing through me as my instincts warn me of danger. It’s hard to keep in mind that none of this is real when he looks like he’s ready to stab me with a knife.

  The intensity around him fades and the smile returns. “I have never found a new battle-witch. I am eager to learn how well you predict
battles.”

  “Yeah.” My head is feeling better from the food. My appetite has fled. “Me, too.” It seems like the only safe answer and I start to retreat into my shell, the way I do around anyone else in the real world. I know the world of this book is dangerous. I’m starting to think it’s dangerous to me. “Um, do you know how I’m supposed to predict battles?” I venture.

  “My last battle-witch would look at her hand. When there was aught to share, she shared.”

  I glance down instinctively at my hands. To my surprise, there’s something on my right palm, written sloppily in a maroon Sharpie.

  “Can you see it?” I ask, holding out my palm to him.

  “I cannot. What does it say?”

  Maybe I am a battle-witch. How weird would that be? Squinting, I study the writing. It appears to be moving, scrolling like the ticker at the bottom of a news station. Beneath it is a digital clock marking days, hours, minutes, and seconds.

  “There’s some sort of countdown,” I say, watching the seconds tick down. “What happens in about ten days?”

  “The end of this thousand-year era,” he replies.

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “It should be neither.” He’s rubbing his jaw, gaze growing distant. The tension is back in his frame, a sign I take as bad.

  “Should be,” I repeat.

  “If it ‘twere any other era, aye.”

  If television and movies have taught me anything, it’s that countdowns are never good.

  “What else is there?” he asks.

  “It says there are others seeking me who will attack you before the fork.” I reread it, puzzled. “Does that make sense?”

  Across from me, the Red Knight has gone rigid, one hand on the hilt of his sword. “Are you certain?”

  “Yeah. Why? What’s wrong?”

  He reaches back and slaps the wall of the carriage twice. “The fork is less than a candlemark from where we found you.”

  I have no idea what a candlemark is – a measure of time? distance? – but judging by his reaction, it’s close, and that’s bad.

  The wagon stops quickly enough that I barely catch the cheese that comes hurling at me.

  “You mean they’re coming now?” I ask in alarm.