Black Moon Draw

by Lizzy Ford

  The idiot has broken away from the edge of battle and is running – straight towards Green Dawn Cave’s back-up warriors, who appear to be waiting for the results of their first wave as it ploughs through Black Moon Draw warriors.

  “Hey!” I shout.

  It’s useless. The boy’s back is towards me. He’s barreling straight into armed warriors.

  I am so not a runner. I’m already breathless but force myself to go as fast as I can. My lungs soon burn, my arms heavy, and my legs like wood. Every part of me wants to stop, but I can’t let the kid who at least tried to protect me before get hurt.

  “Hey!” I shout loud enough that it hurts my throat. “Squire!”

  He hears this and twists as he runs. Spotting me, he switches directions, running a wide circle around to avoid his pursuers.

  Exhausted and out of shape, I stop and bend over, panting. This is reminding me of the year we had to run track and field events in high school as part of physical education. After my horrible performance, I was never asked to be on anyone’s team again.

  “Man . . . that kid can run.” The squire is rounding back towards me, far ahead of those chasing him, a hopeful look lighting up his face. His sword is gone. He reaches me, breathing hard, but nowhere near as spent as I am.

  “Witch, use your magic! You can blast them away!” he says eagerly.

  “Take my sword and . . . defend us,” I gasp. “I gotta catch . . . my breath.”

  With a glance over his shoulder, he obeys and takes up a position in front of me, the sword raised like a baseball bat. I’m no swordswoman by a long shot, but I don’t think that’s the way he’s supposed to hold it.

  How did I get the one incompetent squire in the army? Is this a reflection of what the Shadow Knight thinks of me? Shitty witch, shitty squire?

  “Witch, mayhap you should prepare a spell,” he advises.

  “Yeah. That’d be nice.” I straighten.

  The six men are almost upon us.

  “What would you think about running?” I ask, shuddering at the sight of their swords. I may survive a confrontation. The kid with me won’t.

  Whipping around, the squire takes my hand and bolts, all but dragging me with him. He’s strong for being so skinny; it’s me who slows us down.

  Someone collars me, grabbing the back of my dress and yanking me back. I tumble to the ground, inadvertently bringing down the squire with me. Rolling to my knees, I hold up the medallion.

  “Don’t make me use this!” I cry.

  The attackers freeze, indecision crossing the expression of every one of them.

  “Kid, come here!” I order the squire urgently.

  He complies, scrambling to me.

  “Our orders,” one of the warriors said to the others, clearly trying to convince himself as well as the others. “The witch dies!”

  “Do you remember the last battle of Green Dawn Cave, where the battle-witch annihilated every last member of the army?” the squire cries. “’Twas the greatest defeat in the history of our realm! She will do it again!”

  The men freeze in place once more.

  “Good job, kid,” I murmur. More loudly, I quote the Shadow Knight. “To speak of the past is to invite its reoccurrence!”

  “Do you recall how she did it?” the squire continues. “By boiling every man in his skin where he stood!”

  Yuck. Is that the type of thing I’m supposed to do as a battle-witch? What a painful way to die. I can’t see myself ever doing that, even now.

  A look around us indicates the men are still not yet convinced to leave us be.

  “Kill her quickly,” one says. “We must protect our men.”

  Shit. They took it the wrong way.

  The six close in around us.

  I snatch the squire and shove his body beneath mine the best I can, willing the shield at my back to protect us both.

  “You can use your magic,” he whispers hopefully.

  “I can apparently take a beating. Wait ‘til they chop me up then run, okay?”

  He gasps. “I cannot leave you! I shall die at your side!”

  Melodramatic much? “Look, kid-”

  “I have never bedded a woman or eaten a sweet cake,” the squire moans. “Now I will die without ever knowing those pleasures!”

  I almost laugh. The image of Red Velvet pancakes flashes through my mind and I silently agree that I’d love to have one more stack before dying.

  The first man reaches us. He raises his sword and I close my eyes, praying to pass out the first time they chop off something.

  The medallion grows hot at my chest. Electricity sweeps through me in waves strong enough to sting. I jerk and grab the medallion by its leather necklace, holding it away. It’s pulsing purple. “Goddamn that hurt!” I mumble. The sensation fades.

  Sneaking a glance at impending doom, I sit up.

  The six men around us are lying flat on their backs.

  The squire unfolds from his tight ball huddled close to the ground. His expression is dazed.

  The battlefield has gone completely silent. I look around, not comprehending what’s going on. Are we stuck in slow-mo again? If so, why did the men around us fall down? They simply froze in place before.

  The warriors of Black Moon Draw are standing around on the battlefield, their expressions ranging from baffled to triumphant, their movements at normal speed.

  Their opponents have vanished.

  The squire gives a loud whoop and hops to his feet, darting away.

  Climbing up more slowly, I take in my surroundings and spot the Shadow Knight in the center of the crowd. With a sigh, I start towards him, trailing the squire sprinting at full speed towards the knight.

  I trip over something and look down. There’s a Green Dawn Cave man at my feet, sprawled out and unmoving. “Omigod!” Cringing at the thought of stepping on a dead man, I yelp when his eyes fly open.

  He grimaces, wriggling and straining, as if he can’t stand up. The flattened man beside him is grumbling and cursing, the half a dozen beside him wriggling and grunting.

  Astonished, I search the knee-high grasses visually. Their entire army is flattened on their backs. Turning to face the direction the ill-fated squire had been headed, I’m shocked to see only horses where the army had been before. Light glimpses off sword blades and helmets as men squirm in the grasses at the feet of their steeds.

  What the hell happened? Puzzled by the strange sight of men sprawled out as flat as . . .

  Pancakes. My hand goes to the medallion. Did I somehow trigger this bizarre turn of events when I thought of pancakes?

  “How weird would that be?” Shaking my head, I face the way back towards the Shadow Knight.

  He’s almost reached me, the joyful squire at his heels. “Good, witch,” he says in approval.

  My mouth drops open. “What? I didn’t . . .”

  He glares at me, eyes gray with battle lust.

  “Sweet cakes!” the squire nearly squeals.

  “That’s what I was thinking of when it happened,” I admit.

  “Sweet cakes? In battle?” The Shadow Knight sheathes his sword at his back and pauses an arm’s length from me.

  “We were about to die. It was kind of like a last wish.”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s surprised right now. His eyes narrow and he rests his hands on his hips, intense gaze on mine. It’s enough to make me blush self-consciously. After a long look, he faces the squire.

  “Where is your sword?” he demands.

  “G-gone, sire.” The boy ducks his head.

  “’Twill not happen again.”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  Even I flinch at the dangerous tone. I can’t help but pity the kid. He’s not exactly cut out to fight battles. His ears are red with embarrassment.

  “He did his best,” I say, wanting to help the kid.

  “His best?” The Shadow Knight swivels his boar’s head in my direction. “You do not win wars by trying,
witch! You win by killing. The next time you decide to help me fight a battle, kill them! Save me the trouble of feeding slaves and paying for their journeys to the edge of the world!”

  Furious, he marches away.

  Ouch. That was totally not called for. You’re welcome, dick.

  The squire sneaks a look at me, a faint smile on his features before he ducks his head again. Waving for me to follow him, he leads me back towards the Black Moon Draw horses.

  Adrenaline starts to fade, replaced by fatigue. Not all of the men we step over are pinned in place. Some are dead, having suffered barbaric deaths at the hands of the Shadow Knight’s men.

  I can’t stand the sight of blood. One part of the battlefield is soaked with it, the ground squishy with mud created from the red liquid. Nauseated by the sight, I cover my mouth.

  I can’t do this. My heart hurts for these men, even if they wanted to kill me.

  The tears start when I see the pile of heads the Shadow Knight’s men are making, and I turn away.

  “What saddens you, witch?” the squire asks tentatively.

  “Battle,” I say, sniffling.

  One of his eyebrows goes up quizzically. “Oh.”

  “It’s okay if you don’t understand. I don’t like seeing people hurt is all.”

  He gives one of his half-nods, the one that makes me think I’m speaking a different language. “We are learning together, witch,” he says with the confidence of a teen that’s never seen how mean the world is.

  “Thanks.” I offer a watery smile. “I think I need to be alone.”

  He moves away obediently and I sink to the ground, mentally smashed by today. I really hope things here get easier soon. I thought my real life was rough, but this place takes it to a whole new level.

  How many men are dead?

  More importantly, are they real men or fictional ones? How can I live with myself if they’re not imaginary?

  Chapter Ten

  His newfound battle-witch proved too inconsistent – and scared – to be useful. Aye, she won the battle for him, but he had never heard of aught as bizarre as a battle-witch who preferred trees and was motivated by sweet cakes.

  The Shadow Knight did not know what to make of her. It was one thing for her to be a little nervous about her first battle. It was another thing for her to be opposed to war entirely. She had slowed him down on the battlefield by not killing their enemies. Live men required more effort and time to round up, count, feed . . . The battle was won in under a candlemark – and it took ten times that to organize the defeated.

  Now, after dark, he stood in the doorway of a tent on the savannah, overlooking the small fire where the witch and her squire sat. They were too far from the forest for the trees to provide them shelter, another side effect of the late battle, so they slept next to bonfires, beneath the stars.

  He had seen men react differently the first time they saw blood spilled. Most warriors were not naturally attuned to bloodshed, though some – like him – viewed it as an essential part of battle from the beginning. He was rumored to have been born with a sword in his hand and had never wept one tear for the slain. His sole purpose since that moment was to reclaim what had been taken from his family. He was the last of his bloodline that might succeed at breaking the curse before the end of the era. War was his life.

  However, many warriors went through stages of horror, grief, and anger when they first took a life or experienced battle the first time, and they learned to be stronger for the next. Eventually, killing became second nature and they no longer cared about seeing blood spill. He was lenient with pages and squires, unless they broke one of the laws.

  A very, very few men were ill prepared to be warriors at all. It was not in their temperament to witness death, physical ability to take a life, or – like the witch’s squire – had talents that lent them more useful in other areas of war. They became support personnel in his armies. From cooks to apothecaries to grooms, there was a place for even this type of man in an army.

  But a battle-witch with no temperament for war, who sobbed uncontrollably after winning a battle? It was unheard of. Every witch preceding this one had been bloodthirsty and cold, the way he was.

  Denial was a huge factor, he suspected. It was not unusual for warriors to go through such a stage. Clearly not of this kingdom, she was refusing to accept where she was, which left him wary for two reasons. If she was not of this world, as she admitted, then from whence did she come? Was she going to disappear before the end of the era the way she appeared?

  “M’lord.”

  And then there’s that. He stiffened and turned. Beautiful, regal, and the sister of an ally he needed, his betrothed was everything a Knight wanted in a queen. She wore green, his favorite color, and stood a short distance from him, head bowed in respect.

  She was trailed by her sister, a woman who trained with the warriors and secretly fought alongside them.

  “I wish to congratulate you on your victory,” his betrothed said, lowering the hood of her cloak.

  He stepped aside to let her into the tent. “The battlefield is no place for you, princess,” he reminded her.

  “My sister fights with your men and you are my future. Where else should I be?” she countered gracefully.

  He knew the words were for anyone who might overhear them, just as he knew he was unable to complete their bonding rite. The night he tried, she had broken down in tears and admitted a truth not even her brother knew.

  She was already secretly bonded to another man, one who was imprisoned by her brother, the Red Knight. A secret bonding such as this carried the penalty of certain death, a fate her brother would not hesitate to carry out.

  Despite his fury at being tricked, the Shadow Knight had kept her secret for a year, protecting her and the man she loved, only because he needed her brother as an ally.

  Now that he knew her brother was dealing directly with Brown Sun Lake, he began to think his mercy had reached its limits.

  “Has your latest victory convinced you to reconsider returning me, m’lord?” she asked quietly enough for the battle-witch and her sister not to hear.

  “Not yet.”

  “I have followed you for a year.” She appeared hopeful. “Is that not enough to assure you of my family’s loyalty?”

  If not for the curse . . . In truth he had been looking for an excuse to send her away without offending her brother. He was powerful enough that he did not need to explain his motivation to anyone.

  But short on time, he was counting on good will with her brother to grant him a quick victory over White Tree Sound, one of the three remaining kingdoms he had not yet subdued. Of all his enemies, the peace loving Red Knight was the most likely to fold to reason or, barring reason, would surrender if his sisters’ lives were threatened.

  “It is,” he allowed. “Upon the dawn of the new era, you will be free.”

  She smiled, relieved, and sat without invitation. He had found her a good listener during their year together, her womanly touch at camp among the warriors reminding the army why they fought so hard. “I am pleased you have a new battle-witch.”

  “A battle-witch is sacred. I cannot take her as queen,” he said curtly.

  “As queen?” She appeared confused. “Certainly not. You will retire her rather than continue this needless war after Brown Sun Lake falls to you, and return to your home.”

  He said nothing, registering what he had said. He had admired the battle-witch’s looks and spirit without giving any real thought to what happened to her once the war was over. That some small part of him entertained the unattainable desire of her becoming a warrior queen, like the great warrior queen who began the curse, struck him with some unease. From whence had those words come and more importantly – why had he voiced them?

  Ever since discovering the battle-witch, his thoughts had begun straying from his focus on his next battle, at least with regards to her.

  “I jest,” he replied.

&nb
sp; His betrothed continued to frown. “‘Tis a jest in poor taste, m’lord. She is a sacred symbol to every warrior out there, one that need be respected, her skin forever protected from the touch of a man. My sister would gladly share your bed, m’lord, if you need the company of a woman.”

  “I am aware,” he growled. Normally, he welcomed the idea of a woman who wanted into his bed after a battle, when his blood still pumped with victory and pride.

  Yet he had been careful not to seek comfort in the arms of the Red Knight’s sisters, not when he needed them for a different reason.

  “We ride early for Brown Sun Lake,” he said. “You need your rest.”

  Understanding the dismissal, she rose without another word, curtseyed and left.

  The Shadow Knight watched her go, resentful and frustrated. She represented a battle he had not yet won with a man who might have betrayed him. For now, his men regarded her as a symbol of hope and a peaceful future, and she was useful to him in that role.

  Unlike the inconsistent battle-witch, who was a symbol of war, a great curse, victory, – and the past. The two were opposites in nearly every way and alike in one: the beautiful women were keys to his submission of the entire realm, each in her own different way.

  Mind on the battle-witch, he left the tent for the cool night. Her squire was bent over a scroll in the firelight, carefully recording the events of the day’s battle. Wise behind his years, the squire had been taught at a young age how to read and write and remained one of the only three people in the Shadow Knight’s army who held that skill.

  He was an obedient yet shoddy squire, but it was his intelligence and patience that made the Shadow Knight assign him to his witch, in the hopes the boy might teach her a thing or two about their world.

  “Squire,” his growl made the boy jump. “Water.”

  The squire tucked his scrolls away and bounded away without another command, and the Shadow Knight walked forward.

  The night was cool, and he wore a tunic rather than go bare chested, his whip strapped to his hip and sword at his back. Arms crossed, he paused at the fire and looked up.