Black Moon Draw (12 page)

“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?

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.

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.

As with every land he conquered, the perpetual gray fogs of Black Moon Draw had begun to roll across and cover the skies. It was his legacy and curse never to see the sun over his kingdom. He had long since stopped seeking magic solutions to the fog, for no witch or sorcerer yet had been able to break the curse on his family line. He grew accustomed to being shrouded in shadows. On nights like this, he found the light of stars and moon to be excessively bright without the gray fog to dampen their shine.

“A great battle won, and she does not eat,” his second reported, standing with a wooden plate in hand. The nightly stew went untouched on her trencher.

“He can’t tell me what it is,” the witch said, eyeing the lumps of meat covered in gravy.

“What does it matter?” the Shadow Knight growled.

“Mayhap this is more of her food magic,” his second said. With a dark, quick sense of humor, his master-at-arms kept his spirits up on the days when the fog threatened to sink them.

“’
Tis a good one,” the Shadow Knight replied with a wry smile. “Mayhap she will cast a spell so none of us will need to eat and we can move faster across the battlefield.”

The wolf-headed man chuckled.

“Fetch the box.” The Shadow Knight motioned his head towards his tent, where he kept a secret store of edible delicacies.

His second obeyed, and his eyes went to the battle-witch.

She was pale, her voluptuous body trembling despite the thick cloak she wore. She watched him with haunted eyes, her discomfort plain. She did not like his boar’s head. He wore it as much for the way it enhanced his senses as because it scared men in battle. It was an extension of him, like the sword at his back. He reached up and removed the boar’s head, sensing she was in shock.

What did he do with a battle-witch that did not want to go to battle? She was too valuable to release from his service. He could not risk other kingdoms taking her, in case her magic manifested later. But he also had little time to train her and hope she became powerful enough to help him.

Why had his dreams and the legend of the curse claimed she was the last of the great battle-witches, the one who would guarantee his victory across all lands that were supposed to be his?

They gazed at each other, the witch looking at him in a combination of fear and resentment, while he debated what to do.

“M’lord,” his second returned with the box.

The Shadow Knight accepted it. “Go.” Aware no one among his men would dare disturb him, he knelt beside the battle-witch.

She shrank away.

“Eat.” He held it out to her.

With an expression of dread upon her pretty features, she took it and opened it. Her frown softened. She reached in and withdrew one of the sweet cakes made in White Tree Sound. The Red Knight sent a steady supply for his sisters. They were flat and round, decorated with dried fruit and drizzled with honey. Sweet cakes had won his battle today; maybe they would help her accept her world faster.

“Thank you,” she murmured, withdrawing one. She handed the box back.

“I cannot have you starve,” he said. “An army can ill-afford to waste food, but if the nectar of queens is all you will eat, I will have it brought.”

She sighed and nibbled on the sweet cake. “I’m sorry. This is new to me.”

“So ‘tis.”

They studied one another. Pink rose in her cheeks and she turned her gaze towards the fire. Situations were rare where he hesitated to act. This woman was different. Worse than a page new to battle, she had no understanding of war, the kingdoms, his world, and he had no real experience guiding him with where to start.

“You won a battle. How are you not happy?” he asked finally, bewildered by the tears she shed this day.

“I don’t like hurting people,” she whispered, troubled. “How many men did you kill today?”

“Less than usual,” he mused. “You slowed me down.”

“Barbaric.” She shivered. “What happens to the ones who remain?”

“They are given a choice of serving me, slavery, or death.”

“What do most choose?”

“Depends on the kingdom. There have been whole armies that chose death.”

“How awful.”

“Necessary.”

She lowered her gaze to the fire. “Because you have to save the rest of their kingdoms.”

“Finally you understand aught.”

“I understand everything,” she replied, bristling. “I’m not an idiot.” Her cheeks flushed. “What I don’t get is why you can’t try a different approach. You have a noble cause. Surely –”

He held up a hand. “I shall not humor this discussion again,” he said sharply. “Do you think a thousand years of Shadow Knights did not try every other way possible to prevent what comes?”

“A thousand years is so long. How do you know a peace summit won’t work?”

“I have nine days to do what my predecessors did not. ‘Tis too late for peace.”

She rested her cheek on her knee, studying him. “What happens after they all submit? The curse breaks?”

“I go to the castle of my forefathers and confront the magic within.”

“Then it’s over?”

“Not quite. Three knights have gone before me into the castle and either gone mad from the curse or disappeared. I must fight one last battle for my kingdom. ‘Tis the greatest of all the battles.”

“It sounds so noble yet so . . .” she trailed off, clearly disturbed by all he told her.

“If you are not here to be a battle-witch, why are you here?” he asked with some agitation, at a loss as to how she was supposed to help him win a war.