Black Moon Draw (3 page)

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.

“Stay here.” He shoves the door open to the wagon and leaps out, slamming it closed behind him.

The Shadow Knight of Black Moon Draw hunched over the map of his kingdom. The positions of his army and those of his greatest enemy were marked, and his second-in-command stood beside him, quietly observing the familiar process. The mists that had covered his kingdom for nearly a thousand years clung to his dark clothing.

He tapped one spot and then leaned away, ready to roll the map to keep the fog from smearing the ink.

“The battle of Brown Sun Lake will be great indeed,” he said with satisfaction.

“You do not wish to wait for your battle-witch?”

“My dreams told me naught last night. I cannot wait. We will move into position.”

His loyal second said nothing, and he considered the routes of approach and egress, knowing how advanced his enemy was. It would be a battle the bards would sing about for a thousand years: the barbarian hordes of Black Moon Draw overthrowing the more massive, better equipped armies of Brown Sun Lake. His life had led up to this moment, each battle teaching him a new lesson, a new skill.

Finally, he was prepared, and with little time to spare. Once he claimed Green Dawn Cave and Brown Sun Lake, he would negotiate a surrender with the Red Knight of White Tree Sound, who preferred not to go to battle at all.

Only then, after the ten kingdoms of his realm were subdued, he would face his greatest battle.

“Message, sire!” a cry rang out from behind him.

He rose from his crouch to see who spoke. One of his most trusted messengers, a man with the head of a mule, ran from the forest nearby.

“From whom?” his second asked, meeting the messenger.

“Scout at Blue Star Bridge.”

The Shadow Knight strode forward, reaching them in two long steps, and snatched the satchel the messenger held up. He opened it carefully and pulled free the messenger bird from its depths. The golden finch perched in his palm, its black eyes darting around.

“What story do you tell, little bird?” he whispered the typical greeting of the messenger bird corps, a rare, elite breed of bird capable of transporting messages and delivering them mentally.

At his words, the finch began to sing, conveying short, excited bursts of information.

Witch at blue bridge.

The message was repeated over and over.

“Ah.” The Shadow Knight nodded in satisfaction. It was yet another sign he was meant to triumph at Brown Sun Lake, now that his battle-witch had appeared. “Wolf, fetch our horses. We return to the bridge now.”

His second sprang away. The bird began to sing a new tune and the Shadow Knight tensed.

Taken by white trees.

“I knew he was planning aught!” Handing back the messenger bird, the Shadow Knight trotted to his weapons and strapped them on quickly, prepared to claim his battle-witch no matter how deep into White Tree Sound he had to venture. A war with his neighbor wasn’t in his plans, but he was known for his brutality and lack of predictability in battle.

If he was late to the battlefield with Green Dawn Cave, so be it. He valued the key to defeating the curse over arriving for battle on time.

I always wanted to go on an adventure. Preferably one to the Bahamas or somewhere with warm beaches.

Nibbling on the last piece of cheese, I’ve spent the past half an hour debating whether or not being trapped in this book or dream – whatever this is – is a chance to be the person I wish I was, to make a go at starting over, and if it’s better for me to sit in the carriage and do what I’m told.

I stare at my hand, waiting for it to give some kind of guidance. Like maybe how to get the hell out of this dream and back to my world or at least if I should stay in the carriage or risk leaving. The words scrolling across my palm stopped after the warning about the fork, leaving only the countdown.

Suddenly, shouts come from outside the wagon. I can’t quite make them out through the wooden walls. They’re followed by a bloodcurdling scream.

“Looks like I’m leaving.” I replace the cheese and stand, eyes on my bare feet. I’d rather have on tennis shoes if I have to make a run for it and start digging through the contents of the wagon. A hooded cloak hangs on one wall, along with boots that are far too large for my feet. There’s nothing beneath the pillows on my side, so I go to the side where the Red Knight sat and rifle through the satchels and pouches tucked along one side.

Opening a leather pouch, I gasp. A living bird is shoved into the small space. “You poor thing!” I carefully push a hand into the bag and come up under the small creature. There’s not enough room for my hand to fit between it and the sides of the bag. The satchel is small and the bird the size of a softball.

Digging him out, I set him on the tray with food and watch him skeptically as he starts pecking at the bread. “You’ve got to be the fattest bird I’ve ever seen.” I don’t think it can fly, but maybe it can run away before the Red Knight returns.