Black Moon Draw(29)
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.