Black Moon Draw(7)

“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.





Chapter Four





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.”