Black Moon Draw(76)

He had dismissed the warnings as improbable out of what appeared to be sheer pride, for no one had ever taken the hold at Black Moon Draw. Tomorrow was the full moon, which meant his kingdom fell the day after, taking with it the entire realm, engulfed by a curse he had no way of stopping without the battle-witch.

The other thought torturing him was one he did not entirely expect.

His battle-witch left his side and protection willingly. He offered her the kingdom – and she left him. Was it her prediction that he died in the upcoming battle? A sign she did not share his feelings? Or was she acting out of fear for her own safety, mayhap frightened by the idea of facing the curse?

Why did it matter why she chose to leave?

For the second time in recent days, he experienced a cold jolt of what could only be fear.

It seemed impossible for him to have been so thoroughly routed before the battle with his enemy even began. With no army and no battle-witch, a city void of people, and two days before the end of the world, his chances of saving his realm had never seemed bleaker.

Determined, he swallowed the desperation creeping into his thoughts and began to think about what advantages he still held.

I will go down fighting. There was no longer any reason to maintain what restraint he had.

His resolve lasted until he set foot into his hold and saw the empty streets of his home. He had ventured thrice before to his city. Knowing what was there did not make it easier to visit. Dismounting, he stood on the smooth stone road leading from the gate into the heart of his city, dread settling deep into his soul, rattling him in a way he had never experienced.

The streets were silent – but not empty. Men, women, and children – frozen in place the day the battle queen placed a spell upon the realm – crowded the streets, merchants’ alleys, and domiciles of the city. A hundred thousand souls and not a one of them were alive.

He wove among them, taking in their features in the moonlight. For a thousand years, they had been statues, waiting patiently for their ruler to rescue them. From the tiniest babe held against her mother’s bosom to the guards on the wall, each was perfectly preserved in the white stone of the cliffs.

Not even a small contingent of living men guarded a haunted city filled with stone inhabitants. No one living had occupied the city for almost a thousand years, the magic contained in the hold at its center turning anyone who remained more than a day or two into stone. Any man who managed to escape before then went mad, and no one who entered the hold at its center had ever left.

The seat of Black Moon Draw had been abandoned for a thousand years, waiting for the Shadow Knight capable of ending the spell that held it in its grip.

The Shadow Knight was halfway to his hold when he noticed something that made him halt in the middle of a frozen crowd of his subjects. He turned all the way around to survey his surroundings, his gut twisting and chest constricting.

A hundred thousand people, his people, would perish in two days.

The cliff top hold had never been breached by an enemy, let alone taken. It was built to withstand years of attacks, needing only a small amount of men to hold the fortress. But there was only his sword – and the dangerous magic at the core of the hold that spewed out deadly fog.

The realm would be destroyed long before he had a chance to save even one life. A thousand years of fighting ended here, with the last Shadow Knight.

If his army were present, he would not hesitate to take the fight to his enemy. It would be over quickly, for the Desert Knight did not know Black Moon Draw the way his men did.

He turned his gaze to the heavens, shrouded by fog. The sensation he had experienced earlier in the day – hope – was gone. He was not long for this world and never meant to see the blue skies.

A thousand years and he was so close to saving everyone.

A thousand years and he was about to lose everyone.

Raw emotion pierced him and suddenly, too late, he knew what he wanted after the war and curse ceased to exist.

He also knew it no longer mattered, that the reason he never thought beyond the end of this era was because some part of him innately knew he would never see the dawning of the next.

His focus settled on the fortress at the center of the city, the source of fog and the heart of the curse. The witch was right. There was a time for battle and a time to try aught very different than battle. Failing to defeat his mortal enemy, he still had a chance to face the curse the way the Knights before him had tried.

As he strode towards his hold, he went over what he knew of the interior, especially the chamber at the bottom of the uppermost, highest tower, from whence the fog spouted. Sword sheathed, he shoved open the wooden doors of the fortress meant to be his home and broke into a run, sprinting through the castle before its deceptive walls and hallways could rearrange themselves.

The purple haze was visible the moment he turned down the long corridor leading to the tower entrance. Still, he did not stop, too aware of time slipping away. The Shadow Knight reached the door, breathing hard.

The source of the curse, of evil, of the destruction of his realm lay behind the door. The hallway was colder than the ocean air, the fog dense enough it was difficult to breathe. A thousand years culminated in this moment. His body pulsed with raw energy, his teeth clenched hard enough for his jaw to hurt.

He placed his hands on the door and pushed.

It did not budge.

Bending, he nestled his shoulder against it and tried again.

No movement.