The Shadow Knight says nothing.
I've been wired since waking up here, a nervous sort of energy that makes me feel eternally caught between wanting to cry and wanting to eat. Breathing in his scent and tucked against him, though, I start to relax, even if I'm on top of a horse getting ready to go to battle. I don't really know why, but I'm nowhere near as scared of him as I was reading about him.
I'm even less scared in battle knowing he somehow manages to slaughter entire armies and survive unscathed. If there's anything I know of this bizarre world, it's that I want to be at his side when the fighting starts.
He's huge, fierce, and yes, very overbearing and uncivilized the way he goes around chopping off people's heads. However, I have to admit, I didn't think he'd react this way to me, with what patience a man like this has. He didn't seem alarmed at my claim of being from another world like the Red Knight was. If anything, I think he's trying to figure me out the way I am him.
Not that I'm complex. I'm just . . . not of his world.
The man with the white flag returns. He's wearing the head of a squirrel. With a shake of the furry head, he slows and continues past us.
"They refuse to surrender." The Shadow Knight sounds satisfied about this. "Now I will wipe their army out of existence."
"Have you tried telling them why they need to surrender?" I ask. "I'm sure they'll be reasonable about it."
"Then you know less about this world than I first thought. There is no reasoning with an enemy."
"Why not? Maybe one big peace summit would fix this."
"You speak nonsense, witch." He nudges the horse forward and reaches back with one hand, withdrawing a massive sword from its sheath at his back. The scrape of leather and metal scares me. "My forefathers spent nearly a thousand years seeking other approaches, leaving me with nine days to conquer."
The sword is wider than my hands together at the base, the razor edge sharpened to the point it's nearly transparent. The seconds are ticking down on my hand. If I didn't have a front seat to battle, I might understand this approach.
The lines of his enemy are starting forward at a run.
"I'm sorry it came to this and more sorry you have to be the way you are," I murmur.
"I am sorry for neither, witch. My only regret was not finding you many years ago."
I understand why he's fighting without wanting to be a part of it. "This is the only way," I say doubtfully, struggling for some explanation that'll help me cope with what's coming.