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Waterfall

By Lisa Tawn Bergren

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An excerpt from CH 1:

It was real.

I was in the middle of a real battle. Suddenly I could smell the stink of sweat and coppery blood, all around me. Men were wounded or dying. Others seemed dead set on bringing the rest to the end of their lives. I glanced left and saw that one wasn’t battling any longer; instead, he stared at me as if I were a female Lazarus, emerging from the tomb in my grave clothes.

I wanted to look away from him, but I couldn’t. He was the most handsome guy I’d ever seen, with a model’s physique and a face to match. Big, chocolate-brown eyes, square jaw, aristocratic nose, pronounced cheekbones…a serious hottie.

I’d never encountered such Italian hotness outside of Roma.

And he was certainly the first man I’d seen holding a real sword and in full-on knight gear—tunic, tights, breastplate, the whole enchilada. Somehow, he made the look work—

It was then that I noticed the young man behind him, equal in height but a little narrower at the shoulders. His eyes were hard, shifting from me to the man before him. He raised his sword as if to strike. “Look out!” I screamed.

The first man frowned and then, as if remembering where he was, turned, pulling his heavy sword from the ground and heaving it in an arc around to parry the other man’s strike. My mind immediately moved from the silly explanation I had come to—that this was some sort of Renaissance faire battle reenactment—to again attempt to absorb the truth.

These men were fighting to the death. Why? Just what was going on?

The question died in my mind as I caught sight of that castle in the distance, the one on the next hill that had been such a disaster when I’d first sighted it. It was no longer in ruins. The walls were erect, the tower intact. Crimson red flags waved from the battlements, in designs that matched the second knight’s coat of arms, visible on his shield as he raised it to deflect the first knight’s repeated blows.

My eyes went back to the castle. It was as if I’d traveled back in time. Impossible. I was dreaming. I had to wake up.

Wake up, Gabi! Wake up!
…

The knight was coming closer. I retreated until my back hit up against the curved wall. I fought for an idea, an escape route out of this terrible nightmare. Madly, I thought about dashing back into the tomb, but he’d be on me in a second.

This was no dream; my attacker was real, leering, scanning my body as if he had never seen a girl in pants. I paused. Maybe he hadn’t. Suddenly I was aware of my skinny jeans and my cami top, barely covered by a thin cardigan that reached my elbows.

He laughed, lowly, and was now close enough for me to see he had green eyes. And really bad teeth. He lifted his sword tip, studying me as it reached my throat. There was no rounded nub, as with the fencing swords my father and I used. This was broad and so sharp I feared he would actually cut me. I stayed as still as possible. But it was hard. I was shaking pretty badly.

He asked me something in Italian, but in a dialect that made me pause for a moment. Slowly, my mind translated. “Are you a witch?”

“A…a witch?” I returned in Italian, frowning.

“A witch,” he repeated. “I saw you. Saw you come out of there. And your clothing…” He moved forward, changing the sword from tip to side at my throat in order to keep me in place, and allow him closer. He reached a hand up to my hair. “Your hair. No one allows their womenfolk to parade around as such. Are you a witch or are you a Norman?” He spit out Norman as if it were a foul word, referring to the French to the north.

“I am no witch. I am from—” I clamped my lips shut. He wouldn’t believe me if I told him. “Look, you big jerk,” I said in English, finding strength in my frustration. “You don’t want to know where I’ve come from. It’d freak you out. It’s freakin’ me out!”

He leaned back, as if surprised by my anger and confused by my odd language. But then he turned, sensing the man stealthily approaching him from behind. I’d tried to distract him—had been moderately successful—but these men were trained soldiers. That was clear enough. He met the knight’s heavy strike, barely deflecting it from slicing his head like a melon.

I had to get out of here.

A hand clenched my forearm, and I let out a yelp, but then quickly swallowed it. It was the first knight in gold that I had seen. Even more handsome up close. But his eyes were no longer soft in wonder. They were hard, staring down at me in consternation. “Venga,” he said gruffly in Italian. Come.

I looked across the field and saw the crimson knight, wounded, his arms draped around two of his men. He glared at me and the knight beside me, then shouted. The man, my attacker, immediately broke from the other golden knight and retreated to join his comrades. My protector’s knights let him pass, unhindered, other than sending him verbal taunts. The battle was over, for some reason. The others mounted their horses, all draped in scarlet, gave us long looks, and then rode away.

I looked to the men who now surrounded me, staring at me. Suddenly I felt weak-kneed. I was now under the protection—or was I the prisoner?—of the dudes from the gold castle.

“I hope you’re the good guys,” I muttered.

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