Old Magic (28 page)

He stares at me a moment longer, trying I think, to send some strength, but my drugged mind can’t respond or absorb any of it. He senses this, it makes him angrier still. I plead with his mind to forget me, sitting here. I’m just bait, I try to tell him.

“My nephew arrives,” Rhauk remarks casually, smugly. “A foolish challenge that will result in your death. Look at the sun, Jarrod. A beautiful dawn. It will be your last.”

“Brave words,” Jarrod replies with a calm confidence that takes me by surprise. Even in my numbed brain state, it makes me dare to hope. “From a man who sees the need to use a woman’s distraction to win a battle.”

The insult stings. Rhauk’s black eyes darken impossibly further. Everyone stills, not a sound from Richard or Isabel or the others, as if everyone is holding their breath. Rhauk visibly regathers his concentration. “Distraction is but a tool, my boy. Take this, for example . . .”

The hand at his belt lifts, palm up, fingers unfolding. Everyone waits. What trickery is Rhauk up to? Then it begins. At first I see only a glimpse of movement. I stare at Jarrod, hard. Surely, it can’t be . . . God, no. I blink, yet the vision only grows stronger. The moving shapes become more distinct. I gasp, attempting to draw a hand over my mouth, but the iron chains and my weary muscles make it too difficult. I give up to watch in horror.

Snakes. Scores of them are circling, weaving and hissing over the entire top half of Jarrod’s body. Some find their way around his throat, into his hair, lifting it. They’re everywhere, slithering down his arms, completely covering his torso.

I recall Jillian’s frightful vision. So this is what she foresaw. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to tell her. I also remember Jarrod’s repulsion. His fear of snakes.

I guess I expect him to run screaming insanely, and in that panic possibly run himself clear off the cliff edge into the cold, treacherous ocean. It might have been Rhauk’s intention. But this new Jarrod is calm, though I can see his green eyes deepen, the navy circles vivid and intense.

I almost panic myself, have to struggle not to scream out at him to do something. Morgana starts screaming, but Isabel hisses at her while Richard raises a threatening arm. She falls silent. But horror is written on all their faces. Even Emmeline, who stares with fixed wide eyes. Clearly, this is Jarrod’s battle.

But he can’t just stand there. A bite from even one of the foul evil creatures would probably kill him; Rhauk’s snakes would be full of lethal venom.

He begins to perspire. Beads of sweat form on his brow, run down the sides of his face, and still the snakes hiss and weave around him. One arches outward, shifting its long diamond-shaped head to look Jarrod straight in the eyes, its venomous fangs exposed in threat.

Only seconds remain before this vile creature will strike. I focus so hard on that one snake that at first I don’t see what the others are doing. Jarrod’s face turns a dark, dull red, and sweat pours out of him. The snakes begin to slide down his legs, their movements all hurried, like they can’t get off him fast enough. Even the one staring at him threateningly, suddenly turns away and slides down Jarrod’s leg to the ground, and into surrounding dry scrub.

I taste relief, almost pass out with it, and curse Rhauk’s lethargy drug. Jarrod, now free entirely of the wretched snakes, shrugs his shoulders as if he’s just resettling his clothes after a minor disturbance. Even his red face starts returning to normal.

He won the first round, I realize, but this is nothing to jump and shout about. He may have outsmarted Rhauk by raising his own body temperature to a point that made the snakes want to get off, fast, but now Rhauk is incensed. Jarrod made him look the fool.

“Do you intend to play games the entire morning?” Jarrod teases.

Rhauk’s eyes visibly narrow, his lips draw into a straight line. “So eager to die, Jarrod.” He bows, formally. “I shall be only too pleased to oblige.”

With this his shoulders lift, and though he too carries no sword, he reaches dramatically for a spot at his side, then straightens his arm, raising the other in a similar gesture, as if he’s suddenly holding a heavy weight.

My eyes, as those of everyone else, are riveted to the sight. What next? I wonder in alarm. A silver flash suddenly charges out from his clasped fingers—an explosion of energy, light, and intense heat, like a blast from a hot furnace. It hits me full in the face and jolts me backward. Beneath my legs rocks tumble, the cliff edge giving way. Using any remaining fragments of strength I can find I scramble forward, enough at least, to stop from dropping with the crumbling cliff edge.

Rhauk has produced a sword of his own invention. It has a sharp, silvery look, yet moves in seductive waves with red tips. It’s a sword of fire.

Jarrod, I realize sickeningly, is not looking at Rhauk’s sword at all. His eyes, widened with real fear, bore into mine. I’m safe, he finally understands. His face visibly relaxes, and Jarrod turns his attention back to his adversary.

But Rhauk snatches the advantage. Jarrod’s concern for me caused too long a hesitation. He did not produce his sword, and now Rhauk is charging at him with his eerie firesword.

“Jarrod!” a chorus of voices scream out. Richard, Isabel, Emmeline, and to a lesser extent, even Malcolm. Their concern is heartening.

Jarrod throws himself to the ground, rolling out of Rhauk’s way just in time to avoid the lethal sword tip. Sparks fly as Rhauk spins around, shrieking angrily. Black fire swirls, an occasional glimpse of hot steel revealing itself beneath the dancing flames.

Jarrod too spins around.

“’Tis not a fair fight,” someone calls.

“I don’t play fair, my lady,” Rhauk replies smugly. He’s enjoying this.

“Don’t worry, Lady Isabel,” Jarrod replies. And with these words he raises his hands, puts them together, almost as if he were aiming a pistol. But a pistol, though it would certainly give him the advantage, is out of the question. He knows this. We can’t introduce something that will not be invented for hundreds of years. It would change the course of history, something we would never intentionally do. Our presence here alone raises many questions, some of which we refuse to even think about. What effect will our time here have on the future? And if we die in this period, would we be reborn in our own time? No one knows for sure what might happen. We can only take what precautions seem obvious.

So I know Jarrod will not produce a pistol. He flashes me a quick warning; I prepare as best I can for the effect. He is creating his own sword. It erupts like a lightning strike, exploding, a mass of burning heat and energy. I bury my face in the dirt, hang on to the soil and bits of dry grass with my fingers, digging nails deeply into the earth.

A wave of intense heat washes over me. When it is gone I look up and see Jarrod holding a shining silver sword, blue-tipped flames dancing about it.

They meet in the center of the clearing. Swords clash, sparks fly. Some land beside me, one on my dress. I roll forward to put them out. As they continue to battle, sword against sword, fire against fire, sparks and flames ignite patches of the surrounding dry scrub. The gentle early morning breeze blows further life into the fires, which now crackle alarmingly, corroding like acid the frost-brittle grassy scrub.

As the flames grow stronger and find their way into the woody hillsides, the horses grow agitated. Richard orders their release. Malcolm, Thomas, and the other soldiers start working at putting out the runaway fires. They use anything they have, even their own tunics, not expecting something like this to happen.

Meanwhile Jarrod and Rhauk continue to duel, neither, it seems, aware of the fires they keep making with each clash of their swords.

All I can do is watch, helpless, pathetically frustrated. “Behind you!” I scream, draining my meager energy. Rhauk knocks Jarrod down, swinging quickly to attack from Jarrod’s rear.

Jarrod spins, still on the ground, as Rhauk lunges, screaming.

In my mind I see it all in a form of slow motion. Jarrod on the ground, Rhauk, sensing, tasting victory, lunges forward, his sword outstretched. It would have pierced Jarrod’s heart, Rhauk’s aim dead-center of his chest, if Jarrod hadn’t moved. But he wasn’t fast enough to avoid Rhauk’s sword completely. It pierces Jarrod’s side. Deeply. Bright red blood stains Rhauk’s sword as he jerks it out of Jarrod’s flesh.

I don’t have time to think about the depth of Jarrod’s wound. Worse than that, Jarrod is now on fire. The right side of his tunic goes up in flames. The nauseous odor of burning flesh hits me.

“Nooooo!” I scream uselessly, feeling the flames as if they’re attacking my own skin. “Someone help him!”

He rolls to the ground, putting out the flames. Richard runs straight over to comfort Jarrod, who is squirming in agony. I curse and curse the stupid chains at my feet and wrists.

He’s lying still now, with Richard kneeling beside him. “Come here quickly, wench!” he cries out to Morgana.

Morgana’s small body practically flies. She gently tugs the scorched fabric back. “The wound is deep. Worse than the burn. I’ll need to stitch it.” She shakes her head. “And even then, it will depend on blood loss.”

“Get away from him!” Rhauk motions with his fiery sword. “I haven’t finished yet.”

“It’s over, Rhauk, the boy is done,” Richard snaps at his half-brother. “Get ye gone.”

“This challenge is not over,” Rhauk’s powerful velvety voice booms, “until that fool boy is dead.”

I try to get up, but fall flat to the dirt. It’s a struggle to pull myself onto my elbows. “Leave him!” I plead, tears now uncontrollably pouring down my face. I can’t accept that Jarrod might actually die here. It will all have been my fault. I brought him to this time and place to fight a battle with a sorcerer that no one can beat. Jarrod never had a chance.

“No!”

The voice is Jarrod’s. He pushes Richard and Morgana aside as he staggers to his feet, in obviously excruciating pain. He clutches his wounded side. “I’m not done yet. We fight until death.”

I stare at him. Where is the clumsy gutless boy I first met, who paled at the sight of blood, and ran when confronted with anything that didn’t belong in his fanciful rule book?

Rhauk smiles slowly, sensing, smelling victory. He waves his sword at Richard and Morgana, who scurry back from the flames. “This won’t take long, boy,” he taunts mercilessly, and charges Jarrod with his sword.

Jarrod, his movements sluggish, still manages to side-step the blow. And to my surprise, and moreso Rhauk’s, manages a powerful retaliatory attack. Swords clash, more sparks and flames explode into the surrounding scrub, now well alight, and racing up both northern and southern peaks. Suddenly I realize both Blacklands and Thorntyne Keep lie in this fire’s path. I think of all those thatched cottages inside the keep, the homes of servants, tradespeople, soldiers, the chapel, the stables. They will all be lost, the moat not wide enough to stop the energy generated by this destructive, raging fire.

Richard’s soldiers, Isabel, Emmeline, and Malcolm with them, return from their exhausting battle with the runaway flames, their faces weary and flushed bright red from their attempts.

“’Tis hopeless!” Isabel cries. “Thorntyne Keep is lost.”

“As is Blacklands!” I cry out in Rhauk’s direction, remembering the shiny timber floors, thatched roofs of the once thriving convent, walls, benches, doors, and just about everything else that isn’t stone. It will burn well.

Rhauk flicks a quick glance over his shoulder toward his beloved Blacklands and visibly pales. “My tower!”

“It will burn,” I gloat, remembering the vast array of herbs and powders, oils and other liquids. I think of the curse. “And so will everything in it!”

Blood oozes freely from Jarrod’s side, his strength rapidly weakening. He can’t possibly hold up much longer. I don’t know how he does it, catches Rhauk somehow off guard. Perhaps Rhauk’s concern for his precious Blacklands causes a moment’s lull in concen-tration. Jarrod senses it, and takes the advantage. In one skilled display of swordsmanship, Jarrod disarms Rhauk, whose sword flies off and explodes where it finally lands.

Now Rhauk’s back is to the ground, while Jarrod’s knee presses into his chest, his arms held high as he balances his flaming sword tip just above Rhauk’s throat. All Jarrod has to do is lunge, and he has him. I wonder in this moment of truth if Jarrod can really do it. It will have to be a fatal lunge or there’ll be no point in us having come this far. The ultimate test of courage.

Rhauk tries to fling Jarrod off, but Jarrod is finding an inner strength that goes far beyond mortality. With an almighty scream, Jarrod raises his sword, both hands tightly clasping the hilt, and lunges it straight and true.

Rhauk screams—confusion follows. Jarrod’s sword explodes, sending him flying through the air. He hits the ground hard, lucky to escape the encroaching flames nearby, grabbing his side as more blood seeps out. I look for Rhauk but he isn’t there anymore. In his place are the fluttering, wildly beating wings of a massive black crow. It flies at Jarrod and beats wildly at his injured side. It knocks Jarrod back to the ground, and covers him. Jarrod tries to crawl out from beneath, but the crow is too close. I remember the same crow hovering over me, and I realize what it is trying to do.

“No!” I scream, beating the air weakly with my fist. “It’s trying to take you!”

Jarrod can’t hear me with the flapping of wings at his ears. Emmeline’s head shifts frantically from me to Jarrod, confused, while Malcolm’s green eyes go wild. He grabs his sword, and I panic, wondering what this traitor is up to, but am unable to move. “Jarrod!” he bellows.

Jarrod’s head swivels sideways to the sound of Malcolm’s loud voice.

“Here!”

Malcolm tosses his sword. Jarrod seizes it with his outstretched hand, and in one lightning move, lunges it into the Rhauk-Crow’s heaving chest.

The crow squawks a high-pitched sound as if un--believing of what just happened. After a pathetic attempt to fly away it transforms back into its human form and drops, half on top of Jarrod, Malcolm’s sword still wedged deeply in his heart.