“That is just my point.” Hastings waved a hand at the assembly. “There is no wizardry from the gallery. This is wizardry on the field. The rules do not speak to that.”
D’Orsay was at a loss for a moment. “Warriors are not supposed to be trained as wizards,” he said finally.
“That is not written either,” Hastings replied. He pulled a small volume of the rules from his tunic. The page was already marked. He read from the book. “‘The Game may also be played as personal combat between two warriors. Only hand weapons are to be used, including blades, slings, cudgels, mace and morningstar. The outcome of the match will depend on the weapons chosen, along with whatever personal talent, skill, and training the warrior brings to the match.’ There is nothing here to exclude wizardry. You have already ruled him a warrior. If he is, then Jack’s use of wizardry is perfectly legal.”
D’Orsay was still paging through the ancient volume on the table, as if he might have overlooked a passage that would save him. He finally stopped, stared at Jack, and then looked back at Hastings. His face was a study. It was clear that he believed himself the victim of a clever conspiracy. Jack was a wizard wolf in warrior’s clothing. The Master of the Games had been had, and now he knew very well what the outcome of the match would be. The Silver Dragon would prevail, and Leander Hastings would be Master of the Council at the end of it all.
Claude D’Orsay did not like being made a fool.
He smoothed his elegant coat, straightened his stole of office, freed the lace from his sleeves, taking his time. “Well then,” he said deliberately. “It appears we shall have to change the rules.”
There was a moment of silence, and then a great clamor broke out in the crowd, for and against.
Now it was Hastings’s turn to protest. “You cannot amend the rules in the middle of a match,” he said angrily.
“Where is it written?” Wylie asked mockingly.
“You must not,” Hastings repeated. “The warriors must fight under the rules as proclaimed.”
D’Orsay turned and consulted with the other judges. The crowd was on its feet, roaring opinions. Ellen stood holding her strange bouquet, saying nothing. Jack felt a little dizzy, and wished he could sit down for just a little while.
D’Orsay turned back to the sponsors. “By order of the Judges of the Field, in consideration of the current situation, we will amend the Rules of Engagement. There is to be no wizardry or use of High Magic by the players in the Game. Let it be so written.” Someone produced a pen. He opened the leather-bound book, found the last page, and scrawled something into it.
The light changed, as if a shadow passed across the landscape. A cold breeze sprang up, lifting the damp hair from Jack’s forehead and drying the sweat from his exposed flesh. He scanned the sky. A bank of clouds had appeared, rolling over the fells, a dark line on the horizon. They were a strange, gray-green color, the leading edge boiling like vapors from a nasty brew. A change in the weather was on its way.
Some of the judges cast their eyes skyward, but D’Orsay was unaware, or pretended to be. He pointed at Ellen, restoring her sword.
“If my player is using wizardry, then he must be a wizard,” Hastings persisted. “And if so, you must reverse yesterday’s ruling and disqualify him from the game.”
D’Orsay smiled. “There is nothing that I must do, Hastings. There will be a five-minute interlude. Control your warrior, or he will forfeit.”
Hastings shook his head, and the muscle was working in his jaw again. Jack dropped wearily into a chair on the sidelines. Hastings handed him another bottle of water, which he gulped greedily.
“So you’ve been studying out of school,” the wizard murmured.
Jack was too tired to respond, but stared straight ahead. After almost an hour and a half of play, he had little fight left in him.
“This is wrong,” Hastings said with conviction. “I know it is.”
“The whole thing is wrong,” Jack retorted. He threw his head back and watched the clouds foaming overhead.
“If you use the High Magic again, you will forfeit,” Hastings said quietly. “They will cut out your heart.”
“Maybe that’s best,” Jack replied. He was beyond caring. He thought of Brooks, lying on his back, that gentle letting go of life. All of it, out of his hands.
“Warriors to the field,” D’Orsay was calling.
Somehow, Jack pushed himself up and out of his chair. The point of his sword drew a line in the grass as he stumbled back out on the field. Ellen looked weary as well, and when D’Orsay said, “Go to,” there was little response for a moment. Then Ellen raised her sword and grimly moved forward, and Jack retreated. Ellen wasn’t talking anymore, but was businesslike and mechanical, doggedly pressing him farther downfield than before. Shadowslayer blazed as he parried Ellen’s sturdy blows. The sword was a part of him, but all his parts were heavy now, his arms and legs like lead, his breathing labored. At least the pain in his arm seemed distant now, like it was someone else’s.
It was more and more difficult to stay focused. The wind blew harder, and he smelled rain in the air. He found himself thinking about sailing, about the time he was caught in a gale, racing for shore with a storm behind him, spray breaking over the bow of the boat as he plunged through the swells. He had to force himself back to the business at hand. Ellen. Ellen was beautiful, graceful, determined. Ellen was doing her best to kill him. He blocked another killing blow and stepped back again.
He stepped into space. Jack hadn’t noticed that he had reached the banks of one of the small streambeds. He flailed a moment, seeking his balance, and then toppled backward. As he fell, his foot caught in the roots of a small shrub that grew on the bank of the creek. There was a nasty crack as the bone in his ankle gave way. He landed with his hips in the creek and his shoulders partway up the opposite bank.
Jack broke into a cold sweat. The pain in his ankle overcame everything else. He managed to free his foot, crying out as he did so, but it hung at an impossible angle. Shadowslayer had landed a few yards away, but it might have as well have been a mile. He had no other weapon. Perhaps he should have gone with the dagger, too, back at the start. Not that it would change anything.
Well, it’s over, he thought. Although he had anticipated this, the idea of ending frightened him. He desperately pushed himself partway up the slope on his elbows, so he was half sitting up. He saw Ellen appear at the top of the opposite bank. She stared at him a moment, and then jumped down, her boots landing in the soft mud next to him. She looked very tall from his angle of sight, lying on his back in the small ravine. Though he couldn’t see the crowd, he could hear them well enough. He supposed he could use wizardry to hold her off, and let the judges eviscerate him, to spare her the job. But maybe they would ask Ellen to do it for them. Maybe she would prefer to do it herself.
Now she was between him and the sky, filling his field of vision, and she let the point of her sword drop until it rested lightly at the base of his throat. Jack closed his eyes, trying not to swallow.
After a long moment, the blade was lifted, and Ellen said something. He didn’t understand her at first, and she repeated it impatiently. “Get up, Jack.” He opened his eyes to see her leaning over him, the expression on her face unreadable.
She was taunting him again. “Go ahead,” he said wearily. “Take your match. This is the payoff, as you said.” Then he remembered what Paige had said. Perhaps Ellen would “bleed” him now that he was helpless. Slowly cut him into little pieces. Well, he wasn’t going to bring it up.
“Get up, Jack,” she said again, more urgently, and she extended him a hand.
He stared at her. “I can’t,” he whispered. “My leg is broken. I’m done.”
“You have to get up,” she said stubbornly. She knelt beside him, pushed up his pants leg, drew her belt knife, and efficiently cut away his boot and sock. She ran her fingers lightly over his ankle. It was swelling rapidly, and had turned an odd purple color. When she loo
ked back at him, her face was streaked with tears.
“I can’t do it, Jack,” she said fiercely. “I don’t know why, but I can’t kill you.” She reached beneath her tunic and pulled out a small wizard’s bottle. She pulled the cork with her teeth, grabbed a fistful of his hair, lifted his head, and poured it into his mouth. Poisoning wasn’t her style, she’d said. Poison or no, Jack swallowed it down. The liquid was warm from being next to her body.
It was the same potion Hastings had used at the meadow, and it took most of the pain away. Probably highly illegal under the rules, he thought. Jack watched helplessly as Ellen unstrapped a long knife in its sheath from her back. She laid it alongside his foot and ankle and secured it with her sling. He gasped when she straightened his foot, but the drug was in him, and it wasn’t too bad.
She worked rapidly, muttering to herself the whole time. “If you would just give me a reason to kill you, maybe I could do it; but no, you won’t take the bait, not even when I cut you, not even when I provoke you. You just dance, so pretty with your blue eyes and your fine-looking . . .” She looked up and saw Jack staring at her. “So Hastings never taught you how to splint a broken bone? That’s what you get for taking the short course.”
The crowd and judges must have seen Jack fall into the streambed, and Ellen jump down after him; but because of the fall of the land and the distance, they couldn’t quite tell what was going on. Now Jack could hear D’Orsay’s voice over the din. “Warriors, is there a winner?”
“Come on, Jack,” Ellen said, tying off her work. “You’ve got to get up or you’ll forfeit.” She was trembling, and there were spots of high color on her cheeks.
“Ellen, I can’t fight you on a broken leg,” Jack protested. He just wanted to lay back on the grassy slope and let the stream rush over him.
But she was not to be deterred. “Don’t worry about that,” she said grimly. She picked up his sword and placed it in his left hand. Then she moved to his right side, seized his wrist and pulled him to his feet, draping his right arm over her shoulders and throwing her arm around his waist so she carried most of his weight. His nose was full of the scent of her next to him, an intoxicating mixture of flowers and sweat. Not like any soldier Brooks had ever encountered. She was amazingly strong. She half pushed, half lifted him up the slope.
The two warriors emerged from the ravine, clinging to each other. Jack of the Silver Dragon was limping badly, one boot gone, carrying his sword in the wrong hand.
The Warrior of the Red Rose gasped, “There is no winner.”
D’Orsay was speechless for a moment. And then he snapped, “Approach the judges, warriors.”
Jack gathered all his strength and tried to help Ellen maneuver them forward. Hastings and Wylie were standing below the judges’ box. Hastings looked amazed, his eyes traveling from Jack to Ellen, while Wylie looked furious, as usual.
“Explain this,” D’Orsay demanded, for once addressing the warriors directly.
Ellen looked the Master of Games in the eye. “The match is over. There is no winner. It is a draw.” An unhappy rumble rolled through the crowd.
“There can be no draw,” D’Orsay replied. “Under the rules it is a fight to the death.”
“Not this time,” Ellen said boldly. “The fight is over, and nobody is dead. I think you’ve had your money’s worth. You can all go home now!” she shouted to the crowd.
D’Orsay’s voice was cold. “Sponsors, control your warriors.”
Hastings gave an almost imperceptible shrug. His warrior was upright only through the grace of his opponent. Wylie, on the other hand, was in Ellen’s face immediately.
“What’s the matter with you?” he hissed. “Finish him off, and let’s be done with this.” He made as if to grab her sword arm, as if he intended to settle the matter himself, but she threw him off hard. He landed in the grass. “You’re a killer, Ellen!” he shouted. “You’ve trained for this for a lifetime. Now do what comes naturally!”
Ellen pointed her sword at Wylie and flame ran along the blade. “Be careful what you wish for,” she said coldly. A shudder ran through the crowd. Warriors threatening wizards. It was against the laws of nature. As if to commemorate it, there was a blaze of lightning, a crash of thunder, and the first fat drops of rain splattered down.
D’Orsay came to his feet, his calm disinterest shattered. He pointed at Jack and Ellen. “For violations of the Rules of Engagement, your lives are hereby forfeit!” The other judges stood as well, and the death sentence was mirrored in their eyes.
“No!” Hastings stepped between the judges and the two warriors. “This tournament has been flawed from the start. Do you really mean to sacrifice the last remaining warriors for a set of rules you can’t even adhere to yourself? What rules have they violated? The loser in the tournament dies, but there is no loser here. The rules do not speak to this.”
The two wizards glared at each other. “For someone who has never played by the rules, you’ve become quite an expert, haven’t you? If the rules don’t speak to this,” D’Orsay said softly, “we’ll just change the rules again.” He pointed at Hastings. “We have made our decision. Get out of the way.”
“No,” Hastings said again. He flung out his arm, and light exploded from his fingertips. A shimmering enclosure descended around Ellen and Jack, like a house spun of glass. Suddenly, the sound of the crowd was blunted, and the rain no longer touched them.
All five judges pointed at the barrier, speaking a dissolving charm. The wall fell away, but Hastings threw up another in time to turn a blizzard of blue wizard flame that ricocheted and exploded over the field like fireworks.
The crowd shifted uneasily, some of the spectators throwing up their arms to shield their faces against the rain and the flames arcing over them. The sun had disappeared entirely, and the Ghyll was shrouded in a dim twilight, although it was just after four in the afternoon. There was a low rumble that might have been thunder, but it was more persistent, as if the hills were speaking with a thousand voices. The din surrounded them, growing louder and louder. The fells glowed eerily in the darkness, as if lit from an unseen source. High up on the slope of Ravenshead, the Weirstone stood out against the black shoulder of the mountain like a blue flame.
The beleaguered trio on the lists hardly noticed. It was only a matter of time before the five wizards in the gallery overcame the one on the field. Jack desperately tried to follow the charms that were flying back and forth. He wanted to help, but it was beyond his skill. Hastings constantly shifted position, staying between the judges and the warriors. The judges were aiming for the players, but would hardly have hesitated to blow Hastings away to get to them. The five judges descended out of the stands, clearly meaning to surround the warriors and launch an attack from all directions, which would be more difficult to defend against. Wylie screamed something, but whether he was pleading for his warrior or encouraging her would-be executioners, Jack couldn’t tell.
Mercedes and Blaise, Snowbeard, Iris, and Linda joined Hastings on the field and formed a tight circle around Jack and Ellen. Snowbeard and Iris sent their own flames into the air, throwing up barriers as fast as the council could tear them down. The rain came down hard and flames flickered on the undersides of the clouds, white lightning and blue wizard fire. Now the roar of the battle competed with the howl of the storm. Many in the audience were fleeing their seats, fear of dying having overcome their love of spectacle.
Suddenly the earth itself shuddered. Jack could feel it shimmying beneath his feet, like logs rolling down a hillside. Ellen lost her hold on him, and he was pitched to the ground. Flat on his back, the cold rain in his face, and the pain renewed in his shattered leg, Jack couldn’t help but think about Brooks dying on this very field. But he could still feel a vibration, an earthquake, he thought at first. Cautiously, he propped himself on his elbows. His view of the field was blocked by the rest of his party, most of whom were on their hands and knees, attempting to get back on their feet. When he
looked up at the surrounding hills, he could see a vast shadow flowing down their flanks, pooling at the bottom and spreading outward across the Ghyll. A huge fissure had opened in Raven’s Ghyll Field, and an army was pouring from it.
Up in the cottage, Will had grown increasingly agitated as the afternoon waned. He had tried the door and window a hundred times, had even tried to force his massive shoulders through the chimney. Fitch lay on Jack’s bed as if in a trance. In fact, he was listening. Trapped in the back bedroom, he hadn’t been able to see any of the tournament, but he could hear the roar of the crowd, so he knew it wasn’t over. But now the sound he was hearing was more like screaming, full of panic and dismay. He’d felt the weather change and the wind come up. Now the light had gone and the building shuddered under the assault of the gale. Rain and hail crashed against the windows, and the wild, electric scent of the storm came through the walls.
It’s the end of the world, Fitch thought. And we’re going to die in here. Just then, the ground heaved and the floor buckled, setting the flagstones up at a crazy angle. Slate and plaster fell around them, dust filling their lungs and stinging their eyes. Part of the wall next to the fireplace shifted and split away from the masonry. There was no daylight to speak of, but now the wind and rain howled through a large gap in the wall.
“Come on!” Will shouted to Fitch over the growing din. “Let’s get out of here before this place collapses!” Fitch scraped and skinned his shoulders and knees and elbows, leaving blood on some of the stones, but he managed to slide through the gap. Will squeezed through behind him.
As soon as Fitch stepped outside, the rain slammed against his face so hard he could barely see. He found himself in the castle garden, looking down on Raven’s Ghyll Field.
At first it looked as if the ground itself were on the march, in ghostly gray waves across the valley. Then he could see it was an army of sorts, a motley army whose soldiers seemed drawn from many lands and many times. There were men and women, and some were mere children. Some were armored, others lightly clad, and they carried a variety of weapons. Here and there were splashes of red-gold: warriors with hair the color of Jack’s.
The Heir Chronicles Omnibus Page 32