Old Magic(87)

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 outwards, 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 realise, 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 backwards. 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 realise 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.