‘’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 centre 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 meagre 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 centre 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 odour 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 on to 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?