Old Magic(89)

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 sidestep the blow. And to my surprise, and more so 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 realise both Blacklands and Thorntyne Keep lay 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 towards 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 concentration. 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 any more. 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 realise 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 unbelieving 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.

‘Eloise!’ he calls in a ghostly squeal.

Jarrod crawls out from beneath a lifeless Rhauk. He is finally dead. As if he needs to assure himself, Lord Richard, his mouth hanging open in stunned awe, crosses himself against the obvious evil of his half-brother, then grabs a fistful of Rhauk’s hair and yanks his head back. Rhauk’s cold black eyes stare vacantly. Only then does Lord Richard nod his satisfaction.

Jarrod is exhausted. I’m frustrated that I’m so near, yet can’t go to him. Suddenly someone screams, a soldier is on fire. Others run to his aid. I glance about, realising we have formed a kind of close circle – the cliff at my back, Richard and the others now gathered right beside me. The fires have enclosed us completely.