The Warrior Heir

  Jack methodically pulled on the heavy canvas breeches, tunic, boots, and a bishop’s mantle made of chain mail. The Rules of Engagement permitted little in the way of armor. He slid his arms into leather gauntlets, laced them up using his teeth. He belted his sword around his waist and picked up the small shield. “This is all I’ll need,” he said, and left the rest where it was.

  Hastings frowned. As Jack pushed past him, the wizard put out a hand to stop him. “This plan only works if you win,” he said quietly.

  “Who does it work for?” Jack asked, swinging around to face him. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Jack nodded to his friends. “Could you guys find my gloves? I think I left them in the bedroom.”

  The boys were eager to do something, anything. They disappeared into the other room. “I don’t see them,” Fitch was saying, when Jack pulled the door shut and locked it.

  “Hey!” Will pounded on the door. “Jack! Let us out of here!”

  Jack spoke through the door. “You’re better off in here. Trust me. I’ll see you in a little while.”

  There was a rising storm of protest from behind the door. Someone threw himself against the other side of it, and the door shivered with the impact. It was a good, sturdy door, however, and Jack thought it would hold. He turned to Hastings. “Let’s go.”

  Jack had estimated the galleries would hold several thousand people. He understood there was a great deal of money riding on the match, though he deliberately hadn’t asked about the odds.

  Apparently the parties had gone on all night. Servants with trolleys were hauling away empty bottles and other debris from private pavilions. The day was growing pleasantly warm. Pleasant in the stands, Jack knew, but it would be deadly hot on the field.

  There were still open seats in the reserved section and box seats, but they were filling fast. The galleries were splashed with bright patches of red and white, shot with occasional silver. Pennants bearing the red and white rose snapped in the breeze. Here and there a spectator had even raised a hastily-assembled pennant for the Silver Dragon. Influential council members had erected tents along the sidelines. Jack glanced into one of them and saw an elaborate buffet laid out inside. Beer and wine were already flowing freely. The cries of vendors rang out over the hubbub of the crowd. By now, the sky was a whitewashed blue. It was a beautiful day.

  A lusty cheer rose from the crowd when they spotted Jack walking along the sidelines. Jack was popular even among those who had bet on his opponent. It was common knowledge that he had been in training for only a few months. Some of those present had watched him working out with Hastings the day before. Everyone agreed that the Warrior of the Silver Dragon had considerable talent. Given a little more experience, he would be outstanding. Too bad he wouldn’t be back, said some.

  Linda, Mercedes, Blaise, and Iris were all waiting at the side of the field. Linda’s face was haggard, and her eyes red-rimmed from crying. She wore jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, intentionally nondescript. She embraced Jack for a long moment, then held him out at arm’s length. “You haven’t changed your mind?”

  Jack wasn’t sure that changing his mind was still an option, but he shook his head. “No, I’m in.” When he saw how stricken she looked, he said, “Look, it will all work out. Why don’t you go up and stay with Will and Fitch at the cottage until it’s over? Not that they’ll be very good company.”

  Her body stiffened, and her chin came up stubbornly. “If you’re in, I’m staying.”

  And someone else was there as well. Jack saw a figure crossing the field, tall and gaunt, shoving a staff out into the grass ahead of him, showing his age but moving fast. It was Nicodemus Snowbeard, the Silver Bear.

  “Nick!” Jack embraced the wizard. “I heard you were here. You’re right, you know. It is too noisy in England.”

  “And the food is still bad,” Snowbeard added. “Whoever put steak and kidneys together in a pie made a serious error in judgement.” He looked Jack over carefully. “You’re looking rather deadly, my boy.”

  “More deadly than I feel,” Jack admitted.

  The wizard smiled a little sadly. “Do you remember what I told you when you left Trinity?”

  Jack inclined his head. “You told me to remember who I am.”

  Snowbeard nodded. “Hastings has made you a Dragon, but you’ll always be a member of the Silver Bear clan. Don’t let them turn you into something you’re not. Your strength comes from that consistency.

  Jack nodded. “I won’t forget.”

  Snowbeard and Linda and the neighbors formed a circle around Jack. He felt the power in it, the love flowing to him from all around. He was surrounded by faces, all familiar from his childhood. Mercedes said, “Remember Jack’s party, and the giving of gifts sixteen years ago today.” She circled his neck with a chain, fastening the clasp. From it hung an amulet, a silver bear. She put a hand on his head, speaking a benediction. “Keep him safe today.” Keep him safe today, they all repeated, solemnly. Feeling somehow more confident, Jack slid the bear inside his neckline so it rested against his skin. He still wasn’t sure what outcome to hope for.

  There was an excited stirring, and then another cheer went up. Ellen Stephenson had arrived at the lists amid an escort of wizards. She wore a red tunic overlaid with rosebuds in a deeper color, tan leggings and tall boots. Her sword was belted around her waist, and a sling hung over her shoulder. Her braided hair glittered in the afternoon sun like a crown.

  Jack released a long breath at the sight of her. Though surrounded by wizards, she was absolutely alone. He said his own prayer on her behalf, one voice among the thousands, not caring whether it made sense or not.

  Keep her safe today.

  By now the galleries were packed, and D’Orsay and the judges were making their way to their seats. A table in front of the viewing stand held a large gold chalice. That must be Cup, the trophy of the day. Next to the chalice was an elaborate leather-bound volume. The Rules of Engagement, Jack thought, in case someone had to refer to them on a point of order.

  At the stroke of two, three elaborately clad trumpeters advanced to the edge of the field and blew a fanfare. The warriors and their sponsors approached the judges’ box, Jack with Hastings, and Ellen with Geoffrey Wylie. Jack glanced over at Ellen. She looked straight ahead to the judges, her face pale and haggard, dark circles under her eyes. Maybe she’d been up all night studying the rules. Except she already knew them by heart. Like breathing, Paige had said.

  Claude D’Orsay was turned out in a dove-gray tunic, a ceremonial sword belted about his waist. A red-and-white stole draped over his shoulders identified him as Master of the Game. He looked down at the players and their sponsors. “This tournament has been called by the Red Rose for Midsummer’s Day, two P.M., at Raven’s Ghyll,” he proclaimed in a voice that carried to the far end of the galleries. “The Bans were said on the nineteenth of June. The challenge has been accepted by the Silver Dragon. The defending champion, the White Rose, has brought forward no champion, thus is in forfeit. The tournament chalice and associated real and monetary property will be awarded to the sponsor of the winner of the match. By the rules, the winner’s sponsor ascends as Master of the Council of Wizards until a new tournament is called. The tournament is fought à outrance, to the death, under the Rules of Engagement as published by the guild,

  A.D. 1532.” He rested his hand on the volume on the table. “All disputes are to be decided by the judges of the field based on the rules.” He looked at Jack and Ellen. “Do you understand?”

  They both nodded.

  “You will adhere to the rules or forfeit the match. Any warrior in forfeit will be put to death by the sword, and his heart delivered to the judges.” He turned to Wylie and Hastings. “There is to be no interference from the galleries, and no wizardry on the part of the sponsors, wagerers, or spectators.” He paused. “There will be a five-minute interlude after each half hour of play. The judges may stop play at any time for a point of orde
r.

  “The wagering windows should now be closed for this match and sponsors shall leave the field.”

  Hastings put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You can win this if you have the heart to do it,” he said. “And if you do win, it will be the end of this bloody Game if I can help it.” He gazed across the field at Ellen, then turned and walked to the sidelines.

  Ellen and Jack were left alone at midfield, facing each other, perhaps ten feet apart. She stood, lightly balanced, her face expressionless. The sun was just past being directly overhead, and the shadows around their feet had diminished to nothing. The light caught Ellen’s hair as she tilted her head, and then reflected off the shield slung over her left arm. She looked down at Shadowslayer, and back up at Jack. A breeze snapped the pennants above the gallery, but the crowd was quiet.

  “Go to,” said D’Orsay.

  The tournament was almost over before it started. Ellen fished a dagger from a sheath at her belt and threw it, end over end, at Jack. He just managed to get his shield up to chest level, and the blade glanced off and landed somewhere in the grass. The crowd gasped. Ellen shrugged the sling off her shoulder in one fluid motion. Jack drew his sword just in time to deflect a swarm of flaming stars with his shield and the flat of his blade. They splintered into shards of blue sparks that showered over him, momentarily blinding him.

  Ellen drew her own sword and thrust it forward, spinning long tongues of flame off the tip. Jack brought up his sword to defend against it. It was like blocking a goal kick in soccer from midfield: at that distance there was always plenty of time to intercept. He wondered if Ellen might be wary of confronting Shadowslayer at short distance.

  But when the aerial assault proved ineffective, Ellen moved in closer with her sword. The merits of his weapon aside, swordplay had always been one of Jack’s strengths, and now he was also benefiting from Brooks’s experience. He found he could hold his own very well. Ellen was quick and accurate, but Jack was stronger, and his weapon made him more powerful still. When he slammed his blade against hers, she almost lost her hold on it. Sometimes she had to grip the hilt with both hands, which closed her reach even more, leaving her vulnerable to a quick thrust from the side. But Jack never seized the opening. His play was strictly defensive, although at times he stepped into the space between them and forced her backward.

  Ellen flowed gracefully from stance to stance, and Jack moved to meet her. Her play was instinctive, breathtaking, a dance learned from birth. Her blade hissed and sang, a bright blur in the sunlight. Although he often felt clumsy in opposition, he found he could anticipate her moves fairly well. Another gift from Brooks. It was a deadly pas de deux in which the dancers never embraced, yet each was exquisitely attuned to his partner’s every move. Ellen frowned and swiped sweat from her eyes. Perhaps she was surprised they were so well matched.

  The noise from the crowd had receded to a buzzing in Jack’s ears, but he could feel the intimidating presence of thousands of wizards as an almost physical pressure. He tried to narrow his focus to the small space between them, the reach of Ellen’s sword. He was relieved when the half hour was finally called. His life was measured in thirty-minute segments now.

  Sweat poured from Jack’s face, despite the coolness of the day. Hastings handed him a large bottle of water, which he drained. The wizard watched him critically, hands on hips. “You’re going to regret those missed opportunities, Jack. Sooner or later, you’ll get careless or she’ll get lucky. You’ll never match her move for move. Use your power against her. Go to her left side. She has trouble with her back hand.”

  He doesn’t miss a thing, Jack thought, but didn’t reply. He toweled off his face and sent up a prayer for another half hour. Time was called again, and they returned to the field. Ellen was more aggressive than before. Her sword was everywhere, and once it slashed through the fabric of his tunic but missed him. With the increased intensity, however, she grew a little careless, and when Jack delivered a heavy blow to her blade near the hilt, it went flying from her hand.

  Ellen froze for a moment, then leaped after her weapon. She landed rolling, and scooped it up, bringing it into a defensive position while she was still flat on her back. Jack dropped the point of his sword and stood waiting until she was back on her feet. This drew a mixed reaction from the crowd: silent disbelief and a few scattered boos.

  Ellen had a peculiar look on her face, which was soon replaced by irritation. She stepped in close to Jack. “What’s the matter, Jack? Do you think you have to give me a break because I’m a girl?” she demanded.

  Jack shrugged. “I told you, Ellen, I don’t want to kill you.”

  “Well, that makes my job easier!” she retorted. With a thrust of her sword she penetrated Jack’s defenses and sliced into his right arm above the leather.

  His shield smashed against her blade with a clang and a spray of sparks, shoving it aside, and he backpedaled out of range. Suddenly, he could hear the thunder of the crowd again, reacting to the blow. It was amazing how much it hurt, and it was all Jack could do to keep from dropping his sword. His pretty coat was torn from wrist to elbow, and quickly soaked with blood. Go after his sword arm, Paige had said, and it seemed she was taking her trainer’s advice. Ellen came back after him grimly, leading with her sword, pursuing her advantage. She slashed at him, one, two, three times; and Jack found he was having trouble stopping her blade.

  In desperation, he threw out a charm. Ellen all but bounced off the shimmering barrier that suddenly sprang up between them. She remained on her feet, but only just, and launched herself at Jack again, with the same result. Then she stood, sword at her side, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, staring as if dumbfounded.

  There was pandemonium. The crowd came to its feet. Geoffrey Wylie furiously jabbed his finger at Leander Hastings. “Point of order!” he shouted. “The Silver Dragon is interfering with the match!”

  Hastings looked baffled. He scanned the crowd, focusing on the Jefferson Street neighbors, as if thinking that perhaps Iris or Snowbeard had intervened. Iris was turned around, gesturing, speaking to Snowbeard, who shrugged his shoulders innocently. Hastings’s gaze drifted to Linda Downey, who did not look innocent at all. He pursed his lips and turned to D’Orsay.

  “I had nothing to do with this,” he said. “I don’t know whose charm it is.”

  Meanwhile, Jack examined the gash in his arm as best he could. Fortunately, it seemed to be a flesh wound only. He opened and closed his hand. Everything seemed to be in working order. His muscles and tendons were intact. It was bleeding, not heavily, but it was definitely distracting. Ellen stared at him through the shimmer wall, head tilted, feet apart.

  D’Orsay addressed the crowd at large. “To repeat: there is to be no wizardry or other interference from the sponsors or galleries under the Rules of Engagement. This is your last warning.”

  Wylie was still protesting. “It was Hastings. It must have been. Who else?”

  D’Orsay silenced him with a look and pointed at the barrier. It dissolved away, dwindling until it sparkled like a dew upon the grass. The match resumed.

  This time, both players were a bit off balance. Jack’s arm was still bleeding, leaving smears of blood along the right side of his tunic. It was also throbbing, which made it hard to concentrate. Ellen seemed skittish, no doubt waiting for the next charm to fall. She seemed relieved when the half hour was called. It already seemed like they had been fighting forever. Jack wondered how long the average match lasted. Something else he’d failed to find out. Ellen probably knew to the minute.

  Hastings was not allowed to use wizardry to heal up Jack’s arm, so he applied a salve and bandaged it tightly. Jack drank another bottle of water while Hastings lectured him about his lack of offense. “You’re stronger than she is,” he pointed out. “But it will do you no good if you never land a blow.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Jack said shortly.

  “If you lose fairly, that’s one thing. But I won’t see you sac
rifice yourself, if that’s what you have in mind.” He laid a hot hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I can make you fight, you know.”

  “Then make me,” Jack retorted. “Only, now that I’m on the field, you’d better do it without wizardry.” He nodded at the judges. Hastings’s eyes glittered, but he was stuck, and knew it.

  When the fight resumed, Ellen seemed to have adopted a new strategy. She launched a constant stream of taunts and challenges. She seemed to be trying to make him angry. “Come on, Jack, are you afraid to fight me?” she called to him. “Don’t make me chase you around the field. Are you just a little man with a big sword? Do you always run from women?” and so on.

  Jack tried to ignore it. He had less strength in his thrust now, which had been his primary advantage. Sometimes he needed both hands to counter one of Ellen’s blows. He continued with his basic defensive posture, parrying Ellen’s attacks as best he could. She became bolder as she realized he was mounting no offense. Finally, she feinted left and then lunged forward, leading with her sword, and got inside his blade again. Jack desperately threw up a hand, and suddenly Ellen was waving a large spray of gladiolas in place of her sword. She stared at the flowers in her hand and then at Jack, finally understanding. “It’s you,” she whispered.

  Ellen wasn’t the only one who had caught on. Now Wylie had a new target. “It is the boy!” he cried, clearly amazed. “It is obvious he has been trained in wizardry!” He glared accusingly at Hastings.

  “If the boy has been trained in wizardry, it was not by me,” Hastings replied, his eyes on Linda Downey. She looked boldly back at him. He turned to D’Orsay. “And if he were truly a warrior, it wouldn’t matter. He’d never be able to put it to use.”

  “This is unacceptable,” Wylie fumed. “The warrior of the Silver Dragon should forfeit the match, and his sponsor should be sanctioned.”