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.
Fitch could hear drums and the wild scream of bagpipes. The warriors had overrun the midway, tents, and trailers at the other end of the valley. The structures were burning, the smoke from the flames adding to the gloom.
“No way,” Fitch breathed. The cottage no longer seemed like a sanctuary, with its walls falling down around them.
Spectators from the galleries fled past them. Others appeared frozen in their seats. Fitch scanned the chaotic scene, looking for Jack. Finally he spotted what looked like a private war going on before the galleries. Hastings, Linda, and some of the neighbors from Jefferson Street were in a tight circle, under siege by a group of wizards who were attacking relentlessly in what looked like a spectacular light show. He could see Jack and Ellen at the center of the circle, sitting on the ground, holding each other tightly. Fitch shook his head. None of this was making sense.
The long arms of the shadow army reached out to enclose the battle on the field. The warriors swung axes and broadswords, slaughtering any wizards who got in their way. Few of the wizards had time to respond, and those that did were impossibly outnumbered. Hastings and the Silver Dragon group, facing outward, stopped and stared in disbelief, but the tournament judges did not see their peril until a muscular Celtic warrior with bright red-gold hair seized one of them and ran him through with his sword. He tossed the dead man to the ground, the blood running from his blade in the rain. The battle came to a swift halt after that. D'Orsay and the four remaining judges formed a tight circle of their own.
There was a breathless pause as warriors and wizards faced one another, though small groups of warriors continued their work at the fringes of the crowd. The ranks of the army parted, and two women walked toward them. One was quite young, not much older than Jack, and she had a head of dark curls. She was dressed in a white linen shirt and trousers from another century, and moved with an elegant, athletic grace. The other was somewhat older, taller than the other woman, with bright, strawberry-blond hair. She wore a long dress that seemed to float over the grass. They stopped in front of the Silver Dragon partisans, and the older one spoke. “The Game is over,” she announced. “Where are the warriors?”
Her voice was eerily familiar. Jack had heard it once before, one night in a graveyard. In another age, it seemed. Ellen helped him to his feet, and they moved awkwardly to the front of the circle, he limping, she supporting him. As he approached the woman who had called for him, he was startled again by her resemblance to his mother. He had seen her before only in pictures.
“Hello, Jack,” she said, smiling. “I see you've taken good care of my sword.” She gestured at Shadowslayer. “I think you've had more use of it than I ever did.”
“Susannah,” Jack whispered. He was aware of tightly controlled energy, the presence of Hastings just behind him. He turned. The wizard stared at the two women as if he had seen a ghost, which in truth he had.
The younger woman spoke. “Lee, what a man you have become.” She ran forward and threw her arms around Hastings, and he held her tightly, the joy on his face overlaid with wonder.
“Carrie,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I can't believe it. You look the same.”
Carrie smiled at him, and Jack could see the resemblance between the two: strong noses, high cheekbones, dark curls plastered to their heads. “I've been dead for more than a hundred years, and you've been living. Living marks a person. That is the difference.” She released him and stepped back.
It was all Jack could do to stay upright, even with Ellen's support. The earthquake might be over, but his head was spinning. Every part of his body competed for attention.
Susannah noticed. “Can someone get the boy a chair?” she asked. “I think he has been through enough today. Get two chairs,” she added, looking at Ellen.
Two warriors pulled down chairs from the judges' box and set them in the grass. Jack was startled to see that both warriors looked familiar. One of them was Jeremiah Brooks, and the other was the young knight he had fought at the meadow, in the first bout he'd won.
Brooks helped Jack to his seat, being careful of his ripped arm and injured leg, Ellen assisting on his other side. “Looks like you took a beating today, my friend,” he observed laconically. He nodded at Ellen. “Being as we're almost brothers and all, I'd suggest you say yes the next time the lady asks for a tumble.” He rubbed his nose and grinned at Jack, who stared at him, too tired to be embarrassed.
The knight brought a bottle of water, turning it over curiously in his hands before handing it to Jack. “I always appreciated that you would not kill me,” he explained. “There comes a time for all of us to die, but you can't imagine what it is like to go through that over and over.” He jerked a thumb at Ellen. “She always killed everybody.”
Ellen looked chastened. She perched uneasily on the edge of her chair, as if unsure whether she might need to fight her way out of there. Jack shared his bottle of water with her, then sat back and half closed his eyes. His leg was throbbing, and he felt nauseous. After a minute, Ellen got up and set her chair in front of him, then propped his leg up on it. “You should elevate it to keep the swelling down,” she suggested. She sat on the grass next to his seat and leaned her head against his hip, seeming oblivious to the water that ran in rivulets across the ground. The rain had slowed almost to a stop.
“Susannah,” Hastings began awkwardly. She turned to him, acknowledging him for the first time.
“Hello, Lee.”
“Susannah, I'm sorry,” he said simply.
She ran her fingers through her streaming hair. “I did not see my son grow up. That is difficult to forgive.”
“I'm not asking you to forgive me.” The wizard's hand was extended, something shining in his palm. It was the ring with Susannah's stone. “I think I should return this to you.”
She studied him a moment. “A hundred years is a long time to hold a grudge,” she said, “for both of us. Carrie and I are asking you to let go of yours, and I will part with mine.” She paused. “I have no use for the stone, now or ever. Keep it, and remember me by it. I believe you've learned something since I last saw you.”
Hastings looked as if he would say more, but D'Orsay shoved forward. “Why have you brought this army to the Ghyll?” he demanded. “You have destroyed our property and disrupted our tournament.”
Susannah turned to him. “Your tournament was already in a shambles before we arrived.” She lifted her skirts and climbed into the judges' box.
“It is unlawful for this gang of warriors to come into the Ghyll uninvited. The Warrior Dead are not to cross unless called, according to the rules. You've already murdered a judge,” D'Orsay continued. “I hope you understand you will be held to account for this.”
Susannah was no longer smiling. “You never minded it when we were murdering each other.” She reached for the leather-bound volume of the Rules of Engagement. “Are you ready to write some more rules, Master D'Orsay?”
“What are you doing?” he snapped. “Leave that alone.”
“We have some amendments of our own to suggest,” she said calmly. “Now that you've waked the dragon.”
The look on D'Orsay's face was a mixture of incredulity and fear.