“All set,” Jack said, rather loudly.

“How late will you be?” Becka looked from one to the other.

“Is eight-thirty all right?” Hastings asked. “We're getting a bit of a late start.”

“That's fine,” Becka said. ”Jack and I are flexible." And then they were finally out the door.

Jack put the duffle bag in the backseat and climbed into the front. “Where are we going?” he asked as the car pulled away from the curb.

Hastings didn't respond. He appeared to be lost in thought. Jack repeated his question.

“I thought we'd practice outside this time.” As usual, Hastings didn't provide a complete answer. Jack soon realized they were headed for Perry Park. He had been there hundreds of times through his childhood. It was the largest and least developed of Trinity's municipal parks, heavily wooded and remote, with few hiking trails. It was an inland park, and the parks along the lakeshore always received the heaviest use, especially in the spring and summer.

Hastings seemed to know where he was going. After traveling several miles along the road, he pulled into a parking lot at one of the trailheads. There were no other cars in the lot. Hastings slung a small backpack over his shoulder. “Let's go. Bring the sword.”

They hiked for perhaps a mile and half into the woods. Hastings maintained a rapid pace, offering little but directions. When a stream intersected the trail, Hastings walked up along the streambed for a few hundred yards, then struck off to the right through the woods again until they came to a small clearing. It appeared as if the trees had been felled some years ago. Small shrubs were beginning to fill in here and there, but it was mostly tall grasses and some brambles, as Jack quickly discovered. The late-day sunlight streamed down into the meadow. This, then, was their destination.

Jack set the duffle bag on the ground and unzipped it. He delivered his sword from its nest of towels, strapped the scabbard around his waist, and cinched it tight. He drew his weapon. It felt good to have it in his hand again. He turned it this way and that so it caught the light, then moved gracefully through his stances, adjusting to the larger blade. As before, it felt light in his hand, weightless. Hastings watched this for some time, occasionally making a suggestion.

“We're going to have to handle your training differently now that you're using the Shadowslayer,” he said finally. “I cannot serve as your opponent. We'll do the best we can with the tools we have.” There was a brief flash of a smile. He opened his backpack and pulled out some metal stakes and a hammer. He walked the perimeter of the clearing, pounding in nine stakes in all. Then he stood at the center of the meadow and spoke some words in the now-familiar language of wizardry. Jack tried his best to commit the words to memory. An eerie silence descended. Jack realized that he could no longer hear the sounds from the surrounding forest. The area outside the boundaries marked by the stakes became smudged and surreal.

Nick had said that Hastings was a powerful wizard, but his teacher had never displayed his abilities until now.

Hastings walked back to Jack. “That will keep anyone from interfering with us,” he explained. “I will be sending some warriors against you. Your job is to defend yourself against them, and kill them if you can.”

Jack was bewildered. “Warriors? What are you talking about?” He looked wildly around the empty clearing.

"Don't worry. Think of it as a kind of video game, but on a rather … larger scale.” The wizard stepped to the side of the clearing, leaving Jack alone in the center. Moments later, a massive man in a tunic and leggings punched through the smudged boundary at the far end of the meadow. His fair hair was plaited into braids that hung to his broad shoulders, and he sported a robust red beard. He carried a large axe in one hand and a sword in the other. He wore neither armor nor helmet. He looked a bit disoriented at first, but then his eyes lit on Jack.

“What is this? They send a mere child against me? Go back to your mother, boy, until you've grown!” he shouted. Jack glanced helplessly over at Hastings, who stood calmly, feet apart, arms folded, at the edge of the trees.

Receiving no answer from Jack, the man strode toward him, swinging his axe as he came. It seemed light in his hands, like a toy. The insults grew louder and more colorful. “Go back to she that whelped you, before I send you to hell!” the man shouted.

“Is he real?” Jack shouted to Hastings. Hastings said nothing.

The man was now close enough that Jack could see the beads that decorated the plaits in his hair and the broad metal bands that enclosed his massive arms. His stench was overpowering, a reek of sweat and steel and raw physical power.

“Is he real?” Jack shouted again desperately. There was no answer.

And then the man was upon him. In a sudden panic, Jack raised his sword to block the blow, but it was too late. The man had his axe up, it was descending. Jack felt a cold pain at his shoulder, and there was a darkness before his eyes. When his vision cleared, he was flat on his face in the grass. He'd landed in a patch of brambles, and thorns pierced his palms and forearms. When he lifted his head, he saw that the man was gone.

“Well now,Jack,” Hastings said from the sidelines. “I'm afraid you've been beheaded. Not a good start.” He sounded amused.

Jack scrambled to his feet, picking briars out of his skin, his clothes. “It would have been nice to know the rules of the game before we started!” he fumed.

“But you know the rules of the game,” Hastings replied. “We've been studying them all along. The Rules of Engagement. Now you just have to apply them.”

“He cut off my head, but I'm still alive,” Jack pointed out.

Hastings shrugged. “Those are the rules of this particular game, under the charm I used to call him up. We can't afford to lose you in practice. Let's try again.”

He nodded to the end of the clearing again. This time a man on horseback entered the clearing, wearing chain mail and carrying a lance.

“Give way!” the man roared. “Or die today!”

Somehow, Jack knew that he was not expected to give way. He searched for his sword in the tall grass and retrieved it. “Dismount!” he shouted back. “As you can see, I'm on foot!” He hoped the other man would see that there was no honor in trampling him.

The knight clambered down from his warhorse. He wore a helm and hauberk, but his face was uncovered. He appeared to be in his twenties or thirties, clean shaven and quite handsome. The man approached with his blade drawn, a mace swinging from his other hand. Jack raised his sword and flowed into a fighting stance. Shadowslayer flamed up, eager for blood, and Jack was astounded to see that his opponent looked a little frightened.

His words were bold, however. “Give way, boy. I think ye must be squire to some brave knight who comes behind you.”

“There's just me,” Jack replied, wishing devoutly that he did have a backup.

“Well then, prepare to defend yourself!” The man charged forward, sword extended, but Jack was ready this time, and parried the blow. There was a tremendous strength behind it, and the blow shook Jack's arm to the shoulder. He ducked, and the mace sang as it cleaved the air where his head had been. He spun flames from his own sword, and the man blocked them with his blade. Jack thrust him backward with a concussion of air.

Jack felt more confident now. Although the man was definitely stronger, Jack was quick on his feet, and the routine was familiar from the bouts at the fitness center. After several minutes of well-matched swordplay, Jack put a bolt through his blade that sent the knight's sword flying and knocked him to the ground. The man sat up, looking dazed, his sword arm hanging useless. No one was more surprised than Jack, who glanced over at Hastings for further instructions.

“Finish him,” his teacher said.

“No,” said Jack, lowering his sword and backing away.

It was the knight's turn to be surprised. After a few seconds, the knight dissolved and was gone. His horse, too.

Hastings strode onto the field, eyes glittering. “You did an excellent job in that last bout,” he said. “An excellent job. Now, why couldn't you follow through?”

“I don't want to kill anybody,” Jack explained, shrugging his shoulders. He'd never expected to be apologizing for it.

“That is your gift, Warrior,” Hastings snapped. “Killing people. Get used to it.”

“Well, maybe I don't want this gift,” Jack said. ”I never asked for it." He angrily stuck his blade into the ground and folded his arms.

The wizard's voice softened a little. “I told you to think of it as a video game.”

Jack shivered, looking around the meadow, then stuck out his chin stubbornly. “This is no video game,” he replied.

“Well, it's nothing like a real battle,” Hastings said. Jack was struck by the bitterness in his voice. Once again, Jack wished he knew something more about his teacher, where he'd come from, and what drove him. There was a brief, uncomfortable pause.

“Who are they?” Jack asked, meaning his opponents.

“They are warriors,” Hastings replied. “Champions from the past, long dead. Under the rules, they are trapped in the next world. Thus, they are available to us for training when I call them.” He rubbed his jaw. “As you know, there are not many live warriors left to joust with. Perhaps the modern word is scrimmage.”

So that was what the passage in the rules had meant. That means you can't ever get away, Jack thought. Not even after you're dead. “Who wrote these rules, anyway?”

“They are part of the covenant, signed by representatives of the five guilds at the founding.”

Jack recalled the story in his Weirbook of the dragon and the five cousins.

Hastings put his hand on Jack's shoulder, and Jack could feel his power like electricity into the bone. “What will you do, Jack, when someone really tries to kill you?” he asked.

“Then I suppose I will kill them back,” Jack replied.