Page 13 of Shadow Spell

The fire was a fire, banked in a tidy circle on the stony ground.

“This is what we are,” Brannaugh said, still glowing from the shock of energy. “This is what we have. The nights grow longer now. The dark conquers light. But he will not conquer us.”

She smiled, her heart full as it hadn’t been since the morning they’d left home. “We need to make a spit for the hare. We’ll have that feast tonight, our first. And we’ll rest in the warm and dry until we journey on.”

***

EAMON CURLED BY THE FIRE, HIS BELLY FULL, HIS BODYwarm and dry. And journeyed on.

He felt himself lift up, lift out, and fly. North. Home.

Like Roibeard, he soared over the hills, the rivers, the fields where cattle lowed, where sheep cropped.

Green and green toward home with the sun sliding quiet through the clouds.

His heart, so light. Going home.

But not home. Not really home, he realized when he found himself on the ground again. The woods, so familiar—but not. Something different. Even the air different, and yet the same.

It all made him dizzy and weak.

He began to walk, whistling for his hawk. His guide. The light changed, dimmed. Was night coming so fast?

But not the night, he saw. It was the fog.

And with it, the wolf that was Cabhan.

He heard the growl of it, reached for his grandfather’s sword. But it wasn’t at his side. He was a boy, ankle deep in mists, unarmed, as the wolf with the red gem glowing around his neck walked out of the fog. And became a man.

“Welcome back, young Eamon. I’ve waited for you.”

“You killed my father, my mother. I’ve come to avenge them.”

Cabhan laughed, a rolling, merry sound that sent ice running up Eamon’s spine.

“It’s spirit you have, so that’s fine and well. Come avenge then, the dead father, the dead witch who whelped you. I will have what you are, and then I’ll make your sisters mine.”

“You will never touch what’s mine.” Eamon circled, tried to think. The fog rose and rose, clouding all, the woods, the path, his mind. He gripped air, fisted it, hurled it. It carved a shaky and narrow path. Cabhan laughed again.

“Closer. Come closer. Feel what I am.”

He did feel it, the pain of it, the power of it. And the fear. He tried fire, but it fell smoldering, turned to dirty ash. When Cabhan’s hands reached out for him, he lifted his fists to fight.

Roibeard swooped like an arrow, claws and beak tearing at those outstretched hands. The blood ran black as the man howled, as the man began to re-form into the wolf.

And another man came through the fog. Tall, his brown hair damp from the mists, his eyes deep and green and full of power and fury.

“Run,” he told Eamon.

“I will not run from such as he. I cannot.”

The wolf pawed the ground, showed its teeth in a terrible smile.

“Take my hand.”

The man grabbed Eamon’s hand. Light exploded like suns, power flew like a thousand beating wings. Blind and deaf, Eamon cried out. There was only power, covering him, filling him, bursting from him. Then with one shattering roar, the fog was gone, the wolf gone, and only the man gripping his hand remained.

The man dropped to his knees, breath harsh, face white, eyes full of magicks. “Who are you?” he demanded.

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