He felt it, that tug-of-war, felt the heat as his power burned. Saw, as Branna had, a flicker of fear. Cabhan took a lurching step forward.
“You do not summon me!”
Cabhan crossed his arms, wrenched them apart. And broke the spell. “They will betray you, shun you. When you lie cold, your blood on the ground, they will not mourn you.”
He folded into the fog, lowered, hunched, formed into the wolf. Fin saw his sword in his mind’s eye, in its sheath in his workshop. And lifting his hand, held it.
Even as he called the others, called his circle, the wolf lunged.
But not at him, not at the man holding a flaming sword and burning with power. It lunged at the little
dog quivering in the high grass.
“No!”
Fin leaped, swung. Then met, sliced only fog, and even that died away with the dog bleeding in the grass, his eyes glazed with shock and pain.
“No, no, no, no.” He started to drop to his knees. The hawk called; the horse trumpeted. Both struck out at the wolf that had re-formed behind Fin.
With a howl, it vanished again.
Even as he knelt, Branna was there.
“Oh God.” He reached down, but she took his hands, nudged them away.
“Let me. Let me. My strength is healing, and hounds are mine.”
“His throat. It tore his throat. Harmless, he’s harmless, but it went for him rather than me.”
“I can help. I can help. Fin, look at me, look in me. Fin.”
“I don’t want your comfort!”
“Leave it to her.” Connor crouched down beside him, laid a hand firmly on his shoulder. “Let her try.”
Already grieving, for he felt the life slipping away, he knelt in helpless rage and guilt.
“Here now, here.” Branna crooned it as she laid her hands on the bloodied throat. “Fight with me now. Hear me, and fight to live.”
Bugs’s eyes rolled up. Fin felt the dog’s heart slow.
“He suffers.”
“Healing hurts. He has to fight.” She whipped her gaze to Fin, all power and fury. “Tell him to fight, for he’s yours. I can’t heal him if he lets go. Tell him!”
Though it grieved him to ask, Fin held his hands over Branna’s. Fight.
Such pain. Branna felt it. Her throat burned with it, and her own heart stuttered. She kept her eyes on the eyes of the little hound, poured her power in, and the warmth with it.
The deep first, she thought. Mend and mend what was torn. In the cold field, the wind blowing, sweat beaded on her forehead.
From somewhere, she heard Connor tell her to stop. It was too much, but she felt the pain, the spark of hope. And the great grief of the man she loved.
Look at me, she told the dog. Look in me. In me. See in me.
Bugs whimpered.
“He’s coming back, Branna.” Connor, still scanning the field, still guarding, laid a hand on Branna’s shoulder, gave her what he had.