INCARNATE | Book 3 of the Spirits' War Trilogy [excerpt]

6: BRAVERY (Part One)

Image: Battle of the Clans from Perth Museum and Art Gallery

Soundtrack: House Targaryen Theme from Game of Thrones

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Skye

"And now," Aelshen proclaims solemnly, "it is time for swordsmanship."

"You've got to be kidding," Ace mumbles, gaze darting towards me as if sizing me up.

Aelshen turns and faces the young Lycan, placing his hands on his hips. "Something that needs sayin', MacLarty?"

"No, sir," he replies sweetly, reaching up to adjust his hair while eyeing the wolf spirit warily.

The ever-present grin on Aelshen's face deepens. "Somethin' that is worth sayin'," he continues, "is that if ye mess with one o' the Three, ye mess with us all."

Ace gulps. "Yessir."

Aelshen glances back at me, ignoring the confusion on my face. "Listen, Skye. Nwyfre and I are always here for ye. We'll come runnin' if need be, but in the case that we can't, ye need to be able to fend against as many enemies as need be. Ye need to protect the earth and every livin' thing on it. Stand up fer what's right."

"Hypocrite," Ace breathes.

Aelshen raises his eyebrows at the dark-haired Lycan. "Not at all. Nwyfre an' I had a falling out because what he wanted to do to the Covenant – to Patercius' Knights – was just as bad as what they were doing to him. In some cases, standin' up fer what's right does not mean fighting. Sometimes, it means running to live another day. Helpin' yer race to endure rather than putting 'em all in danger the way Nwyfre seems to enjoy doin'. Planning out a course—"

The goth snorts and Conall comes up beside him, eyes narrowed.

"Running?" the latter demands. "I tried to run from the soldiers that came to capture me. They put me in a fricken prison for five years. If I'd fought against them, maybe..."

Aelshen sighs deeply. "Ye'd have been killed on the spot."

"And how will sword fighting help us defeat soldiers with machine guns?" Ace demands as Damian and Conall nod vigorously.

"Hate to say it, but it's way too old-school," Damian says, crossing his arms over his chest. "We should get back to the fire and lightning."

The Father of Wolves glances at the edge of the clearing where he'd jabbed his sword, Adhair, into the soil. Raising his hand, he calls to the earth and wind, bidding them to return it to him. The weapon flies true, hilt first, into his awaiting palm.

"He isn't teaching me because it'll help against guns," I begin, a slow smile spreading across my face. "He's teaching me because it'll help me remember."