Winter Mist's voice is scarcely the voice that I know. It is a full-throated summons to battle, a tribal war cry. No one wants to hear it. Protests and denials rise up, spittle and curses spatter, ignored by the raging Sidhe Queen of Magh Croimor. She thunders on, her eyes flashing like sky-fire, her words pelting us like hailstones. She is a summer storm, a wildfire on the plain. The irritable growls of the wolfpack are silenced. We must pay heed.

Rapt with this fury that rages before us, it is impossible to look away. From the corner of my eye, I notice Becuma creeping slowly closer, as if she is being drawn forward almost against her will. By the flickering fire, her face changes from feral to fragile, from a snaggle fanged she-wolf to a drooling fool.

I recall, with a rush of anger, the last time I saw her. She was with her son Sean at the head of the mad chase after Lasair and Moriath at the Tara Feis. Indeed it was her shrill whistle that brought the others running.

"We will do as the wolves do!" Winter Mist is shrieking to the stars now, her head thrown back with wicked laughter. "My wolves we are going to hunt by the moonless nights every settlement we come across and take them for their worth!"

Her wolves. Yes, that's what we've suddenly become, like it or not. From somewhere on the hill, a long, blood-chilling howl answers the sidhe woman with an oath of its own. One by one, each of us rises to stand in silent allegiance. Weapons gleam in firelight and starlight.

Becuma shuffles to a halt. Her gaze locks with Winter Mist's stony glare. I lean forward eagerly to hear what she will say because now it is her turn to speak.