Artur awoke with a start when the lightning struck, sending the horses into a frenzy. He lunged for their reins, trying to soothe them with gentle words until they stood still, just in time for a second bolt of lightning to undo all his work. Thankfully, he had tied them to tree, having learned the hard way that trudging by foot through muddy villages in search of two prize stallions was more than his priestly dignity could take. Especially after the incident with the old witch and the snakes, which had cost him a jeweled ring and three of the blessings he had brought with him from the City of Gods. He'd gotten back his horses, yes, but he had no intention of repeating the exercise. Even after more than ten years with the Order as a novice, an acolyte, and now an ordained priest, Artur found some shreds of his pagan childhood remained. He knew witches were no more than old women dabbling in divination and apothecary, but a part of him still insisted that these heretical old women [i]knew things[/i], and there were certain things Artur preferred to keep to himself.

The sound of thunder quieted, but didn't disappear altogether, much like the hum of the huge church bells continued to fill the chapel long after they had been struck. The horses crowded together, turning their ears and rolling their eyes nervously, wickering softly to each other and tossing their heads. Artur picked up the blankets they had thrown off and went to cover them, but it was useless, and he folded them into the saddlebags on the ground near the dying fire instead. The air continued to thrum and seemed to grow thicker as Artur tied his saddlebags. It wasn't his imagination, he realized. The fine blonde hairs on his arms stood up, and the back of his neck tingled. He looked nervously at the sky and, to his shock, discovered it was completely clear. The full moon shone brightly into the meadow where he had made his camp at sunset, and the fire had died to nearly embers . . . He drew in a sharp breath. It was the witching hour. His lips formed the Mother's prayer even as he turned slowly around on the balls of his feet, still crouched, assuring himself that his Circle of Protection remained intact. 

Slowly Artur stood and moved to the fire, coaxing it back to life with an incantation. It refused to give off more than a few tongues of weak yellow flame, and still the humming continued to grow, like a cloud of insects descending on the forest. The horses huddled closer and closer together. Artur wet his lips, turning in slow circles to watch the perimeter of his Circle, and began to recite the Guardian of Light, his soft, airy voice lost in the deafening hum of the night air.

"[i]I am the Guardian of Light
and the Gods go with me. 
Where the night is darkest
I go without fear
for my sword is a lantern
and the Gods are my light
and the darkness recedes
before the fire which never flickers
and the servants of darkness
cannot hunt me![/i]"

With the final word the flames of his little fire flared to the height of a man and something dark came flying into the Circle, breaking it. The horses screamed. Artur dove through the flames for his sword, rolling gracefully into a deep kneel and unsheathing the blade just in time to bar the next attack.