Spirit of the Night, Legend
Illus. Cliff Nielsen

There is a small waterhole cuddled under the ridge. More humans and goats boil in a small clearing beneath an immense monkeytree. The shaman and the Breathstealer shout.

The shadow is powerless, trapped by the leash of mind control, but it is not blind. Belly against the dirt, a panther crawls toward the ridge. The panther's eyes glow gold in the darkness. They are focused on the shaman. The feral shadow recognizes the look it sees there: the same anger it feels over the stripping of its soul by the Great Darkness. It watches the panther creep closer, and gather to pounce, and it stays silent.

The Breathstealer sees the panther's jump; they meet with the heavy crash of flesh. The shaman reaches down, gathers up the feral shadow in one hand. He begins another chanted spell.

Cupped in the shaman's hand like a crumpled scarf, the shadow watches the human and panther struggle and kill each other, watches the joined bodies fall to the ground together, teeth and knife holding them close. It dimly recognizes the words the shaman chants and knows it is about to die.

The Great Darkness is calling Night, imploring him (or her, or them) to come and feed, to gather together the sacrificed souls of panther and Breathstealer and shadow and bind them into a single spirit. The shadow knows well that it belongs to the Night already. It waits patiently for the Great Darkness to finish, and then, when it has been absorbed into the ritual, the shadow speaks for the first time, with its new, shared voice, deep, soft, harsh: "Yes, great sorcerer, how may we do your will?"