Powerful Magic by Karen Whiddon Page A

his.
               She contented herself with studying the landscape.   She'd never been to Wales, to Europe at all for that matter, and she found the gently rolling hills and thick forests beautiful.  
               She wondered if nine-hundred years had changed the wildness of it, civilized the purple hills like it had tamed the people.   At least her people.   She knew nothing about the Welsh.   If she got back, when she got back, she would have to do some research.   She would like to find out if history contained any record of this man, this Kenric of Blackstone.   At least then she could prove, if only to herself, that she hadn't lost her mind.
               The weak sun did nothing to dissipate the fog near the mountains.   It grew thicker the closer they got.   Megan wondered how this could be.   She had never seen fog with snow.
               "Look."   Kenric pointed to a far off hill nearly lost in the roiling mist.  
               Megan squinted.   She could barely make out the outline of a forbidding building, stone from the looks of it, and nearly as immense as one of Roger's office buildings in North Dallas.
               "It is Blackstone Keep, the place I was raised."
               She recognized the emotion in his voice, the fierce pride she saw on his handsome face.   About to ask if his family still lived there, she remembered that he'd said they were all dead and closed her mouth.  
               Still, she had an inexplicable urge to comfort him. Megan leaned forward, placing a hand on his broad shoulder.   "I think--"
               "Quiet."   The commanding tone in his deep voice silenced her as effectively as a gun shot.   Though he did not slow the horse's progress, it seemed to Megan that every muscle in Kenric's huge body was alert.
               She listened too, glancing intently around them at the shadows of trees and the insidious mist.   Glancing up at the sky, she saw the weak sun had vanished entirely.  
               Kenric's hand went to his sword.   "When I tell you, you must slide from the horse and roll into the underbrush." The command came low, in a guttural whisper, and urgent.
     
               Megan goggled at him. "I--."
               "Do you understand?"
               Heart pounding, she nodded.  
               With the sound of steel on leather, he unsheathed his sword.   It seemed to her terrified eyes to glow in the dim light.
               Then she heard it, the sound of hooves pounding the earth.   More than one horse pursued them, from the sound of it.
               Jaw set in a grim line, Kenric spun his horse around, turning to face the threat.  
               "Go."   He told her, giving her a small shove.   "Hide."  
               Somehow, she did it.   Slid from the horse, landed on her feet like a cat, and ran into the frozen, shadowy underbrush.   Dragging air into her lungs, she crawled under a dense bush, praying some hungry animal with sharp teeth did not hide there, waiting for her.   It would have been par for the course.
               But the threat that Kenric faced was worse, far worse.
               They burst into the clearing, three evil looking men with swords drawn, on huge war horses like Kenric's.  
               "Welsh."   Kenric cried, this time making the word both a battle cry and a curse.  
               Sparks flew as sword met sword.   Hooves churned snow.   They pivoted, spun, charged, the huge animals unbelievably agile.
               Though Kenric was outnumbered, she saw that he took care not to let them surround him.   He fought fiercely, downing one man and scattering the other two.   He was good.   Damn good.   Exactly like she would imagine someone who looked like him would be.
               But how long