by Zoë Archer
Staunton, seeing her weaken slightly, pushed his advantage. His assault tripled, a fast blur of strikes, and she only able to defend herself, never take the lead.
Winning this fight would take more than strength, more than just raw rage and a desire to hurt. At this pace—exhausted, injured, thwarted—she would be joining Michael much sooner than she ever wanted. And leaving Nathan.
Another blow from Staunton rattled against her sword, sending jolts through her body, and Astrid sank onto one knee. Her head bent, hair curtaining her face, as her shoulders drooped. She let fall her sword arm, as if too heavy for her to support its weight, though she did not relinquish her hold.
Staunton looked down at her, his mouth curling into a vindictive smile. Astrid peered up at him as the breath grated in and out of her lungs.
“The best part about killing Bramfield,” he said, also panting, “was you. Watching you. As he died in your arms. To see his life drain away, and you couldn’t stop it.”
She stared at him.
He raised his arm up for the killing blow.
And Astrid sprang forward, thrusting her sword up, into his chest.
She pushed the blade so deep, only a few inches separated her from Staunton.
She looked into his shocked eyes. “Perhaps I’ll feel the same way watching you,” she said. Then she stepped back, leaving the sword lodged in place.
Staunton gazed at the sword in his chest, the hilt angled down where Astrid’s hands had left it. Astrid studied him, the play of emotion across his face as he realized that death had finally come for him and could not be averted.
As he turned ashen and stumbled to his knees, she said, “I was wrong. I don’t feel anything at all.”
He gaped at her, dismayed.
Then he pitched forward and was still.
Astrid waited. But Staunton did not move. Did not draw breath. With the toe of her boot, she turned him over. He stared up with sightless eyes, now a thing, no longer a man. She looked down at him, waiting for a sense of peace, of justice served. But she did not feel exultant. She did not feel relieved or renewed. All she felt was tired. So damned tired.
Animal sounds unlike any other drew her attention. She looked up and, across the seething battle, again saw Nathan in bear form, grappling on the ground with the werewolf. A pitched battle, animal against beast. They each savaged the other. Nathan was wounded, but he fought on, courageous.
That was when her heart soared. Not with the death of her enemy, but with the life of her beloved.
Picking up the sword that had dropped from Staunton’s hand, Astrid ran to join Nathan.
The hell of it was, Nathan couldn’t go to Astrid. He fought against the werewolf, trading bites, claws, all the while intensely aware of her battle with Staunton. Peripheral in Nathan’s vision but not his heart. When he saw her fall to one knee, Staunton poised with upraised sword above her, rage and terror unlike anything he’d ever experienced roared through him. He had to help.
But then Bracebridge, with his unnatural strength, caught Nathan about the waist and sent them both tumbling to the ground. Bracebridge gripped his throat with his teeth. Nathan lost sight of Astrid as he struggled for his own life.
As he rolled and grappled, she stayed in his mind. He had to drive onward, to protect her. If he failed in that—
“Nathan!”
Her voice. He glanced up and saw her close by, bloodied but alive. His glance flicked to Staunton’s body, sword sticking from it like Excalibur, then back to Astrid. She’d done it. Triumphed, and with her own strength.
The smile she gave him, exhausted but encouraging, gave him what he needed.
Growling, he lunged up, and the werewolf staggered back. Nathan advanced, slashing. He raked his claws over Bracebridge’s head. The Heir yowled in pain as Nathan’s claw caught him across his scalp. Nathan pressed his onslaught, and the werewolf shuffled backward, directly toward the fire burning in the middle of the encampment. What had been a small campfire now blazed, fed by several burning undead who now piled in a heap of ashes and bone. Thick, black smoke billowed up in a dark column, darker than the night sky overhead.
Seeing himself backed up against the fire, Bracebridge desperately surged forward. Nathan drove the werewolf back again with a snap of his teeth.
Bracebridge shuddered, then shrank. He shriveled into his human form, all pink flesh and red wounds. The crouching Heir looked down at his hands, no longer topped with claws, and groaned.
“No!” he cried. “My spell.” He glared up at Nathan. “Filthy savage. You cost me my magic.”
Nathan changed, casting off the cumbersome weight of his bear form, back into a man. “Then we finish this as equals.” He advanced, and Bracebridge scuttled back, until the fire stopped him.
“Careful, Nathan!” Astrid shouted. “The fire—”
Within the fire, a black shape materialized. Not smoke or burning timber. A figure.
It emerged from the fire. At first, the flames hid the form so that it appeared only a tall, dark shape. Then, as it stepped out from the blaze, it became a man. In English clothing. With a face scarred, misshapen. He’d been burned, Nathan realized. Terrible burns that had healed but left the man disfigured, a web of thick, angry flesh. One eye had fused shut, his mouth permanently twisted. None of that was as awful as the hate glinting in his gaze.
Bracebridge, cowering at the scarred man’s feet, looked up, eyes terrified. “Edgeworth! How did you—?”
“I’ve learned the fire now.” The man surveyed the encampment, the bodies of Heirs scattered like heaps of refuse. He glared at Nathan and Astrid in turn, and when he saw Graves advancing, the man’s sneer deepened. “You and your Hottentot family have been a thorn in the side of the Heirs for too long, Graves.”
Graves did not blink. “We’ve been Blades for nearly two hundred years, Edgeworth. How long has your family been Heirs?”
His remark hit home, because the man winced as if slapped. So he turned back to Astrid. “This does not matter,” he spat at her. “The Primal Source is ours and we will command it without your knowledge, stupid whore.”
Nathan growled, stepping forward. Whoever this Edgeworth was, he’d pay for his insult to her.
Before Nathan could reach him, Edgeworth grabbed Bracebridge by the arm and hauled the mage backward, toward the fire.
“No! No!” shouted Bracebridge. “I’ll be burned!”
“Not if you travel with me.” Edgeworth retreated, and flames licked at him and the mage without harm.
“Edgeworth! Here—help me!” Milbourne, bound and powerless, cried out.
Yet Edgeworth seemed little interested in aiding him. “Bracebridge has some of his magic left,” he said, scornful. “All you have is failure.” Then he and the mage sank back into the flames. The blaze engulfed them, and with a hiss, they disappeared into the fire, leaving Milbourne behind.
The captive Heir cursed. Then the battle lines moved over him. Undead warriors trampled him in retreat from advancing bears and wolves, uncaring that their errant swords slashed at the man on the ground. Heavy bears lumbered over Milbourne, crushing him. The sounds of his shattering bones and skull were lost underneath the clash.
This didn’t matter to Nathan. Neither did the sounds of battle, growing quieter now as the Earth Spirits destroyed the last of the undead. And Nathan didn’t care about the bodies of Staunton, Halling, Milbourne, the mercenaries, or Swift Cloud Woman. Even the totems, which Graves held out to Iron Wolf, were of no importance. He cared about one thing, one person, only.
Bloody, battered, he turned to Astrid, opening his arms.
She ran to him, and they held each other as if allowing even an inch to separate them meant the destruction of the world. As he embraced her, as she him, the length of her shaking body pressed against his own, he couldn’t feel his wounds or exhaustion. Instead, with her hands on him and her warm breath in his ear as she whispered, again and again, “Love you, love you,” and he saying exactly
the same thing, he felt the perfect rightness of their hearts locking together. Being made, finally, whole.
Chapter 20
The Battle Ends, the War Begins
Bittersweet, the end of battle. Sweet, because Nathan walked beside her through the encampment, his fingers laced with hers, his presence warm and strong—though tired and wounded—and she felt herself so replete with love for him, it eclipsed nearly everything.
But not all. Here was bitterness. As she, Nathan, Catullus, and Iron Wolf surveyed and tended the injured Earth Spirits, they found He Watches Stars in a small heap, stained with blood, face drawn and ashen, his breath rattling. Near him lay his heavy war ax, streaked with a surprising amount of gore.
As dawn began to lighten the sky, Astrid knelt beside him, cradling him in her arms, as the others gathered close. He Watches Stars’ slightness surprised her, as if most of his soul, and weight, had already fled. Astrid shared a worried look with Nathan at the shallowness of the old man’s breathing.
“Warrior and medicine man,” Astrid murmured, brushing his damp gray hair from his forehead. “You are a man of many arts.”
He Watches Stars gave her a small, tight smile. “This world is made up of more than spirit. It always pays to know how to wield an ax.” He winced as pain moved through him.
“Be at rest, Grandfather,” said Nathan, placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We will tend your honorable wounds.”
“Morning Hawk Woman,” Iron Wolf called over his shoulder. A young woman hurried forward. “He Watches Stars has need of your healing skills.”
“No,” rasped the medicine man. “I saw this night, long ago. The night I was to join the stars and sky. But I am glad.” He turned ancient eyes to Nathan. “For I have seen and fought beside the One Who Is Three.” He took Nathan’s hand in his own, shaking. “Your journey does not end here.” His other hand wrapped around Astrid’s, and it was both fragile and strong. “And you will not be alone.” The medicine man gazed at Astrid. She felt herself pulled into the dark, powerful currents within his fathomless eyes. “No longer Hunter Shadow Woman. Bright Star Woman. And her mate. Together…a force…unstoppable.”
Then, under many watchful, stricken eyes, He Watches Stars stilled. She felt it, when the spirit left behind the shell of his body, for he grew lighter, and what she held in her arms was as substantial as a fallen leaf.
Astrid carefully lowered him to the ground, closing his eyes. Her throat ached. She wearied of death, because it never seemed to end and was, ultimately, inescapable. At some point, everyone must pass through the shadowy veil into…she did not know.
Nathan’s broad, warm hand against her cheek brought her back to the realm of life. His gaze held hers. There, she saw his own sorrow at the medicine man’s passing, but also the promise and fulfillment of joy. Once, she would have run from such promise. Now she ran toward it, toward him.
One consolation—He Watches Stars was the only casualty of the Earth Spirits. There were many wounded, but, to a one, each member of the tribe gloried in their injuries, proof of a battle well fought.
Nathan gave her another caress before moving toward Iron Wolf, hand extended.
“I haven’t words to truly thank you,” Nathan said, gruff. “Not as you and the tribe deserve, for coming to my aid.”
The chief stared down at the offered hand before taking it. “You are our brother. We heard the sorrow in your howl, and we came. The tribe sees to its people.”
Nathan, solemn-eyed, clasped the chief’s hand and seemed to grow even taller. Astrid’s heart brimmed.
Though she hated to disrupt the moment of connection between Nathan and his tribe, she had to ask, “What is to become of the totems?”
Iron Wolf released his grasp of Nathan’s hand. “He Watches Stars told me what must be done, should the totems be restored to us.” He glanced up at the lightening sky. “Now is the time. Come.”
Everyone moved through the forest, to stand upon the banks of a nearby river. It flowed, wide, quick, and clean, before branching into three directions.
Iron Wolf gripped the totems by their leather cords, holding them over the rushing water. “Great Spirit,” he intoned, “and the spirits of these sacred mountains and rivers, your children entrust their medicine to you. Take these totems, these vessels of power, and hide them from those that would corrupt their strength through greed and foolishness. This, your children humbly ask you.”
The chief cast the totems into the river. The assembled people watched silently as the totems disappeared into the roiling white water. A gasp sounded from the crowd as the hawk totem was flung up into the air by the churning foam. But the totem did not fall back into the water. Instead, it rose up into the air, as if carried by an invisible hawk, disappearing into the clouds.
All eyes turned to the two remaining totems. The wolf totem sped down one path of the river, the bear down another. Soon, they had both vanished into nature.
Iron Wolf nodded. “The Great Spirit is wise, and now none shall have knowledge of the totems.”
Quietly, the crowd returned to the encampment, everyone quiet and awed by what had transpired, even Astrid, Nathan, and Catullus.
“There will be many scars and many stories,” said Iron Wolf. “Such tales will last for generations.” He glanced at the burning mounds of the undead, now very much dead, and at three Earth Spirits, who strode forward to heft the falcon’s carcass onto the growing bonfire. No one touched the bodies of Swift Cloud Woman, Staunton, Milbourne, and Halling, leaving them to scavengers.
Fitting, thought Astrid. The Heirs were nothing but carrion.
But not all of them.
Nathan followed her gaze, and a crease appeared between his dark brows. “Bracebridge escaped,” he growled.
“To England,” she answered.
Catullus said, “The man in the fire, Jonas Edgeworth. He is the leader of the Heirs now.”
“That scarred madman?” asked Astrid.
Grim, Catullus nodded. “He’s been warped by rage and magic. Which makes the fact that he has the Primal Source all the more terrifying.”
“So we must leave for England,” Nathan said at once. “Right away.”
At his words, Astrid felt as if the sun rose not overhead but within her, radiant with love. He held true to his vow, that he would go where she went, that her battles were his.
Iron Wolf could not understand their conversation, since they spoke in English, so Nathan turned to the chief. “I must leave the tribe.”
“But you are the One Who Is Three,” Iron Wolf objected.
“What does that mean?” asked Astrid.
“The One Who Is Three is a bringer of peace in times of trouble. And now that the white man draws closer and closer to our territory, as the Earth Spirits hear of the harm done to other Native people, we have more need of the One Who Is Three than ever.” Iron Wolf frowned, deeply troubled.
Nathan turned to Astrid. “When the fight against the Heirs is over, will you come back with me?” He held her hands in his own, his gaze black and penetrating, full of strength and steel, yet also, beneath, revealing a core of need. She knew it cost him to expose this need, and felt humbled and joyous to be the one he trusted.
“Of course,” she answered immediately.
He actually let out a breath, as if nervous about her answer, then smiled so brilliantly she felt herself borne aloft.
But Catullus’s rueful chuckle brought her back down to earth. “You are both awfully confident of our triumph against the Heirs. There is a war to be fought,” he said. “And we will be on the front lines of that war. Nothing, especially victory, is certain.”
Nathan tugged Astrid closer, then wrapped her in his lean, capable arms. His lips pressed against the top of her head. She breathed him in, the scents of blood and dirt and sweat. He was solid and real, a man who had fought through the ramparts she’d built around her heart, to bring her back to life.
“True,” she said. “But the
re’s no excitement in certainty, and if there is anything that rebels love, it’s risk.” She gazed up at Nathan. “And I am more than willing to take that risk.”
“We’ll tear the world down,” Nathan rumbled. The animal shone within his eyes, wild and fierce, and the man, as well, just as ferocious.
As they came together in a heated kiss, she understood. Love had not tamed him. Nor her. They were both creatures that could never surrender. She saw in him the mirror of her soul, and knew that together they would set the world ablaze.
The sun broke over the tops of the trees, and morning began.
Epilogue
Hunting a Story
She really should leave.
Gemma Murphy looked around the muddy yard surrounding the trading post, hands planted on her hips. She paid no attention to the rain that dampened her hair, since she had grown used to an almost incessant drizzle for the past week. It was one of many signs that winter was fast approaching. Soon, the Northwest Territory would be blanketed with snow, making travel nearly impossible and extremely dangerous.
Though it might make for an interesting coda to the piece she had been writing, she hadn’t much desire to freeze to death on her way back to Chicago. It was not as though she lacked material for her story.
Two months had seen her penning a series of articles she planned on titling “One Woman’s Journey into the Heart of the Wild.” She’d watched countless fur trade transactions, lived for a spell with a trapper and his Native wife, even stayed with a local Stoney Indian tribe. In truth, she could write a whole book about her adventures here in the Canadian Rockies, but she wasn’t a novelist, she was a journalist. And, by God, she would prove it to those narrow-minded lummoxes at the Tribune.
Gemma strode through the yard, nodding her greetings to the men lingering there. She felt their eyes on her, but she was well used to the sensation. At the paper, she was one of two female writers, and out in the Northwest Territory, women were in short supply. However, the men out here in the wilderness were a good sight more respectful than the sniggering jackasses who called themselves reporters. Each time she walked through the paper’s doors and into the nest of cramped desks, everyone stared at her as if she was some stranger who had wandered in off the streets. A stranger with a full bosom.
