The Alpha's Concubine (Historical Shifter Romance) (53 page)

Snapping herself out of her drowsy observations, Netya left the glorious view behind her and shuffled back down the slope. Sundown was approaching fast, and she was beginning to despair of happening across food or safety before night made it impossible to find either.

A short distance down the bank she caught sight of more trees, but the closer she drew the more hopeless her chances of reaching them became. A small patch of green spread across the top of an outcrop jutting up at the edge of the river. An impossibly steep overhang overlooked the plains on one side, while the other had crumbled away into the churning water. The approach from the river side looked to be the only way up, but as the ground eroded away it revealed a despairingly familiar stretch of shale, steep and slippery, and likely to send anyone attempting to climb it tumbling into the sharp rocks and rushing water below.

Netya looked up and down the river in despair. The sun was disappearing beyond the horizon. In a vain attempt to brave the slope, she dug the shaft of her spear into the ground, feeling soft chunks of shale break off around it as she struggled to force it in and gain purchase.

Much to her surprise, it worked. She tried to take a few steps forward with the aid of her spear, but she did not get far before realising she would need to tug it free and drive it in farther up the slope to make any more progress. The ground was still too uneven to keep her footing, and she dared not risk the climb yet.

Slinging her spear across her back, Netya gave one last look to her surroundings, before hurrying back the way she had come. There was no time left to explore further, but she had seen her chance, and it was all she had. Retracing her steps to the spot between the monoliths, she began searching the expanse of scattered stones in the shallows for what she needed. It was not difficult to find a hard, round stone that had been polished smooth by the water. A serviceable hammerstone for knapping. Tracking down a piece of rock she could work with proved more difficult, but her time with Erech and the craftspeople had taught her to identify which stones could be worked into tools.

There was no flint or chert, and with the light dwindling she could not afford to search for long, so she settled for a chunk of dark basalt instead. It took several strikes for her to split a fragment off, and each ringing impact of the hammerstone made her wince. The reverberations running up her trembling arm almost made her drop the improvised tool, but within a few more strikes she had produced a flat face to work with. Squinting down through blurry eyes, she turned the piece of basalt on her knee and found a natural edge from which she could drive off a large flake. It would not make for an elegant tool, but it might be enough for her purposes.

A few more strikes detached a broad piece of rock and several smaller fragments, but the piece she had hoped to use shattered to almost half its original breadth as it came off. Netya picked up the largest remaining flake and hefted it in her hand. There was a blunt edge for her to grip on one side, and a partially sharp blade on the other. It was brittle and worthless by the standards of any craftsman, but she hoped it would be enough for her purposes.

Running back to the trees, she picked out two branches roughly the diameter of her spear, broad enough to grip and sturdy enough not to bend too much. She struggled to focus the last of her energy into her limp muscles, swinging the crude hand axe into the base of the first branch until she was able to snap it off at the trunk, before hacking away at the small tether of bark that remained. The sharp edge of her axe broke off before she was done with the second branch, but she managed to work it loose and trim off the twigs with what she had left. Without a proper blade for whittling there was only so much she could do to shape the ends of her branches, but she managed to scrape them down until they were pointed enough to be driven into the earth.

She wiped the sweat from her brow and stumbled back through the shallows to the edge of the river, pondering whether to keep her blunted axe for a moment, before tossing it aside to shatter on the rocks.

By the time she got back to the shale slope the light had faded almost entirely. She hoped the hunters had made camp for the night, but there was no way to be sure. If they were fuelled by the desire to bring down one of their enemies —and to free their poor Netya from the curse they believed she bore—they might not rest until dawn.

Taking a branch in each hand, she began to make her way up the slope. The fragmenting shale was buried in a bank of clay and mud, making for several secure spots into which she could drive the pointed ends of her improvised climbing sticks. One step after another, she fought her way up the incline. Every time the covering of stone fragments went out from beneath her feet she clung on to the branches for dear life, wobbling and skidding until her moccasins found purchase again. If she could make it to the top of the small outcrop, the hunters would be unlikely to find her that night. Whether they redoubled their efforts and scaled her hiding place the following morning, however, was another matter.

With one of her branches already cracking near the base, Netya finally collapsed at the top of the slope, throwing herself down on the soft grass that greeted her. After catching her breath for a few moments, she picked herself up and examined her hiding place in more detail. It was exposed, but if she kept away from the edges nobody was likely to see her. A spurt of undergrowth near the middle was the only shelter she had, and without a fire it was likely to be a cold night.

Upon closer inspection, Netya was relieved to find a few clusters of partially ripe berries hanging from the half dozen trees atop the outcrop. Despite their bitterness, she ate as many as she could before washing them down with a drink from her waterskin. More berries lingered higher in the branches, but she was too tired to try and climb up to get them. The next morning she would forage all she could before continuing on with her journey. She prayed to the spirits for the hunters to have given up by then.

Despite the bleakness of her situation, for the first time since daybreak she began to feel a little safer. It was strange, she thought to herself, as she untied her damp moccasins, how in the darkest of times the smallest things became so special. The warmth and comfort of her wolf pelt was not the gentle embrace of a mother, but, as the wind picked up, it felt almost as good.

Burrowing in between the bushes at the base of two trees, Netya made as comfortable of a space as she could manage for herself, then huddled up to sleep. She tried not to think of anything. Any place her thoughts ventured would only bring pain. The chase had left her no room to focus on anything but her own survival, and as she huddled there in the growing dark, she almost wished she was still running. When she remembered that Adel was likely dead by now, she began to cry.

All the faces of her friends returned to her. She clutched her wolf pelt, imagining it was Fern. The tree trunks behind her were Khelt's strong body. The whispering of the wind was Caspian's breath on her cheek. It did not matter that many of the Moon People had been wary, even openly hostile to her. The ones that welcomed her had made her feel like she belonged. Though she had not been born to them, the pack had become a second family to her.

Thankfully it did not take long before exhaustion saved Netya from her misery. As her mind fogged, there was only one person she wished was there to comfort her. The one who was always calm, always understanding. Whose presence made her feel like nothing in the world could harm her, because he would always know what to do. He understood the world, and he understood her.

It was only now, when it was already too late, that her heart had the courage to be honest with her.

—
40—

The Pyre

Netya jolted awake, her hands flying to the shaft of her spear as a cry of alarm split the air. She clawed her way out of the bushes in a panic, remembering the hunters, before more voices echoed the first. The sun had risen, but the top of the small outcrop was still empty. They had not found her while she slept.

Her arms shaking, she crawled to the edge overlooking the plains and peered down. The voices had come from the trees below. Something was happening, but she could not tell what. A wolf howled, and a moment later two brown-furred bodies streaked out into the open, coming from the direction of the river, before diving through a screen of bushes and vanishing again.

Netya's heart leaped. They had been too large and distinct to be wild animals. Resisting the urge to call out, she stared wide-eyed at the area of trees and foliage beneath her, trying to wrap her thoughts around what was happening. A savage warning bark sounded a moment later, followed by more howling that sent every bird in the vicinity fluttering from its perch. She caught a glimpse of several people running between the trees. By the look of them, they were the hunters that had been chasing her, and they were headed straight for the wolves.

Fear should have kept Netya safely out of harm's way. She should have waited, weighed what was happening, or maybe even taken advantage of the commotion to slip away while the hunters were preoccupied. But her only concern in that moment was for the lives of the people down below. What if those wolves, or those hunters, were people she cared for? Perhaps it was only Netya's hopeless disregard for herself that drove her, but she did not want to be responsible for any more deaths that day.

The sound of fighting reached her ears as she tugged on her moccasins and grabbed her climbing sticks from where she had dropped them. There was no time to make the descent back down the slope carefully. A scream echoed off the rocks, and Netya's blood ran cold when a sickly gurgling sound cut it short.

Ignoring the path she had taken to climb up, she dropped the pointed branches and threw her legs over the opposite side of the outcrop, not daring to think about what might happen if she took a bad fall. The drop was not far enough to kill a person, but it was still uncomfortably long. Clinging on by her fingertips until the soft earth beneath them crumbled, she lowered herself as far as she could, then half-fell, half-slid the rest of the way.

Her body reverberated as she hit the ground, but there was no explosion of pain to signal the breaking of any bones. The bushes crashed nearby, bloodthirsty growls and the cries of panicked voices still filling the air. Netya clambered to her feet, slinging her spear off her back as she broke into a run, making directly for the sounds of battle. Her feet tripped down the slope. She saw blood on the grass. More spatters of red dripped from the leaves of the bushes.

One of the hunters burst out from the undergrowth, staring at her with wild eyes as he brandished the broken shaft of a spear. He barely paused to register the girl standing in front of him before dashing in the opposite direction, dropping his useless weapon behind him as he went.

All of a sudden, the air fell quiet. Netya held still, the point of her spear raised at the bloody bushes. Just like that, it seemed to have ended as quickly as it had begun. She crept forward, straining her ears to listen, expecting someone else to burst out at any moment. But as the silence continued, urgency overcame caution. She dreaded what she might see when she stepped through the bushes, but there was no avoiding it now. Pushing the twigs aside, she edged through into the clearing beyond.

Netya thought she had known death. The deaths of elders, the death of her father, and the deaths of those others who had fallen victim to the Moon People over the years. She understood it, but she had never seen it with her own eyes. She had never been forced to see the still body of someone who had been so strong and full of life moments before. She was not prepared for what greeted her in the clearing.

Her legs moved automatically, only because she dared not stop to take in the stark truth of what she was seeing. Up close, she recognised the two wolves she had seen dashing from the river. Hawk's body lay lifeless atop Essie's. He had been standing over her, protecting his mate from the points of the spears that pierced their bodies. Essie's eyes were closed, but Hawk's stared blankly across the ground in front of him, his teeth still bared and dripping with blood. The air was thick with the smell of it.

Still trying to come to terms with what she was seeing, Netya's gaze drifted to the two dead men sprawled on their backs a short distance away. The first she did not recognise. Either he was new to the village, or he had been a traveller passing through when the hunters set out.

The second man was her uncle.

She let go of her spear, the weapon falling from her hand as she collapsed to her knees. Seeing a face she had known since childhood was the hammerblow that drove the strength from her body. He was too old to have been hunting. Perhaps he felt responsible for tracking her down himself. His body was still warm. The blood on Hawk's fangs had lingered there when he tore out her uncle's throat.

An angry sob burst from Netya's chest as she curled her fingernails into her palm and beat it against the ground. Why had this happened? Why did they have to fight? Why would anyone do this to another person?

"Why?!" she cried, tearing up a handful of grass in frustration, before burying her face in her palms.
Was this all my doing?
After everything she had been through, the bloody scene was more than Netya could bear. So much death and misery, and for what? Hawk and Essie's daughter would be waiting for them to return. Netya's mother and sisters would be anxious for her uncle's safety. Would the third man's loved ones ever know what became of him?