Free Judith E. French by Moon Dancer

tightened his grip. The Seneca struggled for only seconds, then stiffened. His eyes went wide and his mouth opened. Wolf Shadow released him, and he slowly crumbled forward. Fiona saw the bloody knife wounds in the Seneca’s back just before his startled face hit the water.
    Wolf Shadow was already lunging toward the one-eyed man, swinging his musket like a club. The scarred Seneca whirled, saw Wolf Shadow, and let out a guttural cry. He blocked the musket with his axe, staggering back under the force of the blow.
    Fiona blinked as a knife appeared in the Seneca’s free hand. “Shoot him!” she cried to Wolf Shadow.
    The one-eyed warrior slashed out with the knife. Wolf Shadow dodged the thrust and swung the musket again. Suddenly remembering the fist-sized rock in her hand, Fiona flung it with all her might, striking the Seneca full in the mouth.
    Wolf Shadow leaped on top of the Seneca, and the two went down locked in mortal combat. Over and over they rolled in the water. Fiona shuddered as sunlight gleamed on the Seneca’s knife blade. She reached down into the stream for another rock and lifted it high, waiting for a chance to throw it at the painted warrior without hitting Wolf Shadow.
    Blood ran down Wolf Shadow’s arm, but he paid it no heed. Inch by inch, he forced the Seneca’s head back until water covered his face. Fiona caught a glimpse of the brave’s fear-filled eyes, and pity knifed through her as the man struggled wildly.
    “Stop!” she cried. “He’s drowning.” Bubbles rose to the water’s surface. The man had nearly stopped kicking, but still, Wolf Shadow held the barrel of his musket across the Seneca’s throat. “Let him up,” Fiona insisted. “You’re murdering him.”
    Wolf Shadow gave no sign that he heard her.
    “Stop it!” Fiona pounded his back with her fists. “Let him up before he drowns.”
    A minute passed, seeming to Fiona like hours. Finally the wolf-man released the pressure on the musket and stood up. The Seneca’s head remained submerged; his moccasined feet bobbed in the running water.
    “Murderer,” she accused. She turned toward the bank, stumbling, shivering. She felt suddenly exhausted.
    Wolf Shadow pulled the scarfaced man from the water and dragged him to the place where he’d hidden her beneath the falls. He removed his wolfskin cloak and his second musket, and shoved the body of the dead warrior upright in the cavity. Then he recovered the body of the brave he’d slain with a knife and placed him beside the first man. Lastly he took a corner of the wolfskin, a section from which dangled a claw, and, using the Seneca’s own blood, imprinted the pawprint of a wolf on each dead man’s forehead.
    Horrified by the barbaric act, Fiona shuddered and covered her face with her hands. How had she forgotten that Wolf Shadow was an uncivilized savage? Now he’d reminded her by murdering two men before her eyes and then defacing their corpses. “You didn’t ... didn’t have . . . to ...” Her speech sounded strangely slurred. She was cold—so cold.
    “Irishwoman, can you walk?”
    Fiona lowered her hands and looked into Wolf Shadow’s face. “Don’t ... touch me,” she warned him. “Don’t ...” She blinked her eyes and swayed. The earth seemed to open before her, and she cried out softly as she tumbled into a black void.
     
    The odors of wet wool and roasting meat teased Fiona’s consciousness. She moaned and snuggled deeper in the soft, warm furs. The sound of a rich male voice singing seemed to come from far away. She couldn’t understand the words, and the repetitive rise and fall of the melody was totally alien. Yet in some subtle way it soothed her. The chanting surrounded her, wrapped her in a protective cloak, and made her feel safe and loved.
    She sighed as the tension drained from her muscles. She felt as though she were cradled on a warm blanket of clouds. The cold ... the fear ... the confusion ... all were fading memories. She moistened