The Last Arrow RH3 Read Online Free

afternoon. There was already a fine layer of mist curling around the tree trunks, swirling filmy fingers into small pockets of open air. The branches were so tightly woven overhead the sky was only a distant impression of pale blue. Brenna could not even be certain of the direction she had been running, for she had concentrated on keeping her head down and her ears trained for sound of pursuit. She was not overly worried about getting lost She had grown up in these woods and would have had to run without a break for two days and two nights before entering unfamiliar tracts of forest. But she held no advantage there over her pursuer. He had been hunting deer and boar and hare in these vast tracts since he was a child. Moreover, because he hunted her now, his senses would be at their peak, his instincts honed for blood, his determination a rival only for her own.
    The ground underfoot was soft and loamy, scenting the air with the rich decay of several centuries' worth of fallen leaves. Her skin was damp and cool. She had been running almost steadily for over an hour trying to keep ahead, trying to keep from being caught out in the open. She would have liked to strip off the doeskin jerkin she wore, for it was holding the sweat next to her skin. Her shirt was plastered uncomfortably across her back and breasts despite the brisk nip in the autumn air. Her leggings and tall kidskin boots were crusted with mud where she had splashed through a stream—her toes still squeaked with water when she rubbed them together—and one knee was split where she had ripped it on a thorn.
    She fingered aside the torn edges of chamois and cursed at the deep scratch in her flesh. It had stopped bleeding but it still stung like the devil, and she struggled to calm her heartbeat, to think, as she flicked out the bits of dirt that clung to the drying blood.
    Somewhere very close-by a twig snapped.
    It was only a faint sound, easily attributed to a rodent burrowing in a rotted tree trunk ... if one did not imagine the silently mouthed curse that instantly followed.
    Brenna parted her lips, drawing breath as quietly as possible. The sound had come from behind her, and luckily, she had the bulk of the ancient oak to shield any soft ripple of movement she might make. Inch by inch she maneuvered her bow off her shoulder—not an easy feat to accomplish in a cramped position. The weapon was nearly five feet in length, made of seasoned yew, and could fire an arrow with enough power to pierce through chain mail and with such swift, deadly accuracy a graceful fwoosh was usually the last sound its victim heard.
    She plucked a slender ashwood arrow out of her quiver and, keeping her back against the tree, slid herself upward until she stood waist deep in the ferns. He was there, all right. The narrowest sliver of a violet eye peeked around the gnarled bark and marked the shock of bright red hair visible through the labyrinth of tangled saplings. Fool. It was the only splash of color in an otherwise green world, and he thought to trip her up on errors.
    The initial sound had seemed deceptively close, distorted by the almost liquid silence of the forest. In reality her quarry stood more than fifty yards away, frozen himself against his own clumsiness, his golden hawk's eyes searching the surrounding woods even as Brenna slowly ran her tongue along the arrow's fletching, dampening the vanes to ensure there were no gaps or breaks in the feathers. The shaft itself was three feet long, tipped with a twice-tempered iron head that could, at this distance, penetrate clothing, flesh, bone, and muscle from shoulder to shoulder and pin him fast to the tree. The shot had to be perfect. Precise. She would not have a second chance.
    Brenna nocked the arrow, blew out a final breath, then wasted no time in setting herself. She stepped out from behind the tree, her bow arm already raised and straight, her feet planted solidly apart for balance. She drew the fletching back to her