Footprints. Alex Archer

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      Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Merz for his contribution to this work.

      THE LEGEND

      ...THE ENLISH COMMANDER TOOK

       JOAN’S SWORD AND IT HIGH.

      The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.

      Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

      Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn….

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      Epilogue

      1

      Annja Creed ducked around another thick pine tree and paused. A cool breeze blew through her hair, which she’d recently had cut, thinking she should take a chance and go for a new look. After her stylist had taken a good six inches off, she realized she’d made a mistake.

      “You’re always on the go,” Rachel said, looking almost guilty. “It’s so much easier to take care of it like this, and besides, a lot of guys like short hair.”

      “Yeah, but I’m not sure I do,” Annja said.

      Rachel smiled at her and shrugged. “You can always grow it back.”

      Two days after the haircut, Annja hid out in her Brooklyn loft, desperately wondering how long she could get away with her self-imposed hibernation. She didn’t have any urgent commitments and she wasn’t due to film another segment of her popular cable television series, Chasing History’s Monsters, for a few weeks. She realized that having a lot of downtime made her restless and led to rash decisions like ill-advised makeovers. Then the e-mail had arrived that changed her plans and suddenly she was flying out to the Pacific Northwest.

      Now she stood in the forest on a trail that the guy who ran the combined gas station and grocery store had assured her would lead all the way to a small encampment hidden deep in the woods.

      “Stay on the trail,” he’d said sternly. “Don’t get off it—whatever happens.”

      “What is that supposed to mean?” Annja asked.

      He’d smiled at her. “That forest is like a maze of pine trees and vines that’ll trip you up and suck you under where no one can find you. You stay on the path, you’ll be all right. Venture off, and you’ll be lucky to be found by next spring.”

      She could see what he meant. Since parking her rented Jeep at the entrance to the trailhead, she’d had a hard enough time just trying to find the trail itself. It was incredibly overgrown, almost as if the woods themselves were desperate to reclaim it from civilization.