She shuddered, and either it was her bones popping or she heard gunshots. Her ears felt stuffed with cotton and her mouth dry as dust. Her vision was blurry, but she could still hear the commotion on the other side of the door. Shouts, the clanging of metal. She could only guess what the scoundrels were up to, but as long as they weren't focused on her, they could do whatever they liked.
The door slammed open and Gerard stumbled in clutching his side, blood spilling over his fingers. A scream escaped her as he stumbled toward her but didn't quite make it. He dropped to his knees, one hand reaching for her skirts. His head bowed, and that's when inspiration struck. A strange sense of calm came over her. She put her foot on his shoulder, and it was just enough of a lift that she pushed off, jumping, and simultaneously swinging her numb wrists over the hook. She came down on his back, and he groaned as she landed on him, but she didn't waste any time. Willa ran for the door. She paused in the entryway, the sight of a giant mountain of a man swinging a mace flail at a sword-wielding helmeted knight more than her mind could comprehend. At that moment, the knight looked at her and froze just as the mace swung around and clobbered him in the side of the head.
The man spun like a top, but as he came around again, his sword arced out, slicing the giant across the belly. Willa covered her eyes, shielding herself from whatever gore there may be, and bolted toward the only door she knew that led to the outside. As she passed a table with an oil lamp turned high, another thought struck her, and she swiped it to the floor, oil and fire spreading out like an evil hand, and she didn't look back as she ran through the door.
Chapter 8
Wesley didn't know how his head was still attached to his shoulders, but as the room spun, he was certain he saw Willa bolting through the exit before fire erupted in the room. He dropped the sword. The felled man seemed like he might survive the swipe across his middle, his leather apron protecting him, but now a wall of fire stood between them. Luckily, his exit was clear.
Wesley clutched his head, stumbling out of the building after her. The bright light of the morning infiltrated the slits in the helmet, piercing his eyes. He fell to his knees, woozy and struggling to stand again. If not for her thrashing as she shoved her way through the brush, he would've lost her completely. He looked back toward the forge, but no one was following him. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his head, and charged into the brush after her. He tried calling her name, but his lip was swelling and he tasted blood in his mouth. That mace flail did more damage than he thought.
“Willa,” he called out to her, wincing as his lip split. His heart pounded, blood rushing hot and determined through his veins. The fogginess in his mind cleared, and he caught sight of her up ahead, fighting to free her sleeve from a thorny bush. He rushed after her. She turned back, catching sight of him, her eyes widening with fear. He tried to speak but his mouth filled with blood, and he put up a hand, hoping to signal her, but she ran on. The brush-choked path broke open into a meadow, and he had no idea where they were or which direction they were headed.
He only needed her to stop, so that he could take a breath and show her he was not one of those men. The burst of energy he had before quickly waned. He grew tired and nauseous. That blow to the head with a mace flail, even with his thick metal helmet, may just have done him in.
He stumbled into the clearing and reached out to her but fell to his knees. His vision narrowed to a tunnel, and she was farther and farther away, still running from him.
His mind grew very clear and wistfully he thought…
I'm dying. She's the last thing I'll see.
He fell to the ground, pain exploding in his head and then darkness.
* * *
Willa glanced back once, seeing that her pursuer had fallen to the ground. She hesitated, not that she should have sympathy for the highwayman, but it was because of him that she'd gotten away. He was dressed like the others, but something about him had been different. His clothes were not as filthy, and he'd fought against them. He created the disturbance that allowed her to escape.
Could she leave him to die?
The urge to flee was strong, but her conscience was stronger. She knelt and picked up a rock almost as large as her hand to bludgeon him with, just in case his intentions were not as noble as they seemed. She approached him slowly, prepared to flee if he moved at all.
He didn't move. At his neck collar, she could see the spreading of blood below the large dent in the helmet. He wore a knight’s helmet, an old and rusted antique by the looks of it. She slowly knelt beside him and shook his shoulder. He moaned and she fell back on her bottom with a yelp.
With one hand, he clutched the helmet and a slow trickle of blood ran out from underneath.
“You are wounded, sir, let me help you,” she said. “I don't want to leave you so indisposed, but I will if you make any rash movements.”
He attempted to sit up but then collapsed again, mumbling incomprehensible words as he lay on his back. He reached for the helmet with both hands and tried to remove it, but without even budging it, he cried out and more blood dripped from underneath.
“It appears to be stuck,” she said.
He just barely nodded, and he pointed to the large dent.
“Can you not talk?”
He very slowly shook his head as though even that small movement was too painful to attempt.
“You need help.” What was she going to do? He could hardly walk. He lay back, still breathing, steadier this time and deeper.
Smoke rose above the trees, the acrid scent swiftly overtaking the pleasant mossy freshness of the meadow.
“Oh no,” Willa whispered, “if we ran from the fire, so might have they.”
She shook his shoulder. “I don't want to have to leave you, but I will,” she warned him, but that wasn't true. There was no part of her that could desert the man who had risked his life for her. He would be at the mercy of anyone, anything. He was as helpless as a newborn babe.
“Please, you have to get up. We can't stay here.”
His hand lifted from the ground, weakly reaching for her. Willa took it.
