Morgan rose to the surface and frantically waded to the sandbar, turning to shield Mercedes from the direction of the sniper. He crossed the sandbar in less than three strides and ducked into the forest just as another shot cracked through the air, hitting the dirt at his feet.
Morgan kept running deeper into the woods, heading downstream toward the sniper, hoping the villain wouldn’t expect him to move in that direction. Morgan ran a few hundred yards, then finally stopped and set Mercedes gently on the ground.
She was a bloody mess, nearly all of her flannel shirt soaked red, both front and back.
The bullet had gone straight through her body.
With shaking hands, Morgan popped all the buttons on the shirt and spread it open, revealing a small wound just below Mercedes’ right breast. Her breathing was labored.
She was unconscious, her face as pale as a winter’s moon, her eyes already sunken beneath eyelids that were blue with the promise of death.
Morgan forced his hands to remain steady as he worked the shirt off her shoulders and held her in a sitting position. He wrapped the blood-soaked flannel around her back and over her breasts and the wound, using the sleeves to tie it as tightly as he dared.
Swiping his forehead with a trembling and bloody hand, Morgan looked up and cocked his head, listening for sounds of the sniper moving in for the kill.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. They were miles from nowhere, and Mercedes would bleed to death before he could get her to civilization. He had to get to Daar’s magic burl and the stream to heal her before it was too late.
He heard a sound then, on the other side of the valley, the distinct shout of a man being surprised. A wolf’s growl was followed by another shot, but this time the muzzle was pointed in another direction.
Confident that the sniper was now occupied elsewhere, Morgan gently picked up Mercedes and ran through the forest again, back upstream. He kept to the woods and passed the sandbar, running until a bend in the stream concealed him from the other side of the valley. He set his wife down gently on the gravel and then ran back to the sandbar.
With only a negligent look across the valley, Morgan stepped onto the sand and gathered up his clothes and his sword, quickly draping the cherrywood burl around his neck as he ran back to Mercedes.
He tossed everything onto the ground beside her and picked her up, wading into the stream until it was deep enough for him to sit down. The moment the burl got wet, it started to hum against his chest. The water began churning, frothing around them and sparking to life with thousands of bubbles that rose to the surface as exploding green light.
He untied the shirt and pulled it from around her waist. Mercedes moaned, arching her back in pain. Morgan clasped her to his chest and lay back, sinking deeply into the stream. His body felt on fire as blinding green light blazed around him. He tightened his arms around his wife’s limp body and held her head just above the surface for a good ten minutes, gritting his teeth against the heat assaulting him.
He sat up finally and looked at her wound. It was still bleeding, frothy red bubbles oozing from it. She’d grown paler, more limp.
Morgan roared. The magic wasn’t working. “Dammit! I command you to work!” he shouted, grabbing the burl and tearing it from his neck.
Supporting her with his knees, Morgan tied the leather cord around Mercedes’ neck and straightened his legs to lower her into the water.
The green bubbles suddenly turned yellow, snapping with angry pops that filled the air with steam. Morgan lifted Mercedes just enough to see her wound. It wasn’t throbbing as the cut on his thigh had, but the bleeding seemed to have slowed.
It still wasn’t enough.
She was still dying.
Faol stepped out of the woods but stopped at the edge of the water. Morgan looked up to see the panting wolf frantically dancing from foot to foot, as if agitated. Faol whined, then barked, then trotted several paces upstream.
Morgan turned his attention back to his dying wife. Faol barked again, louder. He stepped into the water, then retreated, trotting upstream again, his bark turning into a keening howl.
Upstream.
The waterfall.
Nearer thedrùidh’s magic.
Morgan stood up and gently settled Mercedes against his chest. He waded out of the water and followed the wolf, who was now trotting quickly up the edge of the stream.
The desperate journey seemed to take forever before he finally reached the waterfall.
Morgan simply kept walking until he was standing shoulder-high in violently frothing water.
This time the light snapping around them was neither green nor yellow but a pure, blazing white that forced Morgan to close his eyes or be blinded. Heat radiated from Mercedes in waves so intense his arms and chest felt scorched.
The mist rising around them warmed the air with summerlike heat, making sweat break out on his forehead and scalp. Morgan stood solid against the assault, reciting prayers he’d all but forgotten since he had been a lad on his mother’s lap.
And he prayed, willing thedrùidh’s magic to save Mercedes’ life, to heal her wounds and bring her back to him whole and hearty and spitting mad. He stood until his muscles trembled with fatigue, willing Mercedes to live.
“I had a wonderful dream.”
Morgan snapped open his eyes and stared down at the woman in his arms. She was smiling sleepily up at him, her face flushed pink around heavy-lidded blue eyes.
“And what was it you dreamed about?” he whispered, his voice shaking as violently as his legs.
“I visited Daddy and Caroline. We had a picnic high up on a mountain overlooking a beautiful valley.”
Sweat broke out on his forehead again when Morgan realized that Mercedes had actually died for a while. She’d been with her father and sister and very well could have ended up staying.
“Caroline doesn’t blame me,” Mercedes whispered, drawing his attention again. “She told me the fire wasn’t my fault.”
“I’m glad you saw your family,” Morgan whispered. He shook her slightly. “Don’t go to sleep again, Mercedes,” he softly commanded when she closed her eyes.
“I’m so tired, Morgan. My muscles feel like jelly,” she mumbled, turning her face into his chest. She smiled again, snuggling comfortably against him.
Morgan waded to shore and fell to his knees on the sand, still clasping Mercedes tightly, finding himself unable to set her down. He knelt there for several minutes, silent tears rolling down his face. Over and over he repeated his thanks to God that his wife was alive.
Faol suddenly appeared and quietly padded up to them and nuzzled Mercedes’ hair, his tongue washing the entire side of her face. Morgan didn’t send the wolf away but let the animal see for himself that Mercedes was okay.
And still Morgan couldn’t put her down.
Faol started to whine and dance from foot to foot again, turning in circles, trotting to where the pool emptied out of the cliff-surrounded grotto they were in. He barked sharply and sat down, whining as his tail thumped the edge of the stream.
“I don’t care,” Morgan said softly to the wolf. “I will find our sniper and deal with him later. Mercedes needs my attention now.”
Faol yipped again, standing and looking nervously downstream.
“Go, then,” Morgan told the wolf. “Stand guard.”
Without further urging, Faol whirled and shot out of the grotto, his tail disappearing from sight in a blur.
Morgan looked down at Mercedes.
She was still sleeping, her eyes no longer sunken into her head, her cheeks a warm, healthy pink. He looked around for a soft place to set her down, inching forward on his knees just a bit before he gently laid her on a carpet of thick green moss.
He straightened, brushing back the hair from her face, feeling the heat of life on her skin.