Only the Worthy. Morgan Rice

jolt of adrenaline, too, and her labor pains momentarily subsided. For a brief moment, she felt back to herself.

      The first of the villagers arrived, a short, fat man, running for her, holding out a sickle. As he neared, Rea reached back, grabbed the pitchfork with both hands, stepped sideways, and released a primal scream as she drove it right through his gut.

      The man stopped in shock, then collapsed at her feet. The mob stopped, too, looking at her in shock, clearly not expecting that.

      Rea did not wait. She extracted the pitchfork in one quick motion, spun it overhead, and smashed the next villager across the cheek as he lunged at her with his club. He, too, dropped, landing in the snow at her feet.

      Rea felt an awful pain in her side as another man rushed forward and tackled her, driving her down into the snow. They slid several feet, Rea groaning in pain as she felt the baby kicking within her. She wrestled with the man in the snow, fighting for her life, and as his grip momentarily loosened, Rea, desperate, sank her teeth into his cheek. He shrieked as she bit down hard, drawing blood, tasting it, not willing to let go, thinking of her baby.

      Finally he rolled off of her, grabbing his cheek, and Rea saw her opportunity. Slipping in the snow, she crawled to her feet, ready to run. She was nearly there when suddenly she felt a hand grab her hair from behind. This man nearly yanked her hair out of her head as he pulled her back down to the ground and dragged her along. She looked back to see Severn scowling down at her.

      “You should have listened when you had the chance,” he seethed. “Now you will be killed, along with your baby.”

      Rea heard a cheer from the mob, and she knew she had reached her end. She closed her eyes and prayed. She had never been a religious person, but at this moment, she found God.

      I pray, with every ounce of who I am, that this child be saved. You can let me die. Just save the child.

      As if her prayers were answered, she suddenly felt the release of pressure on her hair, while at the same time she heard a thump. She looked up, startled, wondering what could have happened.

      When she saw who had come to her rescue, she was stunned. It was a boy – Nick – several years younger than her. The son of a peasant farmer, like she, he had never been that bright, always picked on by the others. Yet she had always been kind to him. Perhaps he remembered.

      She watched as Nick raised a club and smashed Severn in the side of the head, knocking him off of her.

      Nick then faced off with the mob, holding out his club and blocking her from the others.

      “Go quickly!” he yelled to her. “Before they kill you!”

      Rea stared back at him with gratitude and shock. This mob would surely pummel him.

      She jumped to her feet and ran, slipping as she went, determined to get far while she still had time. She ducked into alleyways, and before she disappeared, she glanced back to see Nick swinging wildly at the villagers, clubbing several of them. Several men, though, pressed forward and tackled him to the ground. With him out of the way, they ran after her.

      Rea ran. Gasping for breath, she twisted and turned through the alleys, looking for shelter. Heaving, in horrific pain, she did not know how much farther she could go.

      She finally found herself exiting into the village proper, with its elegant stone houses, and she glanced back with dread to see they were closing in, hardly twenty feet away. She gasped, stumbling more than running. She knew she was reaching her end. Another labor pain was coming.

      Suddenly there came a sharp creak, and Rea looked up to see an ancient oak door before her open wide. She was startled to see Fioth, the old apothecary, peek out from his small stone fort, wide-eyed, beckoning her to enter quickly. Fioth reached out and yanked her with a grip surprisingly strong for his old age, and Rea found herself stumbling through the door of the luxurious keep.

      He slammed and bolted it behind her.

      A moment later the thumping came, the hands and sickles of dozens of irate villagers trying to knock it down. Yet the door held, to Rea’s immense relief. It was a foot thick and centuries older than she. Its heavy iron bolts did not even bend.

      Rea breathed deep. Her baby was safe.

      Fioth leaned over and examined her, his face filled with compassion, and seeing his gentle look helped her more than anything else. No one had looked upon her with kindness in this village for months.

      He removed her furs as she gasped from another labor pain. It was quiet in here, the gales of snow brushing the roof muted, and very warm.

      Fioth led her to the fire’s side and laid her down on a pile of furs. It was then that it all hit her: the running, the fighting, the pain. She collapsed. Even if there were a thousand men knocking down the door, she knew she could not move again.

      She shrieked as a sharp labor pain tore through her.

      “I can’t run,” Rea gasped, beginning to cry. “I cannot run anymore.”

      He ran a cool, damp cloth across her forehead.

      “No need to run anymore,” he said, his voice, ancient, reassuring, as if he had seen it all before. “I am here now.”

      She shrieked and groaned as another pain ripped through her. She felt as if she were being torn in two.

      “Lean back!” he commanded.

      She did as she was told – and a second later, she felt it. A tremendous pressure between her legs.

      There suddenly came a sound that terrified her.

      A wail.

      The scream of a baby.

      She nearly blacked out from the pain.

      She watched the apothecary’s expert hands, as she went in and out of consciousness, pulling the child from her, reaching out with something sharp, cutting the umbilical cord. She watched him wipe the baby with a cloth, clear its lungs, nose, throat.

      The wail and scream came even louder.

      Rea burst into tears. It was such a relief to hear the sound, penetrating her heart, rising even above the slamming of the villagers against the door. A child.

      Her child.

      He was alive. Against all odds, he had been born.

      Rea was dimly aware of the apothecary wrapping him in a blanket, and then she felt the warmth as he placed him in her arms. She felt the weight of him on her chest, and she held him tight as he screamed and wailed. She had never been so overjoyed, tears gushing down her face.

      Suddenly, there came a new sound: horses galloping. The clanging of armor. And then, shrieks. It was no longer the sound of the mob shouting to kill her – but rather, of the mob being killed itself.

      Rea listened, baffled, trying to understand. Then she felt a wave of relief. Of course. The noble had come back to save her. To save his child.

      “Thank God,” she said. “The knights have come to my rescue.”

      Rea felt a sudden burst of optimism. Perhaps he would take her away from all this. Perhaps she would have a chance to start life over again. Her boy would grow up in a castle, become a great lord, and perhaps she would, too. Her baby would have a good life. She would have a good life.

      Rea felt a flood of relief, tears of joy flooding her cheeks.

      “No,” the apothecary corrected, his voice heavy. “They have not come to save your baby.”

      She stared back, confused. “Then why have they come?”

      He stared at her grimly.

      “To kill it.”

      She stared back, aghast, feeling a cold dread run through her.

      “They did not trust the job to a mob of villagers,” he added. “They wanted to make sure it was done right, by their own hands.”

      Rea felt ice run through her veins.

      “But…” she stammered, trying to understand, “…my baby