“Just leave,” Flynn tried. “Take your friend. He’s got a dislocated shoulder and a shattered kneecap, and both need attention if he’s going to be able to use his arm and leg again.”

His attacker ignored him and lunged again, and this time, Flynn spun and brought his blade down, leaving a deep gash across the man’s chest. “Stop, please,” he said, though he was beginning to lose patience, the old battle fever rising and starting to pound through his veins.

The man shouted in fury and rushed forward, swinging wildly. Flynn dodged, and his blade found purchase in his attacker’s upper arm. But the man didn’t even flinch, nor did he slow his attack. He just kept coming, his knife whistling back and forth.

Flynn crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, and let him come, using his forearm to block his opponent and at the same time sinking his blade into the hard muscle of the man’s thigh, hoping to slow him down. But as Flynn twisted, the heel of his boot caught on an uneven ridge, and Flynn felt himself pitching backward. He hit the ground on his backside, and in an instant, his attacker launched himself on top of him.

He tried to roll away, but the man was like a wildcat, his movements erratic and frenzied as his knife flashed downward. Flynn waited for his opening as he blocked each thrust, knowing that his attacker could not maintain this for long—

A sharp crack resounded, and the man suddenly pitched forward with a stunned expression on his face, landing face-first on the ground. Beaumont stood over him, with what looked like a piece of broken fence board in his hand. Flynn scrambled to his feet.

“What the hell are you doing?” Flynn demanded, breathing hard, the blood still roaring in his ears. “I told you to go and get help.”

“I did.” Beaumont was blinking rapidly. “That board was very helpful.”

Flynn glanced down at the board in Beaumont’s hand and realized with horror that the jagged wood was slick with blood. As was the boy’s whole left hand and the entire outer edge of the sleeve of his coat, an ominous dark stain in the low light.

“You’re bleeding,” Flynn said, reaching for him.

Beaumont frowned and swayed slightly. “I do feel a little funny,” he said.

“Shit,” Flynn swore, catching the boy under his arm and noticing the gaping tear at the shoulder of his baggy coat. The edges had bloomed dark as more blood soaked into the fabric. The heavy man must have gotten him when he had charged at Flynn. When Beaumont had stepped into his path to stop him.