Morgan Rice: A Sea of Shields

Luanda could hardly believe it. Bronson had, once again, saved her life. She felt deeply indebted to him, and a fresh rush of love for him. Perhaps he was stronger than she had imagined.

Shouts erupted on both sides of the feasting hall as the McClouds and MacGils rushed for each other, anxious to see who could kill the other first. All pretenses of civility that had occurred throughout the day’s wedding and the night’s feast were gone. Now it was war: warrior against warrior, all heated by drink, fueled by rage, by the indignity that the McClouds had tried to perpetrate in trying to violate their bride.

Men leapt over the thick wooden table, anxious to kill each other, stabbing each other, grabbing at each other’s faces, wrestling each other down to the table, knocking over food and wine. The room was so tight, packed with so many people, that it was shoulder to shoulder, with barely any room to maneuver, men grunting and stabbing and screaming and crying as the scene fell into complete, bloody chaos.

Luanda tried to collect herself. The fighting was so quick and so intense, the men filled with such bloodlust, so focused on killing each other, that no one but she took a moment to look around and observe the periphery of the room. Luanda observed it all, and she took it all in with a greater perspective. She was the only one who observed the McClouds slithering around the edges of the room, slowly barring the doors, one at a time, and then slinking out as they did.

The hairs rose on the back of her neck as Luanda suddenly realized what was happening. The McClouds were locking everyone in the room—and fleeing for a reason. She watched them grab torches off the wall, and her eyes opened wide in panic. She realized with horror that the McClouds were going to burn down the hall with everyone trapped inside—even their own clansmen.

Luanda should have known better. The McClouds were ruthless, and they would do anything in order to win.

Luanda looked about, watching it all as it was unfolding before her, and she saw one door still left unbarred.

Luanda turned, broke away from the melee, and sprinted for the remaining door, elbowing and shoving men out of her way. She saw a McCloud, too, sprinting for that door on the far side of the room, and she ran faster, lungs bursting, determined to beat him to it.

The McCloud did not see Luanda coming as he reached the door, grabbed a thick, wooden beam, and prepared to bar it. Luanda charged him from the side, raising her dagger and stabbing him in the back.

The McCloud cried out, arched his back, and dropped to the ground.

Luanda grabbed the beam, yanked it off the door, threw it open, and ran outside.

Outside, eyes adjusting to the dark, Luanda looked left and right and saw McClouds, all lining up outside the hall, all bearing torches, preparing to set it on fire. Luanda flooded with panic. She could not let it happen.

Luanda turned, sprinted back into the hall, grabbed Bronson, and yanked him away from the skirmish.

“The McClouds!” she yelled urgently. “They are preparing to burn down the hall! Help me! Get everyone out! NOW!”

Bronson, understanding, opened his eyes wide in fear, and to his credit, without hesitating, he turned, rushed to the MacGil leaders, yanked them from the fight, and yelling at them, gesticulated toward the open door. They all turned and realized, then yelled orders to their men.

To Luanda’s satisfaction, she watched as the MacGil men suddenly broke away from the fight, turned, and ran for the one open door which she had saved.

While they were organizing, Luanda and Bronson wasted no time. They sprinted for the door, and she was horrified to watch another McCloud race for it, pick up the beam, and try to bar it. She did not think they could beat him to it this time.

This time, Bronson reacted; he raised his sword high overhead, leaned forward, and threw it.

It flew through the air, end over end, until finally it impaled itself in the McCloud’s back.

The warrior screamed and collapsed to the ground, and Bronson rushed to the door and threw it wide open just in time.

Dozens of MacGils stormed through the open door, and Luanda and Bronson joined them. Slowly, the hall emptied of all the MacGils, the McClouds left to watch in wonder as to why their enemies were retreating.

Once all of them were outside, Luanda slammed the door, picked up the beam with several others, and barred the door from the outside, so that no McClouds could follow.

The McClouds outside began to notice, and they started to drop their torches and draw their swords instead to charge.

But Bronson and the others gave them no time. They charged the McCloud soldiers all around the structure, stabbing and killing them as they lowered their torches and fumbled with their arms. Most of the McClouds were still inside, and the few dozen outside could not stand up to the rush of the enraged MacGils, who, blood in their eyes, killed them all quickly.

Luanda stood there, Bronson by her side, beside the MacGil clansmen, all of them breathing hard, thrilled to be alive. They all looked to Luanda with respect, knowing they owed her their lives.

As they stood there, they began to hear the banging of the McClouds inside, trying to get out. The MacGils slowly turned and, unsure what to do, looked to Bronson for leadership.

“You must put down the rebellion,” Luanda said forcefully. “You must treat them with the same brutality with which they intended to treat you.”

Bronson looked at her, wavering, and she could see the hesitation in his eyes.

“Their plan did not work,” he said. “They are trapped in there. Prisoners. We will put them under arrest.”

Luanda shook her head fiercely.

“NO!” she screamed. “These men look to you for leadership. This is a brutal part of the world. We are not in King’s Court. Brutality reigns here. Brutality demands respect. Those men inside cannot be left to live. An example must be set!”

Bronson bristled, horrified.

“What are you saying?” he asked. “That we shall burn them alive? That we treat them with the same butchery with which they treated us?”

Luanda locked her jaw.

“If you do not, mark my words: surely one day they will murder you.”

The MacGil clansmen all gathered around, witnessing their argument, and Luanda stood there, fuming in frustration. She loved Bronson—after all, he had saved her life. And yet she hated how weak, how naïve, he could be.

Luanda had enough of men ruling, of men making bad decisions. She ached to rule herself; she knew she would be better than any of them. Sometimes, she knew, it took a woman to rule in a man’s world.

Luanda, banished and marginalized her entire life, felt she could no longer sit on the sidelines. After all, it was thanks to her that all these men were alive right now. And she was a King’s daughter—and firstborn, no less.

Bronson stood there, staring back, wavering, and Luanda could see he would take no action.

She could stand it no further. Luanda screamed out in frustration, rushed forward, snatched a torch from an attendant’s hand, and as all the men watched her in stunned silence, she rushed before them, held the torch high, and threw it.

The torch lit up the night, flying high through the air, end over end, and landing on the peak of the thatched roof of the feasting hall.

Luanda watched with satisfaction as the flames began to spread.

The MacGils all around her let out a shout, and all of them followed her example. They each picked up a torch and threw it, and soon the flames rose up and the heat grew stronger, singeing her face, lighting up the night. Soon, the hall was alight in a great conflagration.

The screams of the McClouds trapped inside ripped through the night, and while Bronson flinched, Luanda stood there, cold, hard, merciless, hands on her hips, and took satisfaction from each one.