Morgan Rice - A Sky of Spells

It darkened his mood even more to be lead here by his father’s former general, Koovia. Over the last six moons, McCloud had come to distrust Koovia; it was starting to dawn on him that Koovia was not the ingratiating general that he had at first made himself to be. Koovia had initially pretended to be all too eager to help unite the two sides of the Highlands; yet the more Bronson got to know him, the more he observed him increasingly trying to undermine his efforts, to keep the two clans apart from each other. Koovia was, deep down, wary of the MacGils—as he had been during his father’s time—and increasingly uncontrollable.

Working with Koovia was a necessary evil, given that all the McCloud soldiers loved him, and that he somehow retained a hypnotic fix on his men. Bronson had pondered imprisoning him, more than once, but refrained for the fallout that would come. As it was, Bronson was on shaky ground here, trying to control these people, trying to control the MacGils on the other side of the Highlands, and trying to get them all to live in harmony. It had been six moons of hell.

Bronson had forgotten how stubborn his people were, how hard-headed, how prone to violence and aggression. Having spent some time on the MacGil side, Bronson was realizing more and more the stark differences between the two clans. The last several hundred years had really bred two different peoples. Bronson felt that he himself acted more like a MacGil, and he felt more of a sympathy with the MacGils. Coming back to his people now actually embarrassed him, seeing how crude they were, how prone to go to war against people who meant them no harm.

When Bronson had first arrived, the McClouds had been grateful to all the MacGils for liberating them from the grip of Andronicus and of the Empire. They had been grateful for Bronson’s presence here, for his help in rebuilding. They had even expressed a desire and enthusiasm to unite the two kingdoms.

But the more time Bronson spent here, the more he felt it was a front, that his people were not actually interested in uniting, that they wanted to stay apart, and that they distrusted the MacGils deeply. The MacGils seemed more open to trusting the McClouds, despite a long history of being attacked unprovoked; yet every day since Bronson’s arrival, some McClouds had undermined the effort in yet another raid or dispute.

McCloud followed Koovia, wondering where he was leading him today.

They hiked along a low ridge as they emerged from the castle, blooms of summer all around them, the Highlands covered in tall, colored grasses. Bronson looked down on both sides of the ridge and as far as he could see were bright flowers, covering both slopes of the Highlands. The sight was quite a dramatic change from winter, where the Highlands were nothing but snow and ice. Standing up here, Bronson felt a cool breeze, always cooler this high up.

Still, it was a picture-perfect summer day, clouds gathering lightly in the sky under the rays of the first and second suns. From up here, looking down, Bronson felt as if he were atop the world, looking down on the two kingdoms, these two kingdoms he still hoped to make one, and he wondered, with a land like this, how anything could possibly be wrong in the world.

As they rounded a bend, McCloud heard the bickering carrying on the wind, and he saw two angry parties before him, dozens of MacGils on one side, and dozens of McClouds on the other, angrily arguing with each other, as a flock of sheep milled about them. Bronson sensed their anger even from here, and he knew he would be walking into a firestorm. He sighed, bracing himself.

“This is where it happened,” Koovia explained, as they approached.

They neared, and Koovia screamed for silence. Slowly, the warring clans quieted and all eyes turned to Bronson.

“What happened this time?” Bronson asked, already impatient.

“It is very simple what happened,” said one of the McClouds, an old man, faced lined with stubble, missing teeth, standing protectively over his sheep. “These MacGils came up here and raided our sheep and tried to bring them back over the Highlands. We caught them before they went. You must imprison them now, if you are the strong ruler you claim to be.”

There came a cheer from the McCloud side. Bronson turned and looked at the MacGils; they stood there patiently, meekly, a younger bunch with intelligent eyes, awaiting their turn. As he looked beyond them, Bronson saw the beautiful summer countryside, and wished he could be anywhere but here. With all this bounty, all this beauty, all around them, what did these men have to fight about?

“And your side of the story?” he asked the MacGils. “Did you come up here and steal these cattle?”

“We did, my Lord,” the MacGils answered plainly.

Bronson stared back in surprise, not expecting that answer.

“Then you admit your crime?”

“No, my lord,” they replied.

Now Bronson was confused.

“How is theft not a crime?”

“You cannot steal what is yours, my lord,” they replied. “Those cattle were ours to begin with. We just stole them back.”

“Stole them back?” Bronson asked. His stomach was burning.

The MacGils nodded.

“The McClouds raided our cattle last week. We came and took them back. See those markings?”

They bent over, grabbed a sheep, turned its leg, and showed a brand on it.

“The mark of the MacGils. Plain for anyone to see.”

Bronson stared, and saw the marking, and realized they were indeed correct.

He turned and faced the McClouds, now annoyed with them for stealing—and for lying.

“And what have you to say for yourselves?” he asked.

The elder McCloud shrugged.

“I found them wandering the hills.”

“Wandering the hills on the MacGil side,” the MacGils retorted. “That doesn’t make them yours.”

The old men shrugged.

“You let them loose, then they are not yours anymore.”

“They were not loose! They were grazing! Sheep graze. That is what they do!”

The old man shouted and cursed at them, and the MacGils started to curse them back. A cacophony of noise arose, men cursing each other, sheep bleating.

Bronson rubbed his forehead, his headache worsening. The day had hardly begun, and there was yet a long day ahead. Why could these men not get along? Was his cause here hopeless?

He had to admit, even though they were his native people, the McClouds were the instigators. In every case he had seen, they were always the ones at fault. It was as if a part of them just did not want peace.

Bronson stepped forward, and there came a lull in the squabbling as all eyes turned to him.

“If these are his sheep, then these are his sheep,” Bronson finally said to the McClouds. “It does not matter where you found them. He took back what was his.”

He turned to the MacGils.

“Take them and go,” he said. “I am sorry for your trouble.”

The MacGils nodded, satisfied, and corralled their sheep and began to lead them down to their side of the mountain.

“You can’t just let them go!” the old man yelled out to Koovia. “Stop them! Our new King is too weak to support us! Use the might of your army! Unless you are too weak, too!”

Bronson bristled at the old man’s words, and he could see Koovia bristling, too, and thinking it all over himself. He could see that Koovia wanted to go after those sheep.

But Koovia instead turned and shoved the old man, and he stumbled back. He grabbed the hilt of his sword.

“Say another word old man, and we will see who is weak!”

Koovia stepped forward in a rage, and the old man backed away.

Slowly, the McClouds turned and stormed down the hill.

Koovia, still scowling, turned and faced Bronson.