Morgan Rice - A Grant of Arms

Godfrey braced himself, as he realized he was right in Thor’s path. Why he, of all people?

“Thor!” Godfrey screamed out as they got closer, hoping maybe Thor would recognize them, would lower his arms, would turn some other way.

But it did not work. Thor’s eyes looked possessed, and he charged right for him.

Godfrey raised his shield with both hands, bracing himself for an awful blow.

Thor bore down on him and raised his sword high, scowling, and Godfrey knew he was finished.

Godfrey became so nervous that he flinched in advance, and accidentally twisted and slid sideways, beginning an awkward fall off his horse.

That accidental twist saved him. As Thor swung his sword, it just missed Godfrey, the sword connecting with Godfrey’s shield instead of his head. It impacted with a great clang, and sent Godfrey falling off his horse for good.

Godfrey went flying off his horse and landed on the ground with a hard thud, the wind knocked out of him, rolling in the dirt, gasping for breath, his head ringing. He rolled and rolled, and finally stopped and lifted his head.

All around him was the stampede of a thousand horses, riding every which way—and as he raised his chin, the last thing he saw was a horse’s hoof, coming right down for his forehead and knocking him out for good.

Andronicus was pleased to watch Thornicus back to his old self, fighting with abandon, leading the charge and cutting his way through the field of his fellow countrymen. On the front lines of those riding out to meet him were hundreds of McClouds, foolish enough to think they could defeat his son.

Thor wielded his weapon like a thing of fury, killing a half-dozen men in a single stroke. The field ran red with the blood of the Ring, the McClouds falling at Thor’s feet.

Andronicus smiled, satisfied—and then charged into the fray himself.

Wielding a three-headed flail, Andronicus swung its long chain and found target after target, smashing the enemy, knocking off heads left and right. He was too tall, too strong, too fast for all of them, and he cut a path of death right through. He grinned wide, taking it all in. He hadn’t had this much fun in he didn’t know how long. As Andronicus fought with abandon, he took satisfaction in knowing that he faced the last remnant of the Ring’s forces; after this battle, the Ring would finally be his.

Andronicus spotted one of their leaders—Kendrick—charging for him fearlessly. This warrior was reckless indeed if he thought he could take on the Great Andronicus. Andronicus screamed and kicked his horse, and men parted as the two great warriors charged each other in an open clearing.

Andronicus swung his flail for Kendrick’s head, expecting to finish him off. But he was surprised to discover that Kendrick was not like the others he’d fought: he was faster, more agile. He ducked Andronicus’ blow, then parried with his sword, so fast that he even managed to slice Andronicus’s forearm.

Andronicus screamed out, more in surprise than pain. He had not been bested in battle in a very long time.

But the pain only made him focus. He had been over-confident, and he now realized that Kendrick was unlike the others.

Andronicus wielded his flail, swinging it around, aiming low this time, for Kendrick’s horse.

The metal studded ball impacted on Kendrick’s horse’s head, making it stumble.

Kendrick, caught off-guard, did not see it coming, and as he leaned forward, trying to steady his horse, Andronicus lunged forward with a hidden dagger at the end of his gauntlet and sliced Kendrick across the chest.

Kendrick cried out, but spun around with his shield and smashed Andronicus across the face, something Andronicus had not anticipated.

Andronicus stumbled back; in the same motion he reached over, grabbed a short spear he had hidden in his saddle, spun and hurled it at Kendrick.

The spear embedded itself in Kendrick’s shoulder, and Kendrick screamed out, grabbing for it.

Andronicus leaned forward and smashed Kendrick with his shield with all his might, hitting his jaw and knocking him off his horse, spear in his shoulder.

Kendrick landed on the ground hard, immobile. His horse went down with him. Andronicus felt more satisfaction than he had in years.

Andronicus circled around, preparing to finish him off. But as he raised his spear high, he was attacked by several of Kendrick’s men, and was soon distracted in fighting them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kendrick roll away and head off to another battle.

Another time , Andronicus told himself. Kendrick would, sooner or later, die by his hand.

Bronson fought with all he had, choosing to forego his shield and instead wielding a sword with his good hand. He fought as best he could with one hand, and with his other, he wielded a flail, gripping onto it with the hook on his stub. He fought like a man possessed, doing his best to defend the Ring. He rode forward, fighting valiantly beside Srog, the two of them back to back, as they felled dozens of Empire men in each direction.

“BRONSON!” screamed out a voice.

Bronson recognized that voice anywhere. It sent a chill through his spine.

He turned and saw, amidst a group of Empire soldiers, his nemesis. His father. McCloud. The monster. The man who had taken his hand from him. The man he hated more than anything in life.

Bronson screamed and kicked his horse and charged for his father. McCloud charged back, like a demon possessed, missing one eye, his face disfigured, the emblem of the Empire burned into it. He had become a hideous creature, even more hideous than he had been.

Here they were, Bronson thought, father and son, finally facing off, finally embracing the inevitable. It was a day Bronson had long been waiting for. He would wipe out his father’s name if he could. And if not, he would at least send his father to hell. It was the vengeance he’d contemplated every day as he looked down and saw his stump for a hand.

“FATHER!” Bronson screamed back.

Bronson charged with a vengeance, raising his sword high, as his father let out a cry to match his own.

The two met in the middle of an open clearing, Empire soldiers parting, and McCloud swung his battle axe, with both hands, shrieking, aiming to take off his son’s head.

Bronson ducked at the last second, swung around with his flail, and managed to smash his father in the back of the head.

McCloud stumbled and fell from his horse.

Bronson wasted no time: he circled around and jumped to the ground, facing his father on foot, as his father slowly stood, wobbly, disoriented. Bronson brought his sword down with one hand, and McCloud raised his shield and blocked it. But Bronson slashed again and again, eventually knocking his father’s shield from his grasp. Then he leaned back and kicked him.

His father stumbled and landed on his back, hurt, slow to get up.

Bronson stood over him, breathing hard, and stepped up and placed one foot on his father’s throat.

McCloud gasped for air, and Bronson raised the point of his sword and held it to his father’s wrist.

“You took my hand, father,” Bronson said. “I should take yours. In fact, I should kill you.” Bronson sighed. “But I will not sink so low. I have more honor than you. I will instead take you, unharmed, as my prisoner. Do you yield?”

McCloud struggled, gasping for air, then finally nodded yes.

Bronson slowly removed the tip of his sword from McCloud’s wrist.

“Turn over and put your hands behind your back,” Bronson commanded.

McCloud did so, and as he did, Bronson reached down to clasp his father, removing his extra set of shackles at his waist.

But as he reached down, McCloud suddenly spun, grabbed a handful of dirt, threw it in Bronson’s eyes.