Morgan Rice - A Grant of Arms

Bronson shrieked, raising his hands to his eyes and dropping his shackles. McCloud swung around and elbowed Bronson in the groin as hard as he could.

Bronson dropped to the ground, in agony.

McCloud stood over him, grabbing him by the hair on the back of his head.

“It’s good to see you again, son,” McCloud said.

McCloud raised his knee, and lowered Bronson’s face, and a crack split the air as he broke his son’s nose.

Bronson tasted blood, and the last thing he saw was the ground coming up fast, too fast, to greet him.

Thor charged through the battlefield, unstoppable, killing scores of McClouds who rode out to attack his father. He cut through them, faster than any of them could react, determined to protect him. That was all that mattered now. Andronicus—and crushing all of these opponents in the Ring.

Thor could not stop himself. He felt possessed, in the control of a power greater than he. His sword practically swung itself.

Thor looked over and saw his father, not far away, knock Kendrick off his horse—and for the first time, Thor blinked. For a brief moment, some long-lost part of him stirred inside; for a flash, a part of him recognized Kendrick. He could not remember from where. For just a moment, a part of him was confused about who he was fighting for.

But then Thor felt a bolt of energy, and he turned to see Rafi, riding close behind, raising his fingers in his direction. Thor felt an intense wave of energy engulf him, making it impossible to think. He felt a titanic struggle occurring within him for control, for free will. And then he felt himself subsumed by a fog.

As Thor looked back to Kendrick, he no longer recognized him. He was just another one of his father’s endless opponents, another one of these rebels who would not cede the Ring.

There came a fierce battle cry, one different from the others, and Thor turned to see a warrior charging for him. Other soldiers parted ways, creating a wide clearing for them, and the knight stopped before Thor and faced him. There came a momentary lull in the battle, as others turned to watch. Clearly, this knight, whomever he was, was an important person on the MacGil side.

“Thorgrin! It is I, Erec!” boomed the knight, sitting proudly on his horse. “You are not yourself. I do not want to fight you. I ask you to lay down your arms. Lay down your arms and join our cause!”

Thor felt himself flush with rage. Who was this stranger to tell him what to do?

“I lay down my arms for no one!” Thor yelled back, defiant.

Thor wasted no time: he charged forward, raised his sword high, and there came a clash of swords, as he and Erec sparred furiously, back and forth, going blow for blow, neither gaining an inch.

Finally, Thor dodged one of Erec’s blows and then dove from his horse and tackled him to the ground.

The two of them rolled on the ground, wrestling, neither gaining the advantage. Finally, Thor rolled out from under him and they gained their feet again.

They faced each other, and a wide clearing opened around them, all the other warriors stopping to watch.

“Thorgrin, I implore you!” Erec called out, breathing hard, blood on his lip. “It is I, Erec!”

Thor screamed and charged, sword raised high. Their swords clashed as they fought hand-to-hand, going blow for blow, shield striking sword striking shield, back and forth, perfectly matched. Neither could gain the advantage.

Thor was surprised by this knight’s power and agility; he had never encountered anyone like him.

“It is I, Erec!” he said, up close, groaning, as their swords met and locked. “You know me, Thorgrin.”

Thor grunted, scowling.

“My name is Thornicus!” Thor yelled, unlocking his sword.

They jabbed and slashed and parried, back and forth, until Thor’s arms were growing tired, neither gaining an inch.

“You were my squire once, Thorgrin,” Erec said. “I helped train you. I would do anything for you. Anything. Thorgrin, it is I, Erec.”

Thor momentarily paused, something in his words striking a chord. For a passing moment he was confused, voices in his head struggling with each other, as Thor tried to understand, to know where he was, who he was. Who was this man he was fighting?

“Erec?” Thor asked.

Suddenly Rafi appeared beside Thor, and he let out an awful gurgling noise from the back of his throat as he raised his hands and directed them towards Thor.

Thor felt himself engulfed in an awful energy, and a desperate rage overcame him as he turned and set his sights on Erec.

This time, he did not recognize Erec. Not at all. He was a foe, and nothing more.

Thor raised his sword high and charged, blood in his eyes, determined this time to wipe this man off the face of the earth.

Romulus galloped across the countryside, heading east, away from all the soldiers, away from the entire Empire army. Luanda was seated on the front of the horse, and she still struggled, despite his muscular arms wrapped around tight around her waist. He was surprised at her strength. Even with the ropes binding her, even with his huge arms, he had a hard time keeping her still. She was like a bucking horse. She wanted desperately to be free—but he could not let her.

Romulus rode the horse ever faster, kicking it until it protested in pain, knowing he had to make the Eastern Crossing, get back to the other side and bring Luanda with him. His magic cloak lay at the ready at his waist.

Romulus was still smarting from his defeat at the hand of Andronicus’ men, something he had never anticipated. He had been sure he would take Andronicus by surprise and take over the Ring. But in the end, Romulus had been lucky to escape with his life, even though he’d had to turn and flee, alone, for the safety of the Canyon.

But he had his prize now, and that was all that mattered. Luanda. A MacGil. The firstborn MacGil, no less.

Romulus prayed that the legend of the cloak was true, that as soon as he crossed the Canyon with her, the Shield would shatter, and his millions of men waiting outside the Canyon could come rushing in. This time, he would lead them to complete and utter victory against Andronicus, and crush the Ring. Then Romulus would be Supreme Commander, and there would be no one and nothing left to stop him.

Romulus was so close now, he could almost taste it.

They rode and rode, across the empty, frozen plains, until finally the Eastern Crossing came into view, the high pillars of its entrance marking the horizon. Romulus’ horse was near exhaustion, but he kicked even harder, digging his heels in. His destiny was close at hand, and he intended to grab hold of it.

Romulus recalled that, for the cloak to work, he’d have to cross the Canyon with the MacGil on foot. As he reached the base of the Canyon, the entry to the bridge, he stopped abruptly, dismounted, grabbed Luanda, and yanked her down with him.

Somehow, even with her hands bound, Luanda managed to slip out from under him and before he could react, she began to run across the landscape.

In a rage, Romulus reacted quickly, grabbing the whip from his saddle and lashing out at her, wrapping it around her ankles.

Luanda shrieked as he lashed her ankles together, and she fell face first to the ground.

Romulus pulled her roughly towards him, dragging her along the ground. He reached down, grabbed her with one hand, lifted her high into the air, and scowled up at her.

“If you were not a MacGil, I would kill you right now,” he seethed.

Luanda grimaced and spat in his face.

Startled, Romulus backhanded her.

Blood sprayed from her lips, and she finally seemed broken; yet Romulus’ rage was not satisfied. He would tear her apart if he could. Perhaps he would, as soon as they crossed the Canyon. Yes, the thought of that appeased him.