Morgan Rice - A Clash of Honor

The three soldiers lay there on the ground, dead, and Bronson wasted no time in swinging his sword and freeing Luanda. She cowered behind him, holding onto his back, as the crowd came closer to them.

“Any of you come closer,” Bronson called out, “and it will be the death of you! This is my wife. She shall not be punished, or tortured, by anyone. You will have to get through me first.”

McCloud’s wrath flared up, a greater wrath than he had ever felt. Here was his own son, defying him in front of all the men-and all for the sake of a woman. He would have to teach him a lesson in front of everyone.

McCloud drew his sword himself with a great clang, and rushed forward with a shout, pushing his men aside roughly, and facing off with his son. He charged his boy.

“It’s time I teach you respect!” McCloud screamed.

He charged and brought his sword down right for Bronson’s face, hoping to slice him in half, and his bride with him.

But the boy was quick. He had trained him too well. Bronson blocked his blow with his shield, then parried with his sword. McCloud blocked it, and the two went, back and forth, exchanging blow for blow. The elder McCloud was bigger and stronger, and he managed to slowly drive his son back, farther and farther, as the great clang of swords and shields went on.

The elder McCloud swung a great blow, aiming to chop off his son’s head-but he overestimated. The sword went flying over his head, and Bronson leaned back and kicked his father hard in the gut, sending him down to the ground. The blow surprised McCloud, his pride hurt as he hit the ground.

He looked up to see his son standing over him, his sword pointed down at his throat. His son could have killed him when he missed with that blow, but he had kicked him instead. It was not an opportunity he would have given his son if the roles had been reversed. He was disappointed in him. He should have been more ruthless.

“I do not want to hurt you,” Bronson said to his father. “I only want you to let Luanda go. Order your men that no one is to touch her, and the two of us shall leave this camp, and be done with this kingdom. I shall not hurt you. Nor any more of your men.”

There came a thick, tense silence, as a growing crowd, hundreds of soldiers now, closed in, listening to every word as father and son faced off.

The elder McCloud’s mind raced, humiliated, seething with rage, and determined to put an end to his son once and for all. A scheme entered his mind.

“I YIELD!” he shouted.

A gasp spread through the crowd.

“THE GIRL IS NOT TO BE TOUCHED!” he shouted again.

Another gasp arose, and as McCloud watched, he could see, slowly, Bronson’s shoulders relax, his sword drop just a bit.

The elder McCloud forced himself to smile, a big toothy grin, laid his sword down on the ground, and reached up with an open palm, as if to ask his son to give him a hand up.

Bronson hesitated for just a moment; it appeared as if he were debating whether or not to trust his father. But Bronson had always been too naive, too trusting. That was his downfall.

Bronson relented. He reached down with an open palm, switching hands with the sword, to give his father a hand up.

McCloud saw his chance. He reached over, grabbed a handful of dirt, and swung around and threw it in his boy’s eyes.

Bronson screamed out, raising both hands to his eyes, stumbling back, and McCloud jumped to his feet, kicked his son hard in the chest, knocking him to the ground, and pounced on him.

“Soldiers!” he screamed out.

In a moment’s notice several of his loyal soldiers appeared, pouncing onto Bronson, holding back Luanda, who tried to come to his rescue.

“Bring him to the post!” McCloud commanded.

They dragged Bronson, struggling, sand still in his eyes, to a huge wooden post, and bound one of his arms roughly to it. McCloud then grabbed his son’s free arm and tied it to a wooden beam, stretched out before him.

Bronson looked back at his dad, helpless, fear in his eyes.

“Men, gather around!” McCloud screamed.

The thick mob of soldiers gathered within feet of them, and McCloud took his sword, and raised it high overhead.

“No, father, don’t do this!” Bronson screamed.

But McCloud grimaced, wielded his two-handed sword high above his head, and brought it down with all the strength in his body.

Bronson shrieked, as the sword cut through the flesh of his wrist. Blood squirted everywhere, as his hand fell limply to the ground.

Luanda, behind him, shrieked and shrieked, and she broke free of her attackers and pounced on McCloud, grabbing at his hair. He turned and elbowed her hard, right in the nose, breaking it, and knocking her flat, unconscious.

“THE IRON!” he screamed.

Within moments, a scolding hot iron poker was put into McCloud’s hand, and he reached back and jabbed it into his son’s stump.

Bronson shrieked even louder, louder than he ever thought possible, as the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. McCloud held the poker steady against the stump, until the bleeding stopped. He didn’t want his boy dead. He wanted him alive. He wanted him maimed. He wanted him to suffer, and to remember this event. He wanted all of his men to remember. And to fear him.

“I promised you that the girl was not to be touched,” he said to his son, who stood there, limp, hunched over, breathing hard. “And I am good to my word. She will not be touched-she will be killed!”

McCloud leaned back and roared with laughter, hardly able to catch his breath. This day was not as bad as it seemed. No. It was not so bad at all.

Thor strolled with Gwen hand in hand through the meadows in the early morning light, Krohn by their side, on the way back from her mother’s castle. It had been a magical night, beyond his wildest dreams. He had never awakened before feeling so peaceful, so content, so at one with the world. He felt as if he had found his place in the world, beside Gwen, and he never wanted to be anywhere else. He didn’t care where she led him, where they might go, as long as they were together.

Thor also felt immensely relaxed after finally having had a good night sleep. It had been days on his feet, of battle, of riding, and he felt as if it were the first time he had slept in a month. He had strange dreams all night long, of battle, of soldiers, of swords and shields-and even of his having a child. If Krohn hadn’t awakened him, licking his face in the early morning, he felt as if he might have slept all day.

As they strolled, Thor wondered what the future might look like with Gwen. He had his duties to fulfill for the Legion, yet he also wanted to spend time with her. He wondered how they could build their life together. He knew he wanted to be here, in King’s Court, but in the back of his mind he knew that as long as Gareth was king, that was not possible. There was too much danger here for them both.

As they strolled hand in hand, a nice fall breeze picking up, the world alive with every shade of fall flower, Gwen smiling beside him and Krohn nipping at their heels, Thor wanted more than ever to ask Gwen the question. Would she would marry him? But once again, he hesitated. The time did not seem quite right. He was waiting for a magical, perfect moment, and for some reason, he just was not sure if this was it. He also became too nervous, his heart pounding and his throat going dry, every time he thought of asking her. He was too scared of being rejected, and a part of him didn’t know if he could summon the courage to do it. What if she said no? What if his asking her ruined their relationship forever? A part of him didn’t want to take that chance.

As they rounded the final hill, walking in silence, King’s Court came into view in the distance, and they both stopped in their tracks. Something was wrong. Thor could see from here that scores of The Silver, the Legion and the King’s army were pacing about in an agitated way. They were all milling outside the Hall of Arms, and Thor could feel something brewing. He could not understand what was happening: when he had left last night, they had been in the middle of the feast and had been jovial. He expected to return this morning to see them all still sleeping, recovering. But they were all awake, on their feet, alert, most of them armed and anxiously hurrying inside.