A Clash of Honor

chapter FIFTEEN

King McCloud fumed as he marched across the plaza before his castle, riddled with his injured and defeated soldiers. Everywhere, his men lay about, moaning, bleeding; those that weren’t hurt, sat on the ground, dejected. It was enough to make him sick. Never mind that they had just had a hundred days of unprecedented victories, of spoils, of a reach into the MacGil side deeper than any of his ancestors. Now all that these men would remember would be their defeat, the loss of their spoils, of their slaves, their injuries, their lost brethren. And all at the hands of the boy.

It was a disgrace.

McCloud scowled as he marched, kicking soldiers randomly who sat on the ground, shoving others, slapping the wounded, trailed by his small entourage of advisers, none of whom dared speak to him. They knew, wisely, that that would be a mistake.

McCloud ran over and over again in his mind the cause of their defeat, what had gone wrong, what he could have done differently. Perhaps he should have stopped before the last city; perhaps he should not have ventured so deep. If he had turned back sooner, he could have returned to the McCloud side of the Highlands on his own terms, as a conquering hero, a greater king than all the McClouds before him.

But he had pushed it, had taken one city too many, had risked one battle too many. He had miscalculated the MacGil’s defenses. He had been sure that the new MacGil son, Gareth, was a weakling, unable to muster a defense. Perhaps the troops had fought despite Gareth. He didn’t understand it.

Most of all, he did not understand that boy, Thor. He had never encountered anyone in battle like that, anyone so powerful. He had simply no way to defend against it.

As McCloud marched through the camp of men, he knew that revolt would be inevitable. Sooner or later, his own men, who had once praised him so, would rally and rise up against him, would try to oust him. Instead of being known as the greatest of the McCloud kings, he would go down in history as the failed McCloud king. And that was something he could not allow.

McCloud had to preempt it. He would get tougher, more vicious with his men, so vicious that they would not even think of revolt. Then he would form another scheme, and strike the MacGils again, even harder than before.

But looking at the sorry state of his army, he did not know how that was possible. He felt a rage towards them. They had let him down—and no one lets him down.

McCloud turned the corner and marched through yet another row of dejected soldiers, and he saw before him his son Bronson’s new wife, the MacGil daughter, Luanda, bound with twine, on the ground with the other slaves. In her, he finally found an object for his hatred.

It all came back to him: McCloud had been enjoying that girl immensely when Luanda had interrupted him, had snuck up on him—and now it was time to take his bad mood out on her. He saw in her the very emblem of disobedience of his own men. His own son’s daughter, trying to kill him, and in the midst of his greatest victory. It was too much for him to bear. Her behavior would embolden the other men, and now, more than ever, he needed to send a message to all of them.

McCloud stormed over to Luanda, lying on her back, eyes opened wide with fear, feet and hands bound, and he reached out with his dagger. She flinched as he approached, thinking he would cut her—but he had other plans. He reached down and sliced the ropes binding her. She was startled to be freed her, and seemed confused—but he didn’t give her time to think about it.

McCloud reached out and yanked her to her feet by her chest, then grabbed her by the shirt and lifted her off the ground, scowling up at her. She scowled back down, and then to his surprise, she spat in his face.

Her boldness and courage startled him. Without thinking, he reached back and smacked her hard enough to make all the men around him turn and watch what was going on. A growing crowd of soldiers formed, as she stopped struggling in his arms, getting the message, her face already black and blue from the time he had punched her. He held her high above his head and turned slowly, facing the crowd of soldiers in the dusty square.

“Let this be a message for all those who dare defy my command!” he boomed. “This woman dared to raise a hand against her King. Now she will know the full wrath of my justice!”

A cheer arose and McCloud carried her across the square, bent her over a large wooden log, grabbed her wrists and yanked them behind her back and tied each to the log. She stood there, bent over the log, helpless. She screamed and struggled, but it was no use.

McCloud turned and faced the thick crowd of soldiers.

“Luanda dared to defy me. She will be a message for all women who dare to defy their men, and for all subjects who dare to defy their King. I hereby sentence her to public attack! Let any man who wants to, step forward and have his way with her!”

A great shout rose up among the soldiers, as several of them stepped forward, hurrying towards her, angling to see who would be first.

“NO!” shrieked Luanda, as she struggled against the ropes, buckling like mad, trying to break free.

But it was no use. He had tied her securely.

Three soldiers came up behind her, elbowing each other to get their first, and the one closest to her pulled down his pants, then stepped forward to grab her.

Suddenly, there came the sound of someone running through the crowd, and a moment later, to McCloud’s chagrin, there appeared his son, Bronson, still in his armor, wielding a sword. He charged through the crowd, sword raised high, and brought his sword down on the first attacker’s wrist as he reached out to touch her.

The man shrieked as Bronson cut off his wrist, blood pouring from the stump.

Bronson faced the other two men about to attack Luanda, and swung around and chopped off one of their heads with his sword, then lunged forward and plunged his sword through the third one’s chest.

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 naïve, 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.