A Clash of Honor

chapter THIRTY

Luanda snuck through the back streets of the McCloud city, sticking close to the walls, doing her best not to be detected. She had only traveled the city briefly and did her best to retrace her steps, to try to find her way back to where she knew they were keeping Bronson. She passed a horse, tied to a post, and for a moment she turned and glanced out at the horizon, at the sunset, at the open fields, and she wanted more than anything to take the dagger in her hand and cut that horse’s rope, mount it, and charge away from here—far, far away, back over the Highlands and to the safety of home.

But she knew that she could not; she had a job to do. However despicable his family was, she still loved Bronson, and she had to save him. She could not live with herself if she did not.

Luanda bit her lip and moved on. She worked her way through the mob, down winding, narrow back streets, through squares, past taverns, whorehouses, streets filled with mud and waste, dogs running everywhere. A rat scurried over her bare foot, and she kicked it off and stopped herself from crying out at the last second. She had to be strong. She only prayed her husband was still alive, and that she could find a way to get them out of here for good.

Before she’d been dragged off to the dungeon, Luanda had watched Bronson get tied up in the town square, made a public example by his father, a laughingstock; she assumed that’s where he still stood. She hurried down street after street, trying to remember the way, hoping she was going in the right direction as she followed the thickening crowd. She figured that crowds always flocked towards misery and torture and spectacle.

There came a distant cheer and she assumed she was nearing the city center. Soon it grew more distinct, raucous, and she knew she was getting close.

She walked quickly, trying to keep her head down, hoping no one would notice her. She passed an old woman’s stand, draped with various clothing, and as the woman turned away to tend to her dog, Luanda swooped in and snatched a long brown cloak.

She turned the corner and quickly put it on, covering her cold body, and covering her face. She looked every which way, and saw that no one had witnessed her take it, and already she felt better. She tucked the dagger she had stolen into her waist and moved on, slinking through the crowd, and feeling as if she were racing the clock. It was only a matter of time until they discovered she had escaped—and when they did, all of McCloud’s men would be on the lookout for her.

Luanda turned down yet another street, the shouts growing louder, and as she did, to her relief, she spotted it: the city square. A huge mob pressed in, swarming around its center; they all looked up and she followed their gaze and was horrified to see, up on a scaffold, her husband bound, his legs and arms each tied in four directions, on a huge cross. He was missing one of his hands, where his father had cut it off, now just a charred stump, and Bronson stood there, head hanging low, body limp. The crowd threw vegetables at him, and he could do nothing but suffer the indignity, as they all heckled him every which way.

Luanda flushed with rage at his treatment and she hurried forward, frantic to get closer, to see if he was alive. From this distance, she couldn’t tell.

As Luanda got closer, she noticed him momentarily lift his head, just a tiny bit, as if in her direction, as if maybe a part of him knew. Her heart soared with relief to know that he was still alive. There was hope. That was all she needed.

Luanda realized she would probably get caught trying to free him, and die in the process. But she didn’t care. She had to try. If she went down dying, so be it. After all, she was the firstborn child of King MacGil, of a long line of MacGil kings, and it was not in her nature to leave someone behind. Especially her husband, and especially after he had been injured trying to save her life.

Luanda took in her surroundings, desperate to formulate a plan. She didn’t know what she would do once she actually saw him, and now that she did, and knew he was alive, her mind raced.

She realized she needed to wait until all these people disappeared, and she needed to wait for the anonymity of night. She didn’t know if he would make it until then, but she had no choice. There was no way she could even attempt to get him out in front of this mob of people.

She wormed her way into the town square, walking alongside a stone wall, and searched all the nooks and crannies in the wall until she found one she liked, deep and low to the ground, embedded into one of the ancient stone walls. She tucked herself in it. It was several feet deep, and she sat down, slumping on the ground, and wrapped the cloak tight around her. She disappeared completely inside the small nook, and no one could see her. Her only company down here was the passing rats.

She sat there, and waited. Twilight was already coming, and soon, night would fall. Eventually, all of these disgusting McClouds would disperse back to their homes. Eventually, she would be alone here. And then she would make her move.

*

Luanda opened her eyes with a jolt and looked around, wondering where she was. She had fallen asleep, had wakened in the midst of fast, troubled dreams, and she chided herself, breathing hard. She had resolved to stay vigilant, to stay awake, but her wariness must have gotten the best of her. She looked out at the dark, at the absolute stillness of the town square, and wondered what time it was. At least the sun had not broken yet. And now the square, as she’d hoped, was completely empty.

Save for one person—the one who mattered most: her husband. He still stood up the scaffold, bound to the cross, hanging limply. She did not know if he was dead or alive. But at least he was alone.

Now was her chance.

Slowly, Luanda crawled her way out of the crevice, her legs and arms stiff from being curled up so long. She stood, stretching them, and surveyed her surroundings. Bronson was so high on the cross, she needed a way to get him down—and once she got him down, she needed a way to get them out of there.

But she saw no horse anywhere, no means of escape, and there was no time to search for one. It was now or never, she knew. She would just have to get him down, then figure out what to do with him then.

Luanda made her way stealthily across the square, ducking low; she reached the scaffold and climbing her way up the back steps. As she approached, she heard Bronson moaning, and was glad to hear sounds coming from him. He was alive.

Luanda came up behind him, climbing all the way to the top of the scaffold, a good ten feet off the ground, and stood beside him.

“Bronson,” she whispered in his ear, as he stood there, delirious. “It’s me, Luanda. I’m here.”

Bronson raised his chin and looked over at her with one eye open; she could see a small smile at the corner of his lips. But his lips were chapped, and he was too delirious to open his mouth to speak.

“I’m going to get you out of here, do you understand me?” she said.

Slowly, he nodded back.

Luanda removed the dagger from her belt, reached behind him, and cut the thick twine binding his arms to the cross. As she did, he suddenly slumped and fell over, collapsing onto her. The weight of him was unexpected, and sent her crashing down onto the podium with a loud noise, the hollow wood reverberating in the town square.

“Halt! Who goes there!” called out a stern voice.

Suddenly there was a torch in the blackness, and a horse came charging towards them. Luanda looked up, terrified, to see one of McCloud’s men, a royal guard, racing right for them.

She had to think quick.

Luanda jumped to her feet, pulled the dagger from her waist, and as the man charged for her, she reached back and threw it.

She prayed to God that her aim was true. It was a reflex, throwing knives, something she had done since she was a child. It was the one skill she had. And now, she prayed those years had paid off.

There was a noise of blade entering flesh as the guard screamed; she watched as the blade pierced his throat and sent him flying backwards, over and off his horse. The horse kept charging, though, right for her, and Luanda reached over and grabbed its reins, before it could take off again. She then grabbed Bronson, dragged him to his feet with all her might, and draped his body across the horse. She jumped on the horse, kicked it, and the two of them took off.

She heard a chorus of voices in the distance, behind her, but she did not stop or turn to see who was chasing her. She took off down the winding streets of this town, hoping and praying she could get out of here soon.

Her prayers came true. After several more turns, she found herself out under open sky, in the open fields, charging, heading West, into the setting of the second sun and the rising of the first moon. In the distance, as a silhouette, she could see the Highlands, and her heart soared. Just over those mountains, there was safety. If she made it, she vowed she would never cross to the McCloud side again.

She could hardly believe it.

They were free.