A Grant of Arms

CHAPTER THIRTY

Godfrey charged into battle with a great battle cry, Akorth and Fulton beside him, thousands of his men close behind. He rode recklessly into the heart of danger, following the bulls, to Kendrick, Erec, Bronson, and Srog, determined to assist them. Godfrey’s heart thumped with fear, but he was proud of himself for not turning back. He had never felt so afraid of his life; everything around him became a blur, and he could taste his own sweat as it rolled down his cheek.

If this was what battle felt like, he hated it. He never wanted to experience it again. To him it felt like a controlled state of panic. His hands shook as he raised a sword with one hand and charged for the enemy, screaming more to cover up his own fear. Why do men put themselves through this? he wondered. He would much rather be back at home, drinking ale, chasing women, and making fun of other warriors who wasted their days on the battlefield.

Yet despite it all, here he was. He rode alongside them all, headlong into a whirlwind of chaos, expecting at any moment to be knocked off his horse and killed. For once in his life, he did not care. For once in his life, he felt he was part of something bigger than himself, bigger than his fears. For once, he really let himself go. He was being overcome by a sense of abandon, and it was carrying him through.

Godfrey, dodging bulls, rounded the bend, and as he did, his fear intensified, as a huge division of Empire men appeared before him, charging at a speed which was blinding to him. He gulped. Godfrey had done his job well in releasing the bulls, and he was surprised his crazy plan had worked as well as it had. But now that he saw this new Empire division approaching, he felt it was all for nothing. They were about to die anyway at the hands of this vastly superior force, that much was clear.

Scaring him most of all was the sight of the person leading the charge. It made his knees go weak. There, right before him, was a man he had thought of as a brother. Thorgrin. Godfrey could not believe it: Thor was charging right for them. He looked possessed, bigger and stronger than ever, charging for them with blinding force, with a sword that Godfrey did not recognize. It had the markings of the Empire, and Thor wielded it as if it were alive. He rode as if borne on wings of lightning.

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.

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.