A Sky of Spells

CHAPTER NINE

Gwendolyn stood there, looking up at Thorgrin, atop Mycoples, and her heart soared with relief and pride. She had made her way through the thick crowd of soldiers, back to the front lines, throwing off the protection of Steffen and the others. She had pushed her way all the way into the clearing, and she stood before Thor. She burst into tears of joy, as she looked out and saw the Empire defeated, all threats finally gone, as she saw Thor, her love, alive, safe. She felt triumphant. She felt as if all the darkness and grief of the last several months had finally lifted, felt that the Ring was finally safe once again. She felt overwhelmed with joy and gratitude as Thor spotted her and looked down at her with such love, his eyes shining.

Gwen prepared to go forth and greet him, when suddenly a noise cut through the air that made her turn.

“BRONSON!” came the shriek.

Gwen and the others turned, and her heart sank with dread to see a man emerge from the ashes of the Empire side. The man had been lying face-down on the ground, covered with the bodies of Empire soldiers, and he stood and knocked them off as he rose to his full height.

McCloud.

Gwen felt a shudder. McCloud had somehow survived, having been a coward, taking refuge under the bodies of others, somehow surviving the wall of flames. He stood there with his disfigured body, his face branded, missing an eye, and now, half-burnt from flames, his clothes still smoldering. Yet he was alive, sword in hand, glaring right at his son, Bronson.

Gwen felt a supreme distaste rise up within her. There was a man she loathed with every fiber of her being, the man of her nightmares, the ones she relived every night, the man who had attacked her. There was nothing more she had wished for all these days than to see him dead.

There he stood, at his full height and breadth, which was considerable, a nightmare come to life, the sole survivor of the entire conflagration.

“BRONSON!” McCloud shrieked again, stepping forward into the clearing.

Bronson answered the call: he stepped forward from the MacGil side, his own sword in hand, prepared to greet his father in one last battle.

Mycoples snarled, arched her neck, and prepared to breathe fire on McCloud.

But Thor placed a hand on her, stopping her, as he dismounted and clutched his sword, stepping forward, towards McCloud, to finish him off.

Bronson stepped forward, to Thor’s side, and laid a hand on Thor’s shoulder.

“It is my battle,” Bronson said.

“He attacked my wife,” Thor said. “I crave vengeance.”

“But he is my father,” Bronson replied. “Surely you understand. I crave it more.”

Thor stared back at Bronson, long and hard, then finally, understanding, he stepped aside.

“Both of you attack!” McCloud shouted, his voice raspy, “I shall kill you both easily!”

Bronson turned and faced him, and he rushed forward with a great cry, raising his sword high, as McCloud charged back.

Father and son met in the middle of the open field, and Bronson brought his sword down with all his might. McCloud raised his and blocked it with a clang. Sparks flew, and the fight had begun.

Bronson, in a rage, swung his sword around, slashing again and again and again, driving his father back, who nonetheless blocked every blow, and parried back with several of his own. The two of them drove each other back and forth, sparks flying in every direction as the epic fight went on and on, neither gaining an inch, both out for blood. Clearly, the enmity between them ran deep.

Finally, in one quick move, Bronson got the better of his father, knocking the sword from his grasp and stepping forward and butting him in the nose with the hilt of his sword, breaking it.

McCloud reached up and grabbed his nose, gushing blood, screaming, and Bronson kicked him back, knocking him down to the ground.

Bronson stepped forward and McCloud suddenly swept around with the back of his heel, kicking Bronson hard in the back of the knee, making him drop to the ground. McCloud then sat up, swung around, and smashed Bronson in the back of the head with his gauntlet, sending his son face-first in the dirt.

McCloud snatched the sword from Bronson’s hand, raised it and prepared to bring it down on Bronson’s exposed neck and sever his head.

Gwendolyn, horrified, stepped forward and screamed: “NO!” She could not stand to see Bronson lying there, prone, about to die, this man she had come to love and respect, who had fought so intensely for her cause.

McCloud lowered his sword and a horrific shriek cut through the air, and Gwendolyn flinched, sure it was Bronson’s death cry.

But as she opened her eyes, she was shocked to see it was not Bronson who shrieked, but McCloud. He stood there, missing an arm. Thor stood over him, sword out, having just chopped off his arm, right before he could bring down his sword on Bronson.

“That’s for Gwendolyn,” Thor said to McCloud.

As McCloud sank to his knees, grasping his arm stump, shrieking, Bronson rose and faced him, beside Thor, the two of them staring him down.

“Justice is served, father,” Bronson said. “You took my hand. Now yours is taken.”

“I would’ve taken both of your hands if I could,” McCloud snarled.

Bronson shook his head, leaned back, and kicked his father in the face, and he went flying back, his head slamming on the ground.

“You won’t be taking anyone’s hand anymore,” Bronson replied.

His father lay there, groaning, and Bronson reached down and retrieved his sword from the dirt.

“He’s mine to kill,” Bronson said to Thor.

Thor nodded in respect and stepped aside, as Bronson stood over his father, preparing to kill him.

Gwen stepped forward, past all the men, past the stares of all the soldiers, and came up beside Bronson and laid a hand on his wrist.

Bronson turned to her.

“Ask not for compassion for him, my lady,” Bronson said.

“I do not,” Gwendolyn said. “I’ve come for vengeance.”

Bronson looked back at her, surprised.

“It was my honor that he took,” Gwendolyn continued, “and I must set wrongs right. Justice must be done by my hand. Not by yours.”

Bronson looked at her long and hard, then finally understood. He nodded and stepped aside.

“Kill the man who haunts your dreams,” Bronson said. “Just as he haunted mine my entire life. Once he is dead, may both our dreams vanish.”

Gwendolyn took the sword with both hands, gripping the hilt, squeezing tight. Slowly, she raised it high overhead. Never before had she killed a man, up close, who had lay there, prone. Her hands trembled, even though she knew justice demanded it.

She felt the blood coursing through her veins. The blood of the MacGils; of seven generations of kings; the blood of a ruler of a great people; the blood of someone charged to set wrongs right. She felt an overriding need to rid the world of an evil that never should have existed in the first place.

“You won’t do it,” McCloud snarled up at her. “You’re just like my boy. You don’t have the nerve.”

Gwendolyn breathed deep and thrust the sword down, straight down, into McCloud’s heart, piercing it. The sword continued, through his body, into the frozen ground.

McCloud’s eyes bulged open with a look of shock, as he stared up at her in agony and surprise. He remained that way for several seconds, frozen.

Then finally he fell backwards, limp. Dead.

Gwendolyn extracted the bloody sword and held it out before her, as she turned and faced her people. She raised it high.

As one, her entire army, all of her people, knelt before her, and shouted:

“GWENDOLYN!”