A Clash of Honor

by Morgan Rice

  “My lady,” he said humbly, a tear in his eyes, “nothing would do me so great an honor.”

  He suddenly stepped forward, reached down and picked up her bow.

  “If I am to be your advisor,” he said, “if I may be so bold, perhaps I could start now, with a lesson on the bow and arrow.”

  He smiled, pointing at her distant target.

  “Forgive me, my lady, but I cannot help but notice your aim could use some correcting, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  Gwen smiled back, happily surprised; she was wary that someone in his shape could teach her, but she decided to go along with it and humor him. He was a quirky man.

  “I’m glad that you did notice,” she said. “Because it needs much correcting. Is archery a skill of yours?”

  He grinned as he lifted an arrow, and weighed it in his palm. She had never seen anyone handle an arrow like that before.

  “I have few skills in this world, my lady,” he said, “but archery is one of them. You would think that I would not—yet something about the hunch of my back has actually made it easy for me to shoot. It always has. My few friends used to joke that I was born in the shape of the bow. But sometimes I think, it is a good thing.”

  Steffen suddenly placed the arrow in the bow, pulled the back string, then let it go, all while looking at Gwen and smiling.

  A second later, there was the sound of the arrow hitting the target, and Gwen looked over, breathless, to see that he had hit a perfect bull’s-eye.

  She gasped. She could not understand how he had done it: he had been looking at her while he fired. She had never seen anything like that in her life—not even from the royal archer.

  “Can you teach me to do that?” she asked, in awe.

  “Aye,” he said, reaching out and handing her the bow.

  She took it and placed an arrow in it, excited for the first time.

  “Draw it, let me see your form,” he said.

  She pulled back the string, her hand shaking.

  “Your elbow must be higher. And you must pull your fingers closer to your chin. Your chin should be lowered, your eyes are wavering. Choose one eye. Don’t overthink it. And don’t hold it so long—your hands will shake.”

  Gwen let the arrow fly, and again the arrow grazed the target, although this time a bit closer to the center.

  “There’s a strong wind today,” he said. “You must take that into account. Also, the ground you stand on is sloped. Both of those must be adjusted for. Finally, this bow you hoist is too heavy for you. That must be taken into account, too. To adjust, aim a little higher, and more to your right. And bend your knees just a little: they are locked. That will allow you to breathe. Breathe deep, and let it go as you reach the peak of your breath.”

  Gwen did everything he instructed, and as she let this arrow fly, it felt different this time. She felt more in control.

  There was the sound of the arrow striking the target, and she cried out in delight to see that she had hit a near perfect bull’s-eye.

  Steffen smiled wide, too, and clapped his hands.

  “My, you are a fast learner!” he said.

  “You are a good teacher,” she answered, beaming, proud of herself.

  Suddenly, beside them, Krohn started snarling. The hair stood up on his entire body, and he turned, watching the empty horizon, snarling.

  “Krohn, what is it?” she asked.

  Krohn continued to snarl and Steffen and Gwen exchanged a glance, wondering. Gwen started to become anxious about Krohn’s behavior. She had never seen him like this. Was he seeing something?

  Suddenly there came a great rumbling, like thunder, and on the horizon, there appeared about a dozen horses, ridden by men in yellow and green armor. Her heart stopped, as she recognized it immediately: Nevaruns. She had assumed they were gone for good, after being chased away at the Hall of Arms. But apparently, they were sneaky. They had been waiting for their chance, waiting for a moment when she was not expecting it.

  Now, they charged right for her.

  Gwen was kicking herself; she had been so stupid. She should not have left herself vulnerable, alone in the hills like this, especially without her horse, a means of escape. Steffen had no horse either, and they were stuck, helpless, nothing for them to do but wait for their approach. She suddenly wished that Thor was there, by her side, as her heart flooded with panic.

  But her heart also flooded with strength, and she felt an indignity rise in her veins. After all, she was MacGil’s daughter, a King’s daughter, and she bore the pride of a King. Her father ran from no one, and neither would she.

  Gwen heard a screech, and high up she spotted Estopheles, screeching, swooping down, circling; she felt her father with her.

  “My lady, run!” Steffen screamed.

  He stepped forward, snatched the bow from her hands, and faster than any archer she had seen in her life, he reached down and fired three quick shots as the group neared, now maybe thirty yards away.

  Steffen’s aim was unbelievable. He hit three warriors, each with perfect precision, in their throats, at the base of their collarbones, the arrows going through one end and out the other. Each fell sideways off their horse, dead.

  “Never!” Gwen screamed back.

  At the same time, Gwen grabbed her bow and fired at the men, too. She missed her first shot. Then she remembered everything that Steffen had taught her. She tried to breathe, to relax. And as she took aim again and let the arrow fly, she was amazed to watch it sail and pierce a warrior in the throat. He reached up, screaming, then fell down, too.

  They were so close now that there was no time for Steffen or Gwen to fire. The horses bore down on them and at the last second they both jumped out of the way so as not to be trampled.

  The soldiers each jumped from their horses, one tackling Gwen, and the other Steffen, knocking them down and landing on top of them, in their armor. Gwen’s ribs were bruised as she hit the ground.

  Gwen’s attacker reached back with his gauntlet, preparing to backhand her, and she braced herself for the impact, one she knew would shatter her jaw.

  But then a great snarling filled her ears, and before her eyes Krohn leapt forward and sank his fangs into the soldier’s throat. He shrieked, as Krohn found the soft spot between his plates of armor, and dug in, pinning him to the ground, refusing to let go.

  Gwen rolled out from under him and in the same motion, she grabbed his dagger from his belt, and spun around just in time to plunge it into the other soldier diving for her. She stabbed him low in the belly and he shrieked, dropping his club, before he brought it down for her head.

  He landed on top of her, limp, and the impact hurt. But she held on and drove the dagger deeper into him, and soon he stopped squirming, dead.

  She pushed him off of her.

  Another soldier came at her with a whip, about to lash her face, but Krohn turned and leapt, pouncing in the air and sinking his fangs into the soldier’s wrist, tearing off his hand in mid-air, the whip with it. The soldier shrieked, sinking to his knees and clutching his bloody stump.

  Steffen finally managed to free himself from beneath the other knight, and as he did, he drew his sword and chopped off the handless knight’s head.

  A soldier attacked Gwen from behind, grabbing her and yanking her to his feet, and holding a dagger to her throat.

  “I hope that you always remember that I gave you this scar, princess,” he said, his hot breath in her ear. Then he reached up and brought the dagger to her cheek.

  Gwen braced herself for the cut, feeling the metal touch her skin—when suddenly she heard a screech, and looked up to see Estopheles, diving down, claws out, right for her. She dodged her head, and the bird swooped straight down and clawed her attacker’s face.

  He screamed, clutching his eyes and dropping the blade.

  Steffen charged forward and stabbed the man in the chest. He then wheeled around and in the same motion, slashed a soldier in the stomach, right before he came down
at Steffen with a war hammer.

  Gwen, bruised, shaking, covered in blood, looked around at all the corpses and was amazed at the damage they’d done. It was like a mini battlefield, and she and Steffen and Krohn had somehow survived.

  But she relaxed too soon: Krohn started snarling again, and Gwen turned and heard another great rumbling.

  The horizon became filled with soldiers, hundreds of them, all wearing the yellow and green armor of the Nevaruns.

  Gwen’s her heart stopped, as she realized that those few knights they had killed had just been an expeditionary party, a small taste of what was to come. Now there bore down on them an entire army, in full force. There was no way they could defend themselves—and nowhere to run.

  Steffen stepped forward, fearlessly raised the bow, and prepared to fire. She was in awe at his chivalry, his fearlessness, but she knew it was a losing battle.

  “Steffen!” she cried out.

  He turned and looked at her, as she laid a hand on his wrist.

  “Don’t,” she said. “We cannot win. I need you elsewhere. Leave this place. Run and get word to Thor, to the Legion. Tell them to find me, wherever I am. That is what I need.”

  “My lady, I cannot leave you,” he protested, wide-eyed, the army getting closer, raising his voice to be heard.

  “You must!” she insisted. “I demand that you do. If you care for me, you will. You are needed elsewhere. Without you, I cannot get a message to Thor. You’re my last hope. Go. GO!” she screamed, fierce.

  Steffen turned and raced off across the fields, sprinting.

  Gwen stood there, facing the oncoming army alone, only Krohn by her side, and she trembled inside, but refused to show it. She held her chest out, her chin up, and she stood there proudly, refusing to run. Krohn snarled at these men, not showing an ounce of fear, and she was determined to match his bravery. Whatever would come, would come. At least she would go down proudly.

  In moments they reached her. First came the thumping of horses, swirling all around her; then came the scowls of hundreds of angry men, charging for her, holding thick ropes of twine, preparing to bind her. Krohn, undeterred, bravely pounced and tore off the hand of the first man who reached for Gwen.

  But another soldier raised a club and brought it down on Krohn’s back, and Gwen heard an awful crack. It sounded as if Krohn’s ribs were broken—yet somehow, Krohn managed to spin around and bite off his attacker’s hand, too.

  Krohn leapt for another soldier, sinking his fangs into his throat and clasping onto them while the soldier shrieked. Another soldier smashed him with a mace, yet still Krohn would not let go—until finally another soldier cast a net on him, binding him.

  Simultaneously, the soldiers brought their horses to a stop before Gwen, and a group of them dismounted and strutted towards her. One of them stepped out in front, and as he came close, he lifted his visor. She recognized him, from the confrontation outside the Hall of Arms. It was the man to whom she had been sold, the man arranged by Gareth to be her husband.

  “I told you I’d return,” he said, his face humorless. “You had your chance to come peacefully. Now, you shall learn the hard way of the might of the Nevaruns.”

  Gwendolyn only dimly saw the gauntlet, behind her, coming down for her face, as she heard the awful crash of metal against her skull, felt the ringing in her ears, and felt herself sink down, unconscious, into the field of flowers.

  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.”