Read Online A Sky of Spells (Book #9 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Morgan Rice
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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,
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,
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