The once magnificent throne room was already strewn with several bodies. King Macbeth of Scotland waved his sword, rather ineptly, at his now-mortal enemy, Macduff, Thane of Fife.
An army of heavily armed soldiers had carried whole trees across a treeless area near the very solid fortress on Dunsinane Hill, thinking this a good method of concealment. Macduff had proved, on a technicality, not to be “of woman born.” All was lost for Macbeth, as per the witches’ prophecy, but the truly stupid never give up until the bitter end.
Macduff, who had a considerably better talent with his claymore, managed to swipe off both of the king’s arms.
“A flesh wound,” said Macbeth carelessly.
“Yield thee, coward!” cried the noble thane, ridding Macbeth of a leg this time. He seemed determined to make this as bad as he could for the betrayer.
Macbeth taunted him, said he’d still win. “I’m invincible!” he cried. “The witches said!”
“You’re a loony!” replied Macduff, swiping off the usurper’s head.
All hail Malcolm!