A Feast of Dragons - By Morgan Rice Page 0,80
to fit in as a McCloud, to justify to herself the attacking and pillaging of her homeland. But finally, she could stand it no longer: something inside her head snapped. She recognized this town, which she had spent time in as a child. It was but a few days’ ride from King’s Court, and the sight of it made her knees weak and brought a well of emotion. Finally, she’d had enough.
She had felt defenseless in the face of the strength of a foreign army, but now, so close to home, she felt in her home territory, and felt a new surge of strength. She felt a renewed sense that she had to stop this. She could not let things go on like this. In but a few days they would reach King’s Court, and who knew what damage these savages would do to her hometown when she got there.
She had fallen in love with Bronson, despite everything, who was nothing like his father and who, in fact, despised him, too; but marrying into this McCloud clan, she had realized, had been a mistake. They were nothing like her people. They all cowered under the iron fist of the elder McCloud.
At least her husband had not partaken in the savagery, as had the others. He put on a good show of it for his father, but she knew him well, already. As he entered this new town, he rode off to the side and made himself scarce, while the others did the damage. He dismounted and fidgeted with his horse, pretending it was hurt, trying to appear busy while he did his best not to hurt anyone.
He helped Luanda dismount, as he always did, and she sobbed and rushed into his arms, squeezing him hard.
“Make it stop!” she screamed into his ear.
He held her tight, and she could feel his love for her.
“I’m sorry, my love,” he said. “I wish I could.”
“Sorry is not good enough,” she yelled, pulling back and staring to his eyes, summoning all the fierceness of her own father. After all, she, too, came from a long line of kings. “You are killing my people!”
“I am not,” he said, looking down. “My father is.”
“You and your father are of the same family! The same dynasty. You go along with it.”
He looked up, skittish.
“You know my father. How am I supposed to stop him? This army? I can’t control him,” he said with remorse.
She could see in his eyes how much he wanted to—but how powerless he was in the face of him.
“Anyone can be stopped,” she said. “No one is that powerful. Look at him, there he goes now,” she said, turning and pointing, watching, disgusted, as the elder McCloud carried off on another young, innocent, unconscious girl to be his play thing for the night.
“Your father will be defenseless in there,” she said. “I don’t need you. I can sneak up on him myself and while he is sleeping, strike a peg through his skull.”
Emboldened by her own idea, she reached into the horse’s harness and extracted a long, sharp spike. Without thinking, she turned to go, determined to do exactly that—to kill the elder McCloud on her own.
But as she went, a strong hand grabbed her arm and held her in place.
She wheeled and saw Bronson staring back.
“You don’t know my father,” he said. “He is invincible. He carries the strength of ten men. And he is more wily than a rat. He will sense your approach a mile away. He will strip you of your weapon and kill you, before you even get through the door. That is not the way,” he said. “There are other ways.”
She looked at him closely, examining him, wondering what he was saying.
“Are you saying that you will help me?”
“I hate my father as much as you do,” he said. “I can’t stop his army while it advances. But if his army fails, I am prepared to take action.”
He stared back at her, meaningfully, and she could tell that he was earnest—but she also could not tell if he had the resolve to carry through. He was a good man. But when it came to his father, he was weak.
She shook her head.
“That’s not good enough,” she said. “My people are dying now. They can’t wait. And neither can I. I will kill him now, by myself. And if I fail—at least I will die trying.”
With those words, Luanda threw his hand off of her and turned and