of their spoils, of their slaves, their injuries, their lost brethren. And all at the hands of the boy.
It was a disgrace.
McCloud scowled as he marched, kicking soldiers randomly who sat on the ground, shoving others, slapping the wounded, trailed by his small entourage of advisers, none of whom dared speak to him. They knew, wisely, that that would be a mistake.
McCloud ran over and over again in his mind the cause of their defeat, what had gone wrong, what he could have done differently. Perhaps he should have stopped before the last city; perhaps he should not have ventured so deep. If he had turned back sooner, he could have returned to the McCloud side of the Highlands on his own terms, as a conquering hero, a greater king than all the McClouds before him.
But he had pushed it, had taken one city too many, had risked one battle too many. He had miscalculated the MacGil’s defenses. He had been sure that the new MacGil son, Gareth, was a weakling, unable to muster a defense. Perhaps the troops had fought despite Gareth. He didn’t understand it.
Most of all, he did not understand that boy, Thor. He had never encountered anyone in battle like that, anyone so powerful. He had simply no way to defend against it.
As McCloud marched through the camp of men, he knew that revolt would be inevitable. Sooner or later, his own men, who had once praised him so, would rally and rise up against him, would try to oust him. Instead of being known as the greatest of the McCloud kings, he would go down in history as the failed McCloud king. And that was something he could not allow.
McCloud had to preempt it. He would get tougher, more vicious with his men, so vicious that they would not even think of revolt. Then he would form another scheme, and strike the MacGils again, even harder than before.
But looking at the sorry state of his army, he did not know how that was possible. He felt a rage towards them. They had let him down—and no one lets him down.
McCloud turned the corner and marched through yet another row of dejected soldiers, and he saw before him his son Bronson’s new wife, the MacGil daughter, Luanda, bound with twine, on the ground with the other slaves. In her, he finally found an object for his hatred.
It all came back to him: McCloud had been enjoying that girl immensely when Luanda had interrupted him, had snuck up on him—and now it was time to take his bad mood out on her. He saw in her the very emblem of disobedience of his own men. His own son’s daughter, trying to kill him, and in the midst of his greatest victory. It was too much for him to bear. Her behavior would embolden the other men, and now, more than ever, he needed to send a message to all of them.
McCloud stormed over to Luanda, lying on her back, eyes opened wide with fear, feet and hands bound, and he reached out with his dagger. She flinched as he approached, thinking he would cut her—but he had other plans. He reached down and sliced the ropes binding her. She was startled to be freed her, and seemed confused—but he didn’t give her time to think about it.
McCloud reached out and yanked her to her feet by her chest, then grabbed her by the shirt and lifted her off the ground, scowling up at her. She scowled back down, and then to his surprise, she spat in his face.
Her boldness and courage startled him. Without thinking, he reached back and smacked her hard enough to make all the men around him turn and watch what was going on. A growing crowd of soldiers formed, as she stopped struggling in his arms, getting the message, her face already black and blue from the time he had punched her. He held her high above his head and turned slowly, facing the crowd of soldiers in the dusty square.
“Let this be a message for all those who dare defy my command!” he boomed. “This woman dared to raise a hand against her King. Now she will know the full wrath of my justice!”
A cheer arose and McCloud carried her across the square, bent her over a large wooden log, grabbed her wrists and yanked them behind her back and tied each to the log. She stood there, bent over the log,