A March of Kings - By Morgan Rice Page 0,23

no one within miles of him, and he was immediately on guard. His men spun, too, and they all drew their swords and bows, as they prepared for an attack. McCloud had feared this: had it all just been a trap?

But as he watched the horizon, he did not see an army approach; he was confused by what he saw. It was a single horse, galloping over the plains, raising a cloud of dust, and continuing to ride right onto the beach, right for them. The man who rode was one of his: dressed in orange, with the blue stripes of a messenger across his shoulders.

A messenger, racing towards them, in this barren place. He must have followed them all the way from the kingdom. McCloud wondered: what could be so urgent that his people would send him a messenger here, in this place? It must be significant news.

The messenger rode right up to them and dismounted from his horse while it had barely stopped. He stood there, reeling hard, gasping for air, took several steps toward McCloud, and kneeled down before him, bowing his head

“My liege, I bring you news from the kingdom,” he said, gasping.

“What is it, then?” McCloud snapped, impatient, checking back over his shoulder at the Empire ship, rowing its way closer. Why, now, of all moments, had this messenger had to come? At the moment when he most needed to stand on guard against the Empire?

“Quickly, out with it!” McCloud yelled.

The messenger stood, breathing hard.

“My liege, the MacGil king is dead.”

A surprised gasp erupted from his men—most of all, from McCloud himself.

“Dead?” he asked, uncomprehending. He had just left him, a king at the height of his power.

“Murdered,” the messenger replied. “Stabbed to death in his chamber.”

A horrible shriek arose beside him, and McCloud turned to see the MacGil daughter, wailing, flailing her arms hysterically.

“NO!” she screamed. “My father!”

She was shrieking and flailing, and Devon tried to stop her, to grab her arms, but she could not be pacified.

“Let me go!” she cried. “I must go back. Right now! I must see him!”

“He’s dead,” Devon said to her.

“NO!” she wailed.

McCloud could not afford to have the Empire see one of their women screaming, out of control. Nor did he want her to give away the news. He had to quiet her.

McCloud stepped forward and punched the woman across the face, so hard, he knocked her out. She collapsed into Devon’s arms—and he looked up at his father, horrified.

“What have you done?” Devon called out. “She is my bride!” he snapped, indignant.

“She is my property,” McCloud corrected. He glared at his son long enough, until his son looked away.

McCloud turned back to the messenger.

“Are you certain he’s dead?”

“Quite certain, sire. Their entire side of the Ring mourns. His funeral was this morning. He is dead.

“What’s more,” the messenger added, “they have already named a new king. His firstborn son. Gareth.”

Gareth, McCloud thought. How perfect. The weakest of the lot, the one who would make the worst king. McCloud could not have asked for better news.

McCloud nodded slowly, rubbing his beard, taking it all in. This was opportune news, indeed. MacGil, his rival, dead, after all these decades. He could hardly believe it. Assassinated. He wondered by whom. He would like to thank the man. He was only sorry he had not thought of it himself. He of course had tried to send assassins over the years, had tried to infiltrate the court, but had never been successful. And now, one of MacGil’s own men had succeeded where he could not.

This changed everything.

McCloud turned back, took several steps towards the sea, and watched the Empire boat get closer and closer. It crested the waves, and was now hardly thirty yards from shore. MacGil stepped towards the water and stood there alone, several feet away from the others, hands on his hips, thinking. This news would change his meeting with the Empire. With MacGil dead, and with that weakling as king, the MacGils would be vulnerable. Now, indeed, would be the perfect time to attack. Now they might not even need the help of the empire.

The boat came to shore, and McCloud stepped back as it reached the sand, his men flanking him. There were at least a dozen Empire men inside, rowing hard, all savages, all dressed in the bright red loincloths of the Wilds. As they all stood, he saw how huge and imposing they were. McCloud was a huge man himself—but even so, each of