A March of Kings - By Morgan Rice Page 0,58
Maybe he had underestimated himself; maybe he had just been too hard on himself. After all, his father was meant to die—or else he would not have died. Maybe it all happened this way because Gareth was meant to be the better king. Yes, maybe his killing his father was for the good of the kingdom.
Gareth heard a shout, and he turned and looked out over King’s Court and saw the parade passing below, the celebration for the new King, the banners being hoisted. He saw his soldiers marching in formation. It was a beautiful, perfect summer day. As he looked down, he could not help feeling as if all of this had been destined. Like Firth said: if he was not meant to be king, he would not be king. He would not be standing here right now.
He knew this was the most important decision of his entire kingship, and it was one he would have to make now. He wished that Argon were here now, to offer him counsel, but he also sensed that Argon hated him, and even if he gave him advice, he wondered if it would be the right advice.
Gareth sighed, then finally turned from the window. The time had come to make the first major decision of his kingship.
“Summon the guards,” he ordered Firth, as he turned and walked for the door. “Prepare the dynasty chamber.”
He stopped and turned to Firth, who stood there, staring back excitedly.
“I am going to wield the sword.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
King McCloud sat on his horse on the peak of the Highlands, flanked by his son, his top generals, and hundreds of his men, as he looked down greedily at the MacGil’s side of the Ring. On this summer day a warm breeze pushed back his long hair, and he peered down at their lush land with envy. It was the land he’d always wished for, the land his father and his father before him had always wanted, the choicer side of the Ring, with more fertile land, deeper rivers, richer soil, and purer water. His side of the Highlands, the McCloud side of the Ring, had been adequate, maybe even good. But it wasn’t choice. It wasn’t the MacGil side. He didn’t have the very best vineyards, the richest milk, the brightest rays of the sun. And McCloud, as his father before him, was determined to change that. The MacGils had enjoyed the better half of the Ring for long enough; now it was time for the McClouds to have it.
As McCloud sat at the very top of the Highlands, eyeing the MacGil side for the first time since he was a boy, he felt optimism. The fact that he was even able to be up this high told him everything he needed to know. In the past, the MacGils had always guarded the Highlands so carefully that the McClouds could not even find a single way to pass through—and certainly could not sit on the high ground. Now his men had cleared it with only the slightest skirmish. The MacGils were truly not expecting an attack from their ancient adversaries. It was either that or, McCloud supposed, the new MacGil king was weak, unprepared. Gareth. He’d met him on several occasions. He was nothing like his father. To think that the kingdom was now in his hands was laughable.
McCloud knew an opportunity when he saw it—and this one was once in a lifetime, one that could not be passed by. It was a chance to strike the MacGils hard, once and for all, deep in their territory, before they had had a chance to reconvene from the death of the king. McCloud was gambling that they would still be reeling, still unsure how to react under the rule of this novice king. Thus far, he had been right.
McCloud speculated even further, reasoned that MacGil’s assassination pointed to a division within the MacGil dynasty. Someone had executed him, and had gone about it very well. There were chinks in the armor, all down the chain. That meant weakness. Division. All excellent signs. All pointing to a fractured kingdom. All pointing to the McClouds, after centuries, finally having their chance to crush them once and for all, and to control the entire Ring.
McCloud smiled at the thought of it, as close to a smile as he could come, the slightest bit at the corner of his mouth, barely moving his thick, stiff beard. All around him, he could feel his men