A Feast of Dragons

chapter TWENTY EIGHT

King McCloud could hardly believe his good luck, how deep his men were penetrating into MacGil territory. It had been over three months, an entire season, of rape and pillage and murder, leaving a trail of destruction from East to West as they tore into the heart of the Western Kingdom of the Ring. It had been a hundred straight days—more than any he had spent in his life—filled with glory, victory. He was sated with wine, and cattle, and spoils, and heads, and women. He could not get enough.

McCloud closed his eyes as he galloped farther and farther West, into the setting of the second sun, and he smiled as in his mind flashed the faces of all the men he had murdered. There were the innocent villagers, caught off guard, trying to put up their pitiful defenses; there were the professional soldiers of the King’s guard, horribly outmanned, underequipped and unprepared. Those kills were the most enjoyable—at least they had put up something of a fight. Though they never stood a chance: McCloud’s men were too motivated, too disciplined. They knew that every battle they fought was to the death. Because if they lost, or did not fight hard enough, McCloud would have his own men killed. He had trained his soldiers well.

The McCloud army had been a killing machine as they went from town to town, claiming territory, making it their own. Like a violent storm of locusts passing through the land, nothing had been able to stop them.

McCloud had also made it a priority to surround each village first, block all the exits, and prevent the escape of any messengers that might escape to King’s Court and alert the greater MacGil army of the invasion. He had managed to murder them all, to keep this invasion a secret for so long. He hoped to surprise MacGil’s army, and wipe them all out before they had time to muster a defense. Then he could march into King’s Court, make Gareth surrender, and claim the entire Ring as his own.

They galloped, McCloud’s entourage having grown larger with all the slaves he had captured, all the boys and old men he had forced to join his troop. He now charged with at least a thousand men, hardened warriors all of them, a huge killing machine. In the distance he could already see the next town, its steeples visible even from here. This town, he could see, was larger than most, a small city, a sure sign that they were getting closer to King’s Court.

As they neared it, McCloud could tell from the walls that this was the last major city before the direct approach to King’s Court. They were still a good three days ride away, far enough away that the MacGils could not reinforce them quickly. They stood no chance against McCloud’s Army.

They galloped harder. The sound of horses’ hooves rose in his ears, the dust rose off the road, filling his nostrils, and he could see townsmen scurrying to close the gate, lowering the huge iron bars. McCloud was almost impressed. Most of the other towns had no stone walls, no iron gates—just a lame set of parameters. This town was larger, more sophisticated, prepared for a siege.

But as McCloud studied its walls with his professional soldier’s eye, he saw that, most importantly, it was devoid of soldiers. It was guarded by just a handful of boys and elder men, posted at stations spread too far among the wall. The holes were plentiful. McCloud could tell that they would overrun it within minutes.

They might try to surrender, as others had. But he would not give them that chance. That would take away half the fun.

“Charge!” he screamed.

Behind him, his men screamed in approval, and together, they sprinted for the town, McCloud riding out front as he always did. As they got close to the city gate, McCloud reached down, yanked a huge spear off the horse’s harness, and chucked it.

It was a perfect strike, planting in the back of the boy who had been running across the courtyard, trying to close the gate. He had succeeded in closing the gate—but that would be the final success of his young life.

That iron gate could not keep them out. As they rode up to it, McCloud’s men, well-trained, pulled their horses up before it, while others dismounted, jumped on top of their fellow’s horse, and allowed themselves to be picked up and thrown over the wall. One at a time, McCloud’s men landed on the other side, and then finally unlocked the gate for the rest of them.

His army charged through, a thousand men strong, poring through the small opening.

McCloud was the first to gallop through, determined to be the first to wreak bloodshed. He drew his sword and chased down men and women as they ran. How many men, in how many towns, he mused, would run from him like this? It was the same scene in every place he visited. Nothing in the Ring could stop him now.

By rote, McCloud grabbed a small throwing axe from his waist, leaned back, took aim at the center of a man’s back he decided he did not like, and let it fly. It tumbled end over end, and impaled the man with a satisfying noise, like a spear entering a tree.

The man shrieked and fell flat on his face, and McCloud had his horse trampled over him, making sure he ran over his head. McCloud felt a thrill of satisfaction as the horse ran over him. He would come back for his axe later.

McCloud singled out a particularly young and beautiful woman, perhaps twenty, as she ran for her house. He kicked his horse at a full gallop and bore down on her. As they pulled up alongside her he jumped off and landed on top of her, tackling her down to the ground, her soft body and large bosom cushioning his fall.

She screamed and cried out, dazed from the attack, as they rolled on the ground. He backhanded her, silencing her.

He then lifted her over his shoulder as he got to his feet, and made his way towards the first empty dwelling he could find. He smiled as his army galloped past, as he heard the screams, saw the bloodshed all around him. This would be a wonderful night.

*

Luanda wept as she rode on the back of Bronson’s horse into the walled town of her homeland, the town of her sister’s mother, and watched the McClouds ravage it, as they had so many towns along the way. She’d had no choice but to ride along with them, all these days, and she had learned to keep her mouth shut, had been disciplined one too many times by the elder McCloud. She had done her best to keep quiet, to try 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 marched for the tent, holding the iron spike, shaking with fear, but determined to kill this monster once and for all.