A March of Kings

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 watching him as he watched the horizon, looking to him for the first sign of what to do, how to act. What he saw below pleased him immensely. There were small villages, spread out in bucolic hills, smoke rising from chimneys, women hanging clothes out to dry, children playing. There were entire fields of sheep, farmers harvesting fruits—and most importantly, no patrols in sight. The MacGils had become sloppy.

His smile broadened. Soon, those would be his women. Soon, those would be his sheep.

“ATTACK!” McCloud shrieked.

His men let out a cheer, a battle cry, all of them on horses, raising their swords high.

As one, they all charged, hundreds of them, down the mountain. McCloud went first, as he always did, the wind in his hair, his stomach dropping as he stormed down the steep descent. And as he kicked his horse mercilessly, galloping faster, ever faster, he had never felt so alive.