Free A March of Kings by Morgan Rice

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 these savages was at least a head taller than he, with broad shoulders, muscles rippling on their red skin. They had huge jaws, like an animal, their eyes sat too far apart, and their noses were sunken into their skin in a small triangle. With narrow lips, long fangs, and curled yellow horns coming from their bald heads, McCloud had to admit to himself that he felt afraid. These were monsters.
    Their leader, Andronicus, stood at the rear of the boat, and he was even taller than the others. He was a specimen. Nearly twice as tall as McCloud, his yellow eyes flashed as he