The Sorcerer's Ring: Book 02 - A March of Kings

by Morgan Rice

  “Is this true, Gwendolyn?” Aberthol asked.

  “It is, my lord,” she answered softly, still looking down. “It is what my father wished. He made me vow to him that I would accept. And I vowed. I wish I hadn’t. I can think of nothing I want less.”

  An excited and disturbed gasp spread amongst the council members, as they turned to each other, clearly caught off guard.

  “A woman has never ruled the kingdom,” Brom said, agitated.

  “Much less a young girl,” Kolk added.

  “If we were to hand over the kingship to a girl,” Kelvin said, “surely the nobles would rebel, would vie for power. It would put us in a position of weakness.”

  “Not to mention the McClouds,” Bradaigh added. “They would attack. They would test us.”

  Aberthol raised a hand, and slowly, they all quieted. He sat there, looking down at the table, lowering his hand, his palm flat on it, and looked like an ancient tree, rooted to the place.

  “Whether the king wished for it or not, it is not for us to say. That is not the issue here. The law is the issue. And legally speaking, our late king’s most unusual choice of an heir was never ratified. And without ratification, it is not law.”

  “But it would have been ratified at the next council meeting!” Kendrick said.

  “Perhaps,” Aberthol responded, “but to his bad fortune, that meeting had not yet come. Thus, we have no written record, and no ratification into law.”

  “But we have witnesses!” Kendrick yelled out, impassioned.

  “It is true!” Reese yelled out. “I was there!”

  “As was I!” Godfrey yelled.

  Gareth held his tongue, even as the others looked at him. Inside, he was burning with rage. He felt as if his dreams of being king were crumbling all around him. He despised his siblings more than ever, who all seemed to gang up on him.

  “I’m afraid that witnesses alone do not suffice when it comes to a matter as important as the kingship,” Aberthol said. “All official decrees must be ratified by the council. Without this, they cannot become law. Which means the law must stand as it always has, for centuries of MacGil kings: the eldest, the firstborn, must inherit. I am sorry, Gwendolyn.”

  “Mother!” Kendrick yelled, pleading, turning towards the Queen. “You know father’s wishes! Do something! Tell them!”

  But the queen sat there, hands folded in her lap, staring into space. She was in a catatonic state, and she was inscrutable.

  After several moments of silence, Kendrick finally turned back to the council.

  “But it is not right!” he yelled. “Whether ratified or not, it was the king’s will. Our father’s will. You all served him. You should respect that. Gareth should not rule. Gwendolyn should.”

  “My dear brother, please, it is OK,” Gwen said softly to Kendrick, laying a hand on his wrist.

  “And who is to say that I should not rule?” Gareth finally yelled back, seething, unable to take it anymore. “I am the king’s firstborn son, after all. Unlike you,” he spat to Kendrick.

  Gareth’s face burned with anger, and he immediately regretted it. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut, should have waited and let it seem as if the kingship fell to him unwanted. But he was unable to contain himself. He could tell by the look in Kendrick’s eyes that he’d hurt him with his words. He was glad that he did.

  “Suffice all of this say,” Aberthol said slowly, “that the law is the law. I am sorry. But Gareth, son of King MacGil, in accordance with the ancient law of the Ring, I hereby proclaim you to be the eighth MacGil king of the Western Kingdom of the Ring. Hear ye all here assembled: do you hear our proclamation?”

  “Hear ye!” came the response.

  An iron staff was slammed, and a metallic ring boomed through the room.

  Gareth flinched, feeling his whole body shake. With that boom, he felt himself transported.

  With that sound, he was King.

  He could not believe it.

  He was King.

  CHAPTER NINE

  King McCloud rode at the head of the small military contingent, dressed in his battle gear, wearing the distinctive burnt-orange armor of the McClouds. A tall, stout man, twice as wide as any other, there was little fat on him; with a short, cropped red beard, long hair mostly gray, a wide nose, crushed in from too many battles, and an even wider jaw, he was a man who feared nothing in life. He was already, having just reached his fiftieth year, famed as the most aggressive and brutal McCloud that had lived. It was a reputation he cherished.

  McCloud was a man who had always squeezed from life whatever it could give him. And what it would not give him, he would take. In fact, he liked to take, more than to receive; he enjoyed making others miserable, and enjoyed ruling his kingdom with an iron fist. He enjoyed showing no mercy, keeping his soldiers in line with a discipline unlike any McCloud had ever wielded. And it worked. His dozen men rode behind him now in perfect order, and none would ever dare speak back to him, or do the smallest thing against his will. That included his son, the prince, who rode close behind him, and a dozen of his best archers, who rode behind his son.

  McCloud and his men had been riding hard all day. They had breached the Eastern Crossing of the Canyon early in the morning, and his small armed contingent had continued east, charging without a break through the dusty plains of the Nevari, on guard for an ambush. They rode and rode, as the second sun rose and slipped. Now, finally, covered in dust from the plains, McCloud spotted the Ambrek Sea on the horizon.

  The galloping of horses filled his ears and now, the smell of the ocean air reached him. It was a cool summer afternoon, the second sun long in the sky, casting shades of turquoise and pink on the horizon. McCloud felt his hair being blown back in the wind, and looked forward to arriving on the shore. It had been years since he had seen the ocean: it was too risky to venture here lightly given that they had to breach the Canyon and then ride fifty miles in unprotected territory. Of course, the McClouds had their own fleet of ships in the waters, as the MacGils had on their side of the Ring—but still, it was always a risky business, being beyond the energy shield of the Canyon. Every now and again the Empire took out one of their ships, and there was little the McClouds could do about it. The Empire vastly outnumbered them.

  But this time, it was different. A McCloud ship had been intercepted at sea by the Empire, and usually, the Empire took the McClouds for ransom. McCloud had never paid a single ransom, something he was proud of; instead, he always let the Empire kill his men. He refused to embolden them.

  But something had shifted, because this time they had freed his men and sent the ship back with a message: they wanted to meet with McCloud. McCloud assumed it could be only about one thing: breaching the Canyon. Invading the Ring. And partnering with them to take down the MacGils. For years, the Empire had been trying to convince the McClouds to allow them to breach the Canyon, the energy shield, to let them inside the Ring so that they could conquer and dominate the last remaining territory on the planet. In returned, they promised a sharing of power.

  The question burning in McCloud’s mind was this: what was in it for him? How much would the Empire be willing to give him? For years, he had turned down their overtures. But now, things were different. The MacGils had grown too strong, and McCloud was beginning to realize that he might not ever achieve his dream of controlling the Ring without foreign help.

  As they neared the beach, McCloud glanced over his shoulder at his son’s new bride, riding with him, his trophy wife from the MacGils. How stupid MacGil had been to give his daughter away. Had he really thought this would cause peace between them? Did he think McCloud was that soft, that dumb? Of course, McCloud had accepted the bride, just as he would accept a herd of cattle. It was always good to have possessions, to have bargaining chips. But that didn’t make him ready for peace. If anything, it emboldened him. It made him want to take over the MacGil side of the Ring even more, especially after that wedding, after entering King’s C
ourt and seeing their bounty. McCloud wanted it all for himself. He burned to have it all for himself.

  They rode onto the sand, the horses’ hooves sinking, his weight shifting, as the group of them neared the water’s edge. The cool mist struck McCloud in the face, and it felt good to be back here, on this shore he hadn’t seen for years. Life had made him too busy as a King; it was on days like this that he resolved to give up all of his duties, to spend more time living again.

  Above the waves, in the distance, he could already see the caravan of black Empire ships: they sailed with a yellow flag, with an emblem of a black shield in its center, two horns protruding from it. The closest was hardly a hundred yards from shore, anchored, clearly awaiting their arrival. Behind it sat two dozen more. McCloud wondered; was this just a show of strength? Or was the Empire going to ambush them? This was the chance he took. McCloud hoped it was the former. After all, killing him would do no good: it would not help them breach the Canyon, which was what they really wanted. This was why McCloud only brought a dozen men with him: he figured it would make him seem stronger. Though he did bring a dozen of his best archers, all with poisoned arrows at the ready, in case something should happen.

  McCloud stopped at the water’s edge and his men stopped around him, their horses breathing hard. He dismounted and the others followed, huddled close around him. The Empire must have spotted them, because McCloud saw a small wooden boat lowered down its side, towards the water, inside it at least a dozen of those savages. They were preparing to come ashore. McCloud looked at those sails and felt his stomach turn: he hated dealing with these savages, these creatures who he knew would gladly betray him, would gladly breach the Canyon and override both sides of the Ring if they could.

  McCloud’s men gathered close around him.

  “At any sign of trouble, light your arrows and let them fly. Aim for their sails. You can set the whole fleet on fire with a dozen arrows each.”

  “Yes, sire,” came the chorus of voices.

  His son, Devon, stood at his side, while his newfound wife, the MacGil woman, next to him, looking nervously at the water. It had been McCloud’s idea to bring the woman here. He wanted to instill fear in her. He wanted her to know that she was McCloud property now, that she relied on them and them solely for her safety. He wanted her to learn that her father and his kingdom were far behind, and that she would never return.

  It was working. She stood there, terrified, practically clinging to Devon’s side. Devon, the stupid son that he was, reveled in it. He didn’t realize the value in any of this. To McCloud’s disgust, it even looked like he was smitten by the girl.

  “What do you think they want from us?” Devon asked him, coming up close.

  “What else could they want?” McCloud snapped. “Stupid boy. To open the gates to the Canyon.”

  “Will you let them? Will you make a deal with them, father?”

  McCloud turned and glared at his boy, sending his wrath through his eyes, until finally his boy looked away.

  “I never discuss my thoughts with anyone. You will know my decision when I make it. In the meantime, stand and watch. And learn.”

  They all stood there in the thick silence as the Empire boat neared shore. It was still several minutes away, rowing hard against the waves, which crashed outward, towards the sea, in these strange currents of the Ambrek. They broke about a hundred yards out, and one had to fight them, to get over them, to make it to shore. It made McCloud happy he was not rowing: he remembered from his youth what hard work it was, as he watched the boat crest and crash in wave after wave.

  Suddenly, McCloud heard the galloping of a horse. It made no sense: there was supposed to be 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 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 smiled an evil smile, showing rows of sharp teeth. In two strides, he jumped from the boat, and stood there on the shore. He wore a shining necklace, its rope of gold, and on it hanging the shrunken heads of his enemies. He reached up and fingered it, and his hands, like the others, ended in three sharp claws.

  As he jumped onto the sand, his men jumped out around him, forming a semi-circle with their leader in the middle.

  Andronicus. McCloud had heard stories of this man. He had heard of his cruelty, his barbarism, his iron control over the entire Empire, every single province except the Ring. McCloud had never fully believed the stories of how imposing he was, not until now, as he stood before him. He felt it himself. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt in danger, even with his men around him. He regretted calling this meeting.

  Andronicus stepped forward and brought his arms out wide to his sides, palms up, claws glistening, and smiled a wide smile, more of a snarl, a gurgling sound like a snarl coming from the back of his throat

  “Greetings,” he said, his voice impossibly deep. “We send you a gift from the Wilds.”

  He nodded, and one of his men stepped forward and held out a large, bejeweled chest. It sparkled in the late afternoon sun, and McCloud looked down at it and wondered.