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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