CHAPTER FIFTEEN
King McCloud fumed as he marched across the plaza before his castle, riddled with his injured and defeated soldiers. Everywhere, his men lay about, moaning, bleeding; those who weren’t hurt sat on the ground, dejected. It was enough to make him sick. Never mind that they had just had a hundred days of unprecedented victories, of spoils, of a reach into the MacGil side deeper than any of his ancestors. Now all that these men would remember would be their defeat, the loss of their spoils, of their slaves, their injuries, their lost brethren. And all at the hands of the boy.
It was a disgrace.
McCloud scowled as he marched, kicking soldiers randomly who sat on the ground, shoving others, slapping the wounded, trailed by his small entourage of advisors, none of whom dared sp
