Gary of a Hundred Days Read Online Isabel Murray

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 228(@200wpm)___ 182(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
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The Kingdom of Estla is in turmoil. Power plays, intrigue, and plots seethe in the corridors of power. And Gary of a Hundred Days, Last of the Tyrant Kings is…well, he’s pretty offended, actually?
Tyrant?
Seriously? Who is making this up?
Gary said no thanks, don’t want to be king, and they dragged him away from all he’s ever known and stuck a stupid crown on his head anyway.
As far as Gary’s concerned, all that political intrigue can go ahead and keep seething without him. He didn’t know or care a thing about it when he was the unwanted son of a backwater lord. He definitely doesn’t care about it now they tried to kill him and he’s on the run.
Minor problem: he managed to escape, but he’s all out of ideas. It’s dark, it’s raining, he’s in the middle of nowhere, and there might be bears. In fact, he’s pretty sure one is following him.
Luckily for Gary (it’s about time he had some good luck) his ex-stable master tracks him down, and it turns out that Magnus has more than a few interesting ideas about Gary and his future.
More specifically, about their future.

FULL BOOK START HERE:

CHAPTER ONE

Once, I read a book about a breed of wild goats who live in one of the mountainous kingdoms to the east. Valdran, I think.

When threatened with any kind of danger, these goats turn rigid and topple over in a dead faint.

The author didn’t give any detail on how well or not this fainting strategy usually works for the goats, and at the time of reading, I remember thinking that it was unlikely to be useful in terms of survival.

I couldn’t imagine that the predator that had caused the fainting fit—wolf, bear, or troll—would look down at the swooning goat and think, Oh, darn. It’s dead already? Where’s the fun in that?

Surely they’d be more likely to think, Oh, happy day. Dinner is served!

But since the goats had developed this strategy, and survived to breed vigorously enough that they were considered absolute pests by any local farmers trying to raise crops, it must have had a fairly decent success rate.

I can tell you that for me, at least, it worked a treat.



I came to facedown on the marble floor, with my neck at an awkward angle.

I frowned and blinked at the time-worn pits and cracks in the ancient stone that no amount of buffing would ever smooth out.

Where...?

My hearing popped and rushed back with a jangling roar of sound: laughter, music, and voices raised high in jubilation. It was, I registered, at a slight distance, not in the same room as me. The throne room, then, my muzzy brain supplied.

“Down with Gary of a Hundred Days, the Last of the Tyrant Kings!”

Indignation wiped the muzziness away like a bucket of cold water.

What? Gary the What?

A roar of approval went up. I flinched at the percussive pop-pop-pop of corks.

Hurried footsteps clicked over the marble floor, coming my way. More than one set.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

They came closer and closer.

I braced myself to be grabbed, hauled upright and...well, I quailed to think what would come next.

I was still quailing when the footsteps briskly clicked past and were absorbed into the noise of the party everyone but me seemed to be having in the throne room.

As slowly as I could, I cracked my eyes open and took stock.

I remembered heading for the door. As usual, the First Minister, Drusan Visik, was there by my side, guiding me with a hand at my back. Lulling me into a false sense of security, I now realised. I should be facing the doorway head-on, but when I raised my head juuuust enough to look, I was looking at a wall. I was still in the council chamber, but I’d been dragged to one side.

I froze again and closed my eyes as footsteps returned from the throne room. The tendons in my neck quivered. I didn’t dare lower my head, terrified that any movement would draw attention. The footsteps passed.

I cracked my eyes open in time to see three servants with trays of empty goblets vanish through the door.

What the hell was I supposed to do now?

“Down with Gary!”

I gritted my teeth. How many times were they going to—

“Huzzah for Drusan the Liberator! The bravest of us all. The man who did what must be done! For the good of the kingdom!”

Huzzah for Drusan?

The latest toast rang out, loud above the noise of the party. The booming voice belonged to one of Drusan’s fellow ministers, and one of his staunchest supporters. There weren’t all that many left. His inner circle of close friends had thinned out somewhat as the assassins kept missing their target (me) and getting the wrong men (them).

One of the violins playing a jaunty, triumphant tune squeaked. There was, for a single trembling moment, a break in the celebrating.


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