A Reign of Steel (20 page)

Romulus
stood at the base of the Canyon crossing, his million-man
army behind them, and looked out in a seething rage. Up above, his dragons
shrieked as they threw themselves, again and again, into Argon’s invisible shield
blocking the Canyon, infuriated, unable to cross. Romulus looked up, watching,
wondering what could have happened, wondering what force could be strong enough
to withstand all these dragons.

Romulus
knew that he had destroyed the Shield for good—and he
had been told by every sorcerer that the Shield would not rise again; that the Ring
was his forever; and that no force on earth could stop him.

Romulus
did indeed occupy the Ring—his men now occupied every
corner of it, on both sides of the Highlands. They had razed every town, reduced
them to rubble, to ashes, and there was not a single thing left to rebuild. The
Ring belonged to him now. It was now Empire territory.

And
yet here Romulus was, unable to leave the Ring, trapped inside, with this
invisible Shield that had somehow been erected by Argon. As Romulus peered out
across the Bridge, he wondered what had happened here, and how to destroy it.
And most of all: where had Gwendolyn escaped to?

Romulus
turned to Luanda, who stood by his side.

“Where
has your sister gone?” he demanded.

Luanda
stood there, no longer bound, finally loyal, not
running anywhere. Romulus took satisfaction in seeing her, a woman he thought
he would never break, once so fiercely independent, now subservient to his
will, like everybody else. All of his beatings had worked; she was now like
every other slave, ready to do his bidding. One day, he might even marry her—and
when he’d had enough of her, he’d kill her just as quickly. Of course, she did
not know that yet. She would be in for a rude surprise.

Luanda
looked out at the horizon, and seemed to be thinking.

“She
wouldn’t try to make a home in the Wilds,” she replied. “She would know there
is no home for her there. She must be bringing her people to the ships; she
must have had them prepared. There is only one place she could sail that is
close, friendly territory, a place she probably would not think you would ever
venture. A place hidden in the stormy northern seas: the Upper Isles.”

Romulus
examined the Canyon crossing, saw the footprints of
thousands across it, and he wondered. If he could get past this shield, he would
take half of his million man army, lead them to his ships, and set off for the
Upper Isles. He would surround every inch of it, and destroy it to oblivion.

First,
though, he would send his host of dragons across the ocean, would command them
to set it all to fire before his arrival. He would arrive on an island flattened
by devastation. He would not even need to raise a sword.

The
dragons shrieked again and again, and Romulus knew he had to bring down this
new Shield, to undo Argon’s handiwork. Romulus threw his head back, threw his
arms out wide, opened his palms, faced the sky, and shrieked, summoning all of
his newfound energy, more determined than ever. If he could summon dragons, he
could summon the darkest energies of hell to do his bidding.

There
came a great thunder, the earth quaked, and shafts of black light shot down
from the heavens, into Romulus’s palms. They glowed and vibrated, as he felt
the energy passing through him, and down into the earth.

“Ancient
powers, I summon you!” Romulus shrieked. “Shatter this shield!”

Romulus
opened his eyes, directed his palms forward, and with
a great shriek directed all the black light to the invisible shield before him.

Argon’s
shield was suddenly covered in black light, spreading over it, more and more
vibrant, until finally the shield began to crack.

Suddenly,
there came a huge explosion.

The
invisible shield exploded into a million little pieces, sprinkling down like snow
all around them. Romulus looked up, amazed, feeling the minuscule fragments rain
all around him, in his hair, and settling, like dust, in his open palms.

The
dragons screeched in victory as they no longer butted against an invisible
wall, but flew forward, racing through the open air, across the Canyon, out
toward the Wilds.

Romulus
leaned back and laughed in delight, knowing that soon the dragons would cross
the Wilds, would cross the ocean, would descend upon Gwendolyn and her men and destroy
every last one of them.

He
would follow on their heels.

“Fly,
my dragons,” he laughed. “Fly.”

Erec
stood on a plateau in the cliffs, overlooking the contest going on before him,
cheers rising up as hundreds of men sparred before him. Perhaps twenty feet
below was a wide plateau, fifty yards in diameter, shaped in a perfect circle,
a steep drop off all around it. A massive copper gate was erected around its
perimeter, rising a good ten feet high, assuring that no warriors would fall
over the edge and that none of these matches would result in death.

Yet
it was still a serious business. This day’s contests dictated who had the right
to challenge Erec for the kingship in the wake of his father’s death. All of
these fine warriors, brothers in arms, all of the same nation and the same
island, were not here to kill each other. The weapons were blunted today, and
the armor was extra plated. But they all wanted to be King, and they all wanted
to prove their skills on the field of battle.

As
Erec watched over them, admiring their skills, his mind swarmed with a million
thoughts. He was still processing his father’s last words, all he had told him
about ruling a nation. Erec wondered if he was really up to the task. He looked
down at all these fine warriors, at the thousands of people lining the cliffs,
watching, all of them so noble, and he wondered why he should be the one to
rule them.

Most
of all, Erec marveled at the fact that his father had just died, and yet here
were all these people, celebrating, going on as if nothing had happened. Erec
himself swarmed with conflicting emotions. A part of him could understand his
people’s traditions, to celebrate the life of his father, instead of mourn him;
after all, mourning could not bring him back. Yet another part of him wanted
time and space to mourn the man he barely knew.

“Many
will fight you, my brother,” Strom said, grinning, coming up beside him and
patting Erec heartily on the back. “And I will be first among them.”

Erec
turned and saw the royal family beside him—Strom, Dauphine, his mother,
Alistair at his side—all of them up here on this vantage point, looking down on
the contests. Below there came the clang of metal, as hundreds of great
warriors faced off with each other, one at a time, eliminating each other. They
had been fighting like this for hours, determined to dwindle their ranks down
to the twelve victors who would be left to fight Erec for the kingship.

As
was the tradition, the dozen victors would represent the dozen provinces of the
Islands, and each of them would have a chance to fight Erec. It would allow
each province to be represented, as each province fought it out for their own
individual victor. It gave each and every person on the island a chance to
challenge for the kingship, the same way his ancestors had done for centuries.
These twelve victors would represent the best that the people had to offer, and
while, of course, Erec would be tired fighting twelve men, it was still the
test of a true warrior. If he could defeat them all, back to back, then his
people would be satisfied to recognize him as King.

Strom
laughed again.

“You
have long been away from these islands,” he added, “and I have been training
for this for years. Don’t be too sad when I beat you!”

Strom
patted Erec on the back and laughed heartily, delighted with himself. Erec
looked his brother up and down and saw that he would indeed be a formidable
foe. He had no doubt he was a fine warrior, with the finest armor, and trained
by the finest of his father’s people. And he had no doubt that his brother
dearly wanted the kingship—and most of all, dearly wanted to defeat him.

“Do
not worry, my brother,” Erec replied. “You shall have a chance to fight me,
along with everyone else.”

Strom
smiled.

“Do
not be disappointed if you find yourself calling me King before the day’s
close.”

Strom
laughed, and Erec smiled to himself. His brother was bold and confident, he
always had been. But of course, that could also lead to a warrior’s undoing.

Erec
turned his attention back to the fighting, studying them with a warrior’s eye.
The matches went on and on, the air filled with the cries and groans of men,
and with the sound of clanging metal. Warriors charged each other on horses at
a full gallop and raised their lances high, jousting. The custom of the
Southern Islanders, Erec knew, was that one must win both on horse and on
foot—so after the men went down, the battles always morphed to hand-to-hand
combat. The warriors here, after all, were tested more thoroughly than any
warriors in the world.

As
hours passed and the sun fell long in the sky, the last of the provinces
declared a victor; finally, a chorus of horns sounded, and the people let out a
great cheer.

The
twelve victors of the day were lined up, fierce warriors each, all ready to
fight Erec for the right to be King.

“Looks
like it’s our turn, my brother!” Strom said, donning his helmet and hurrying
down the stone steps.

Erec
grabbed his armor, kissed Alistair, and followed him down. As Erec approached
the arena, the sky grew thick with the shouts of thousands of islanders, all
thrilled to welcome him, and to watch him fight the others.

Erec
noticed Strom getting ready to spar, and he was confused.

“But
I shall fight you last,” Erec said, catching up to him. “That is tradition.”

Strom
shook his head.

“Not
anymore,” he replied. “I’ve changed the rules. You will fight me first. I must
defeat you right away, so that I can then defeat all the others. After all,
once I’m King, I will have proved to all these people that I’m a better fighter
than you. That is, unless you are afraid to fight me first.”

Erec
shook his head at his younger brother’s confidence.

“I
back down from no challenge,” Erec replied.

“Do
not worry,” Strom said, “I’ll try not to hurt you in the process!”

Strom
laughed at his own joke, thrilled with himself, and ran and mounted his horse, grabbing
his lance and heading into the sparring ring.

Erec
mounted the beautiful horse laid out for him, looked down, and examined three
lances being held out. He weighed each one, and finally settled on one, shorter
than the others, and lighter, with a copper hilt. He had barely grabbed hold of
it when already his brother was charging for him.

Erec
charged, too, and now that he was in fighting mode, something snapped inside of
him. He transformed into a professional soldier, and he no longer saw the man riding
toward him as his brother. Now he was his opponent.

Everything
else fell away as he focused with laser-like clarity. As had happened his
entire life, something changed inside him once he lowered his faceplate and
charged, something he could not control. He became a machine, intent on
defeating anyone who stood in his way, brother or not.

Erec
let go of all emotions, of all feelings of competition or jealousy or envy. He
knew these would only get in his way. For the professional warrior, there was
no room to allow one’s mind to be clouded by emotion.

Instead,
as he lowered his lance, as he heard the sound of his own breathing in his
ears, Erec focused on every tiny motion of his brother—the shifting armor,
where he held his lance. His brother was confident, he could see it in the way
he rode. He could also see that that was his weakness.

As
they neared, at the last moment, Erec made a tiny adjustment; he raised his
lance a bit higher, shifted his body to the right, and struck his lance into
his brother’s chest.

There
came a great clang as his brother went flying off the back of his horse and
landed on his back. The crowd cheered.

Erec
circled around, seeing his brother lying on the ground, groaning, rolling to
get up. He dismounted and stood there, waiting, giving his brother time. He
felt bad; this was his brother after all.

Strom
quickly rose to his feet, pulled off his helmet, his face red with fury, and
screamed to his squire: “MACE!”

Erec
stood opposite him, calm and cool, as he removed his helmet and took the mace
handed to him from his own squire. These were large wooden maces, their studs
blunted so as not to kill—but still, their impact would be felt.

“A
lucky strike!” Strom yelled. “You shall not do it twice!”

Strom
charged and screamed, swinging wildly. They were powerful blows—but blows
clouded by emotion. Erec, focused, was able to deftly deflect each one.

Strom
paused, breathing hard, and glared back.

“I’ll
give you one chance to yield to me now!” Strom called out. “Yield now, and
proclaim me King!”

Erec
shook his head at his brother’s confidence. Although his brother was deadly
serious, Erec could not help smiling.

“You
are gracious to offer me the chance,” Ere called back. “But it is too kind. It
is a chance I cannot accept. I did not choose to be King; I do not desire to be
King; but I shall never yield in combat—not to any man, and not even to my
brother.”

Strom
shouted and charged like a madman, raising his mace to strike a great blow upon
Erec’s head.

Erec
turned his mace sideways, raised it high, and blocked the blow. He then leaned
forward and kicked his brother in the chest, sending him flying back, landing
on his rear on the ground.

Erec
then charged forward, swung his mace around, and as Strom raised his mace to
block it, Erec swung from underneath and managed to strike the head of Strom’s
mace perfectly, and sent the mace flying from his brother’s hand. It went
flying over the copper railing, over the edge of the arena, and down the side
of the cliff.

Erec
stood over his defenseless brother, the mace pointed at his throat.

Strom
looked back, wide-eyed, clearly not expecting this at all.

“I
love you, my brother,” Erec said. “I do not wish to harm you. End this now, and
our match is over with no bruises or scratches.”

But
Strom glared back at him.

“Another
lucky blow,” Strom seethed. “Do you really think I would bow to my lesser in
battle?”

Strom
suddenly scrambled to his knees and charged for him, aiming to tackle Erec by
his legs.

Erec
saw it coming and sidestepped, letting his brother go barreling forward. As he
did, Erec reached up and with his foot shoved him, sending him flying
face-first in the dirt.

Strom
rolled to his feet, face filled with hate as the crowd laughed at him.

“Sword!”
Strom called out to his squire. “A REAL sword!”

The
crowd gasped, as his squire rushed forward with the sword, then stopped and
looked to Erec for approval.

Erec
glared back at Strom, hardly believing what he was seeing, disappointed in him.

“My
brother, this is a friendly contest,” he said, calmly. “Sharpened weapons
should not be used.”

“I
demand a real sword!” he called out, frantic. “Unless you are afraid to meet me
in battle!”

Erec
sighed, seeing there was no stopping his brother. He would just have to learn.

Erec
nodded to the attendant, who handed Strom a sword, as Erec stood there, facing
him.

“And
where is your sword?” Strom asked, as he gained his feet.

Erec
shook his head.

“I
do not need one. In fact, I do not even need this.”

Erec
dropped his mace, and the crowd gasped. He stood there defenseless, facing his
brother.

“Should
I kill a defenseless man?” his brother said.

“A
true knight is never defenseless. Only one clouded with emotion is
defenseless.”

Strom
looked back, confused; he was clearly struggling, wondering whether he should
attack a defenseless man. But finally his ambition got the best of him; his
face collapsed in rage, and with a shout, he raised his sword and charged Erec.

Erec
waited, biding his time, gauging his brother’s strength, then dodged out of the
way at the last moment; the blade swished by his ear, just missing. Erec was
disappointed, realizing that his brother truly had intent to kill.

In
the same motion, without missing a beat, Erec reached around and elbowed his
brother in the small of his back, where he had no armor. Strom cried out as
Erec hit the pressure point he was hoping for, right beneath his kidney, and he
dropped to his knees, dropping the sword.

Erec
spun, kicked him in the back, sending him to his face, and stood on the back of
his neck, keeping his face planted in the dirt. He stood more firmly than
before, letting his brother know he’d had enough.

“You
have lost, brother,” Erec said. “This spur is sharper than the blade of your
sword. If you move but half an inch, it will sever every artery in your throat.
Do you really want our fight to continue?”

The
crowd fell silent, everyone riveted as they watched the two brothers.

Finally,
Strom, breathing hard, shook his head slightly.