A Reign of Steel (21 page)

“Then
declare it,” Erec said. “Yield!”

Strom
lay there for several moments in the silence, not one person making a move,
until finally he screamed out: “I YIELD!”

There
came a great roar, and Erec lifted his foot from his brother’s throat. Strom,
unharmed, got to his feet and stormed away, his back to Erec, not even turning
back once, his face covered in mud.

A
horn sounded, followed by a great cheer.

“And
now, the twelve victors!”

Erec
turned and saw the victors from the dozen provinces, lined up in respect, all
waiting their turn to fight him.

He
knew this would be a long afternoon indeed.

*

Erec
jousted for hours, with one knight after another, his shoulders growing tired,
his eyes stinging with sweat. By the afternoon’s end, even his sword was
feeling heavy to the touch.

Erec
fought one victor at a time, each from another province, each a fierce warrior.
And yet, none were a match for him. One after the next, he’d defeat each one at
the joust, and then each in hand-to-hand combat.

But
the more fights he had, the fiercer and more accomplished the warriors
became—and the more tired he became. This was truly a test of kings: to win,
one had to be not only the best fighter, but also have the most stamina to
fight off all twelve of the best men these islands had to offer. It was one
thing to beat a challenger for the first fight of the day; it was quite another
to beat him on the twelfth fight.

And
yet, Erec persevered. He summoned all his years of training, of battle, of long
bouts of fighting one man after the next, recalling those days when the Silver
were challenged beyond extremes, having to fight not just a dozen men, but two
dozen, three dozen—even a hundred men in a single day. They would fight until
their arms were too tired to even raise a sword, and still have to find some
way to win. That was the training King MacGil had demanded.

Now,
it served him well. Erec summoned his skill, his instincts, and even in
exhaustion, he fought better than all these great warriors, the greatest
warriors in a kingdom known for the greatest warriors. Erec outshone them all,
and with a dazzling display of virtuosity, he defeated one after the next. A
horn punctuated each victory, and a satisfied cheer from his people, clearly
feeling assured that they had, in their new King to be, the greatest warrior
their islands had to offer.

As
Erec defeated the eleventh challenger with a blow of his wooden mace on the
man’s ribs, the man yielded, the eleventh horn sounded, and the crowd went
wild.

Erec
stood there, breathing hard, reaching down to give the warrior a hand up.

“Well
fought,” the warrior said, a man twice his size.

“You
fought bravely,” Erec said. “I shall make you commander of one of my legions.”

The
man clasped Erec’s arm in respect, and turned and walked off to his people,
proud and noble in defeat.

The
crowd cheered wildly, as Erec turned toward the twelfth and final victor. The
man mounted his horse on the far side of the arena and faced him. The crowd
would not stop cheering, knowing that after this battle, they would have their
King.

Erec
mounted his horse, breathing hard, drinking from a cup of water brought to him
by one of his squires, then dumping the rest of the cold water on his head.
Erec then raised his helmet and put it back on his head, wiping the sweat from
his brow as he grabbed a fresh lance.

Erec
surveyed the knight facing him. He was twice as wide as the others, and wore
copper armor with three streaks of black across it. Erec’s stomach clenched at
the sight; those marks were worn by a small tribe, the Alzacs, in the
southernmost part of the island, a separatist tribe that had been a thorn in
his father’s side for years. They were the fiercest warriors of the island, and
one of them had been King before his father. It was an Alzac that his father
had had to defeat in order to seize the throne so many years ago.

 “I
am Bowyer of the Alzacs!” the knight called out to Erec. “Your father took the
throne from my father forty sun cycles ago.  Now I shall avenge my father and
take the throne from you. Prepare to kneel to your new King!”

Bowyer’s
head was stark bald, and he had a short, stiff brown beard. He sat erect on his
horse, with a defiant face and the flattened nose of a warrior who had seen
battle.

Erec
knew the Alzacs to be fierce and brave—and sneaky. He was not surprised that
this was the final fighter left, the champion of the victors. Erec knew it
would not be easy and that this challenger should not be underestimated. He
would take nothing for granted.

Erec
focused as a horn sounded, visors were lowered, and the two galloped for each
other.

They
charged and as their lances met, Erec was surprised to feel Bowyer’s lance
impact his chest, the first of the day; at the same time, Erec’s lance impacted
his. Bowyer had made an unexpected last-second twist, and Erec realized that
Bowyer was indeed finer than any he had yet encountered. The blow was not hard
enough to knock Erec off his horse, but he did sway backwards, his confidence
shaken.

Bowyer,
too, remained on his horse, and they circled around to face each other again,
to the cheers of the crowd. Bowyer, too, seemed surprised that Erec had
impacted him, and they both charged each other with a new respect.

This
time, as they neared, Erec had a better feel for Bowyer’s rhythms. That,
indeed, was one of Erec’s strengths: being able to sum up his enemy and adjust
quickly. This time, Erec waited until the last moment, then lowered his lance
just a bit, a move Bowyer could not have expected, as he aimed for Bowyer’s rib
cage.

It
was a perfect strike, and Erec managed to knock Bowyer sideways off his horse;
he hit the ground hard, tumbling in a clang of armor.

The
crowd cheered wildly as Erec circled around, dismounted, and removed his
helmet.

Bowyer
rolled to his feet, his face purple with rage, a look of death in his eyes
unlike any he had seen today. Others had clearly wanted to win; but Bowyer,
Erec could see, wanted to kill.

“If
you are a real man,” Bowyer boomed out, loud enough for all to hear, “and you
are aspiring to be a
real
King, let us fight with real weapons! I demand
to use real swords in combat! And I demand the gates to be lowered.”

The
crowd gasped at Bowyer’s words.

Erec
looked at the copper gates around the perimeter of the sparring field, the only
thing separating them from the cliffs below. He knew what lowering them meant:
it meant a fight to the death.

 “Do
you request a match to the death?” Erec asked.

“I
do!” Bowyer boomed. “I demand it!”

The
crowd gasped. Erec stood there, debating; he did not want to kill this man, but
he could not back down.

 Bowyer
boomed out: “Unless you are afraid!”

Erec
blushed.

“I
fear no man,” he called out, “and I refuse no challenge in combat. If it is
your wish, then lower the gates.”

The
crowd gasped, and a horn sounded, and slowly, several attendants turned massive
cranks. A groaning noise filled the air, and inch by inch, the copper gates
that surrounded the arena lowered. A wind rushed through, and now there was
nothing left to stop the warriors from going over the edge, from plummeting to
their deaths. Now, there was no room for error. Erec had seen matches as a
youth with the gates lowered—and they had always ended in death.

Bowyer,
wasting no time, grabbed a real sword from his squire and charged. Erec grabbed
his. As he neared Erec, Bowyer swung his sword with both hands for Erec’s head,
a death blow; Erec raised his sword to block it, sparks flying.

Erec
spun with his own blow, and Bowyer blocked it. Then Bowyer slashed back.

Back
and forth they went, slashing and parrying, attacking, blocking, defending,
sparks flying, swords whistling through the air, clanging, as they went blow
for blow for blow. Erec was exhausted from the day’s battle, and Bowyer was a
formidable opponent, fighting as if his life depended on it.

The
two did not stop as they drove each other back and forth, back and forth,
getting close to the edge, then farther from it, ebbing and flowing, each
circling the other, trying to drive him back, trying to gain advantage.

Finally,
Erec landed a perfectly placed blow, slashing sideways and knocking Bowyer’s
sword from his hand. Bowyer blinked, confused, then rushed to get it, diving
down to the dirt.

Erec
stood over him and raised his visor.

“Yield!”
Erec said, as Bowyer lay there, prone.

Bowyer,
though, grabbed a handful of dirt, spun and, before Erec could see it coming,
threw it in Erec’s face.

Erec
shouted out, blinded, raising his hands to his eyes as they stung, and dropping
his sword. Bowyer did not hesitate; he charged, tackling him, driving him all
the way across the arena, right to the edge of the cliff, and tackling him down
to the ground.

The
crowd gasped as Erec lay on his back, Bowyer on top of him, Erec’s head over
the edge of the precipice. Erec turned and glanced down, and he knew that if he
moved just inches, he would plummet to his death.

Erec
looked up to see Bowyer grimacing down, death in his eyes. He lowered his
thumbs to gouge out Erec’s eyes.

Erec
reached up and grabbed Bowyer’s wrists, and it was like grabbing onto live
snakes. They were all muscle, and it took every ounce of Erec’s strength just
to hold Bowyer’s fists away.

Groaning,
the two of them locked in a struggle, neither giving an inch, Erec knew he had
to do something quickly. He knew that he had crossed the tipping point, and
that if he resisted anymore, he would lose what little strength he had left.

Instead,
Erec decided to make a bold, counterintuitive move: instead of trying to lean
forward and get away from the edge, he slumped backwards, over it.

As
Erec stopped resisting, all of Bowyer’s weight came rushing forward; Erec
pulled Bowyer toward him, straight down, and Bowyer flipped upside down over
the edge of the cliff, his feet going over his head as Erec hung onto his
wrists. Erec rolled onto his stomach, holding on to Bowyer’s hands, and then
turned and looked down. Bowyer dangled over the edge of the cliff, nothing
between him and death but Erec’s grip. The crowd gasped.

Erec
had turned the tables, and now Bowyer groaned and flailed.

“Don’t
let go,” Bowyer pleaded. “I shall die if you do.”

“And
yet it was you who wanted the gates lowered,” Erec reminded him. “Why should I
not give you the same death you hoped for me?”

Bowyer
looked at him, panic in his face, as Erec let go of one hand. Bowyer dropped a
few inches, as Erec now held just one hand.

“I
yield to you!” Bowyer called up to him. “I yield!” he boomed.

The
crowd cheered as Erec lay there, holding him, debating.

Finally,
Erec decided to spare Bowyer from death. He reached out, grabbed him by the
back of the shirt, and pulled him up onto safe ground.

The
crowd cheered again and again, as all twelve horns sounded, and they rushed in,
crowding Erec, embracing. He stood there, exhausted, depleted of energy, and
yet relieved and happy to be so embraced, so loved, by his people. Alistair
rushed forward through the crowd, and he embraced her.

He
had won. Finally, he would be King.

Gwendolyn
stood in Tirus’s former fort and looked out over his former courtyard, at the
swinging body of Tirus’s son, Falus. He hung by a noose from his neck in the city’s
center, dozens of Upper Islanders, citizens who did not protest the rebellion,
standing below, looking up, gawking. Gwen was glad that they were; she wanted
to send them all a message.

Falus
represented the last of the rebellious offspring of Tirus’s family, the last of
the people Gwen had executed as she had rounded up all surviving rebels here on
the Upper Isles. As she watched his body swing, she realized she should have rounded
them all up—especially Tirus—long ago. She had been a young and naïve ruler,
she realized, putting too much stock in the hope for peace. For way too long
she had given Tirus too many chances to survive. She had tried to avoid
conflict at all costs—but in doing so, she realized, she had ultimately only
generated more conflict. She should have acted boldly and ruthlessly from the
start.

As
she watched the body swing amidst the cold fog and dark clouds of the Upper
Isles, she mused that just moons ago such a sight would have upset her; now,
though, since Thor had left her, since she had a child, since she had survived
being Queen, something inside her had hardened, and she watched the body swing
without the slightest bit of emotion. That scared her. Was she losing sight of
who she was? Who was she becoming?

“My
lady?” Kendrick asked, standing beside her.

She
turned and faced him, snapping out of it.

“Shall
we take down the body?”

Gwen
looked over and saw her people all around her in the great hall, all of them,
after their bold victory, after her fearless decisions in the face of adversity,
after her saving them from the hands of Romulus, now looking to her as a great
leader and Queen. There were Kendrick, Aberthol, Steffen, Elden, O’Connor,
Conven—all the brave men who had fought with her to gain this place back. And
amongst them, it warmed her heart to see, now stood Reece, Stara beside him. He
was wounded, but intact, and while in the past the sight of him had made her
angry, now she was so grateful he was alive.

Gwen
turned back to the window, realizing they were all awaiting her decision. She
watched the body swing, the last of them, the only one that had not yet been
taken down. Across the courtyard, she watched with satisfaction as the old banner
of the Upper Isles was lowered, and the new banner of the MacGils was raised.
This was her territory now.

“No,”
Gwen replied, her voice cold and firm. “Let it hang until the sun falls. Let
the Upper Islanders know who rules this island now.”

“Yes,
my lady,” he answered. “And what of the remainder of Tirus’s soldiers? We have nearly
one hundred of them in captivity.”

Since
they had taken the Isles, Gwen had her men systematically rounded up all Upper
Islander soldiers left alive, anyone that might be loyal to Tirus. She would
take no chances this time.

She
turned and faced him, and tone turned hard.

“Kill
them all,” she commanded.

Kendrick
looked at the men, who looked back at him, all of them wary.

“My
lady, is that humane?” Aberthol asked.

Gwen
looked at him, cold and hard.

“Humane?”
she repeated. “Was it humane for them to betray us, to slaughter our men?”

Aberthol
said nothing.

“I
have tried to be humane. Many times. But I have learned there is little room
for humanity when one is at war. I wish it were otherwise.”

She
turned to Kendrick.

“The
only ones who shall be left to live will be those who never raised a weapon
against us. The citizens. I have no resources to hold prisoners, nor the will
to hold them. Nor do I trust them. Kill them at once.”

“Yes,
my lady,” Kendrick replied.

Gwendolyn
surveyed all the faces, saw them looking back at her with a new respect, and
she felt so proud of them for all they had accomplished, that they were all
standing there alive on this day.

“I
want you all to know how proud of you I am,” she said. “You won this island in
a glorious battle. You fought fearlessly, and we have a new home here now,
thanks to all of you. You faced death, and you fought right through it.”

The
men nodded gratefully, and Reece stepped forward and lowered his head.

“My
Queen,” he said. She could hear in his tone that he was finally speaking to her
as a ruler, and not as a sister. “I must apologize for starting all this. I do
not apologize for killing Tirus, but I do apologize for the lost lives of our
men.”

She
looked at him, cold and hard.

“Do
not defy my command again,” she said.

Reece
nodded, humbled.

“Yes,
my lady.”

She
could see he was contrite, and her expression softened.

“But
I must say, you were not wrong to kill Tirus,” she admitted. “He deserved it
long ago. In fact, it is I who must apologize for not killing him sooner.”

Reece
looked up at her, nodding back with a new understanding and respect.

Cheers
suddenly rose up from down below, and Gwen looked out the window to see
thousands of her people, those whom she had evacuated from the Ring, filling the
courtyards, entering the deserted homes and taverns, taking homes for
themselves.

“Our
people seem happy to be here,” Godfrey said.

“They
are happy to be alive,” Gwen corrected. “Life here is better than no life at
all.”

“You
should be very proud, my sister,” Kendrick said. “You saved them.”

Gwen
nodded, but sighed, her heart heavy as she pondered all that they left
behind—and all of the looming dangers.

“This
could be a new home for us,” Godfrey said.

Gwen
shook her head.

“I
would like to think so,” she said. “But we’re only safe here as long as Argon’s
shield holds. But if Argon’s spell should falter, then all you see here is
fleeting. Then there will be nothing in the world that can stop the devastation
that would come.”

“But
surely Romulus will be content with what he has,” Godfrey said. “After all, he
has the Ring now. He has everything he wants.”

Gwendolyn
shook her head, knowing Romulus too well.

“The
Ring was never what he wanted,” she said. “What he’s wanted, what they’ve always
wanted, is our complete destruction. And he will follow us to the ends of the
earth to have it.”

“And
what are the chances of Argon’s shield holding then?” Kendrick asked.

“Only
Argon can say,” Gwen said.

“You
know him best,” Reece said. “Will he waken?”

Gwendolyn
turned to him.

“There’s
only one way to find out,” she said, determined to go and find out.

*

Reece
stood with Stara atop the highest cliffs of the Upper Isles, the two of them
having hiked here together in silence. With everything now at peace in the Upper
Isles, there was little left to do but settle in, and perhaps wait for the invasion
to come. The feeling in the air was peaceful—and somber—and when Stara had
asked Reece if he’d wanted to take a walk, he was quick to agree. He needed
something to distract him from the events that might come—and deep down, a part
of him, he had to admit, wanted to be with her. He hated himself for it, and
yet he had to admit it was true. They had been through too much together for it
to be otherwise.

Yet
neither of them had said a word since. They had hiked for nearly an hour, and
it became clear to them both that, while they were comfortable with each
other’s company, this was not a romantic walk. It was a somber walk, a walk of
reflection, of understanding.

Reece
looked about and found it ironic that the same island they had hiked but moons
ago, once overflowing with summer bounty, was now whipped by a cold, bleak wind,
blanketed by a gray sky with dark, rolling clouds. Could life change so
quickly? he wondered. Could anyone hang onto anything?

Reece
began to feel uncomfortable in their heavy silence; he didn’t know what to say
to her. She apparently had nothing to say to him either, and he began to wonder
why she wanted to take the walk at all. He had gone with her to get away from
all the death that had surrounded him, to clear his mind.

As
they reached the highest plateau of the cliffs, they finally came to a stop
beside a small lake, from which there trickled a gentle stream, winding its way
down the mountain.

Reece
watched, puzzled, as Stara knelt down, reached into her sack, and pulled out a
large black flower shaped like a bowl, with a small candle in its center. He
wondered what she was doing.

“Is
that a mourning candle?” he asked.

 Stara
nodded.

“I
know that things can never be the same between us,” she said softly, her voice
somber. “That is not why I invited you here. I invited you up here to tell you
that I’m sorry for all that happened to Selese. Most of all, I want to tell
Selese that I’m sorry, too. Wherever she is.”

Reece
looked down in shame, as his eyes welled with tears.

“I
never meant for anything bad to become her,” Stara said. “You must believe me.
I
need
you to believe me.”

Reece
nodded.

“I
do,” he said. “And I never meant for anything bad, either,” he said, as he wiped
a tear from his cheek.

“And
yet, I was selfish,” she said, “selfish to try to steal you away. My actions
were selfish. And they were wrong.”

She
sighed.

“They
say if you light a mourning candle here, in this pond, and the current takes it
down the stream of tears, it will provide solace to the dead,” she said. “That
is why I invited you here.”

Stara
took out two flint rocks and lit the candle with the spark. It glowed in the
center of the black flower, eerie and surreal.

She
held it out to Reece.

“Do
you want to place it?” she asked.

Reece
gently took the flower from her, the candle burning inside, and their fingers
touched as he did. Then he knelt down and gently placed it into the small pond.
The waters were icy to his fingers.

Reece
stood beside Stara and watched as it floated in the pond. It went nowhere, as
there was no breeze up here in this sheltered spot.

“Selese,”
Reece said, lowering his head. “I love you. Please forgive me.”

“Please
forgive us,” Stara added.

The
flower began to float out, just a little bit further, yet it was still not
picked up by the stream.

“I
know we can never be together,” Stara said to Reece. “Not after all this. But
at least we can be together in this—in our mourning for Selese.”

 Stara
held out one hand, and Reece took it. They stood there, side-by-side, staring
out at the candle, as they lowered their heads and closed their eyes.

Reece
prayed for blessings for Selese. And most of all, for forgiveness.

Reece
opened his eyes as suddenly a wind picked up, and he watched in surprise as the
flower suddenly moved, shifting across the pond before being picked up by the
current.

Reece
watched in amazement as the current took it into the Stream of Tears. It wound
its way down the mountain, twisting and turning.

Reece
turned and watched as the water carried it down the mountain face, until
finally it was out of sight.

Reece
turned to look at Stara, and she turned and looked at him. They continue to
hold hands—and for some reason, despite their best efforts, neither seemed able
to let go.

*

Gwendolyn
walked across quickly across the courtyard of her new court, flanked by several
of her men. She proceeded through the ancient, stone gates out of the
courtyard, and took winding, rocky paths into the countryside, bracing herself
against the wind and the rain. But she would not stop for anything. She was
determined to see Argon and, once again, to see if she could rouse him.

The
path finally led her up a small hill, and as Gwendolyn looked up, she was
reassured at the sight of Ralibar. He had finally returned, depositing Argon’s
limp body, and had sat guard over it ever since.

Gwendolyn
reached the top of the plateau, a cold gust of wind whipping her face, and she
looked up at Ralibar. He sat there, wings held out, staring back at her as he sat
guard over the body of Argon, who lay at his feet, unmoving.

Gwendolyn
looked up into Ralibar’s soulful eyes.

“Where
have you been, my friend?” she asked. “We could have used you in the open sea.”

Ralibar
purred, flapped his wings gently, and moved his nose up and down. She could
feel him going through one of his moods, an emotional storm. She knew he was
distraught by something, but she could not understand what he was
communicating.