A Reign of Steel

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

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.

“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.