Morgan Rice - A Reign of Steel

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.