Morgan Rice: A Reign of Steel

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.”