Morgan Rice - A Reign of Steel

Erec’s mother embraced her, and Alistair had never felt so filled with joy. She could not wait for the ceremony.

Erec’s mother led her to the door, and she opened it, and pointed to a copper walkway.

“The path leads you to your groom’s chamber,” she said. “Go to him. He awaits you. He shall lead you to the ceremony.”

Alistair turned to her, touched.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, more grateful than she could express.

Erec’s mother embraced her.

“I shall be lucky to have a daughter like you.”

Alistair turned onto the copper walkway alone, making her way on the short walk toward a beautiful, small marble house, open-aired, columns on all sides, in which she knew Erec awaited her.

As she reached its entrance, she looked inside and saw Erec looking more regal than she had ever seen him, dressed in light chain-mail, covered by a silk white mantle, a gold crown on his head. He paced nervously, clearly waiting for her, and she was sure he was excited, given how much longer it had taken her to get ready.

She thought of rushing to him, but then she decided she wanted to surprise him; she wanted to see the look on his face when she walked in the door.

“My lord!” she called out playfully, hiding behind a column. “Close your eyes and count to five! I want to surprise you!”

He laughed.

“For you, anything,” he said. “I cannot count fast enough!”

She could hear the excitement in his voice, like a little boy.

“Slowly, my love!” she called back.

“One,” he called out, slowly. “Two… Three…”

Alistair made a final adjustment to her veil, then began to walk into the room.

“Four!” he called out.

She entered and looked at him, his eyes closed, beaming—and suddenly, her smile dropped. She saw something she could not understand. It was like something out of a nightmare: racing into the room, from the rear side of the open-air chamber, was a sole figure, sprinting at full speed, a sword in hand. An assassin.

He sprinted right for Erec’s back—but Erec stood there, smiling, eyes closed, unsuspecting as he awaited her.

It was happening so fast, and Alistair was so shocked, so unprepared for the sight, she could barely summon the words to warn him. They caught in her throat as it went dry.

“Erec!” she finally managed to shout, panicked, just as the man reached him.

Erec suddenly opened his eyes and looked at her, concern in his face.

By then, it was too late. The figure—whom Alistair now recognized as Bowyer, the Alzac warrior Erec had defeated in the contest—had already reached Erec. He raised his sword behind him, and with a guttural cry, he lowered it—stabbing Erec in the back.

Erec cried out, and Alistair cried out louder. He dropped to his knees, blood gushing from his mouth, from his back. Bowyer left the sword in Erec’s back as he turned and sprinted away as fast as he had entered.

“My love!” Erec cried, reaching a hand out for Alistair as he collapsed.

“NO!” Alistair shrieked, losing all sense of herself, as if she were watching someone else’s nightmare unfolding before her.

Alistair ran to Erec’s side and collapsed beside him, cradling him, his blood pouring all over her dress.

“Alistair, my love,” he said weakly.

She felt him dying her arms, felt his life slipping away as she wept, gut-wrenching cries that filled the room, radiated beyond, rose to heaven. She knew it was too late. And she felt that it was all her fault—she had distracted him with her stupid game. Erec surely would have seen the man coming otherwise if he had not closed his eyes and waited for her. She had inadvertently helped kill the man that she would die for. The man she loved more than anything in the world would soon.

Her wedding day had arrived—and the love of her life was dead.

Gwendolyn stood on the upper ramparts of Tirus’s fort, looking out at the horizon, as she had been for hours, watching the sea. Her expression was grim as she held Guwayne in her arms, Argon’s words thundering in her mind. Had everything Argon said been right? Or had they just been the words of a dying, delusional man?

Gwen wanted to think the latter, but she could not help but fear his words were true.

As she looked out, as she watched and waited, the cold wind brushing her face, she had a sinking feeling that her time here on earth had come to an end. She felt an inevitability to her life now, as if they had come to their final resting place here on these craggy, desolate isles. She wished, more than anything, that Thorgrin were here, that he would return and be by her side. With him by her side, she felt as if she could face anything.

Yet somehow she knew that he would not. She prayed for his safety. She prayed that, wherever he was, he would be okay. That he would remember her. Remember Guwayne.

As Gwen blinked, watching the clouds, suddenly, on the most distant horizon, something came into view. At first it was very faint: it was a motion, a movement in the dark clouds. Then she saw wings, one set, then another. A dragon came into view. Then another.

Then another.

Gwen’s heart sank as her worst nightmares came to life: a host of dragons filled the distant horizon, screeching angrily, flapping their great wings. It was death, she knew, coming for them all.

“Sound the bells,” Gwendolyn said calmly to Steffen, who stood waiting patiently nearby.

Steffen turned and ran off, and up and down the ramparts bells tolled, warning her people. Down below shouts arose, as people scrambled to take cover, running into caves, to underground passages, as Gwen had prepared them—anywhere they could to escape the dragons’ breath.

Deep down, Gwen knew it was a futile effort. Nothing could escape a dragon’s wrath—much less the wrath of a host of dragons. She knew that whomever the dragons missed, Romulus’s men would finish off.

Moments later, Gwendolyn saw the ocean fill with black. There were black ships—Empire ships—as far the eye could see. It was an entire world of ships; she did not know so many ships could exist in the world. She marveled that all of them would want to descend on such a small island. That all of them were coming just for her.

Gwen suddenly heard a screech overhead, so close, and she looked up, wondering, bracing herself. She was shocked to see Ralibar. He had appeared from somewhere on the island, screeching, flapping his great wings, his talons extended. She assumed that he would be flying away, away from the destruction that came for them, that he would save himself.

But to her surprise, Romulus flew straight ahead, flying out, all alone, to greet the oncoming army. He flew with all his might, and he did not slow as he sped to bravely face them all. Gwen’s heart soared at Ralibar’s courage. He knew he would die facing them, and yet he did not flinch in battle. This one dragon, so bold, so proud, flying up to sacrifice his life, to die in battle, to defend Gwendolyn and all her people—and to take out as many dragons as he could.

Gwendolyn clutched Guwayne tighter, turned from the ramparts, and hurried down the spiral stone stairs. The time had come.

Gwendolyn walked quickly and deliberately along the rocky shoreline by the ocean’s edge, clutching Guwayne, the two of them all alone. Far off, she could hear the dragons cry, and she knew it was too close; there wasn’t much time left now.

Gwen listened to the sound of the waves lapping gently on the shore of this smooth bay on the rear of the island that led out to the ocean, its current strong as the tide was pulling out to sea. She walked over to a small boat, one which she’d had made just for this purpose, eight feet long, with a mast just as high and a small sail. The boat was large enough for a child.