A Reign of Steel (11 page)

Reece
heard a scream in his ear. Stara. He looked over and saw her leg pierced by an
arrow, the arrow protruding from her thigh. He looked back and saw a host of arrows
airborne, whizzing by their head.

Srog
cried out next, and Reece saw that he, too, was pierced by an arrow.

Reece
knew he had to do something fast. He reached out and grabbed Stara, draping one
arm around her as she flailed.

“Hang
on to me tight,” he said.

He
positioned his body over hers so that he was between her and the shore, putting
himself in the path of the fire. Then, as she hung on, he pulled the rope for
them both.

Reece
shrieked as he suddenly felt an arrow pierce the side of his thigh. The pain
was excruciating. But at least he took comfort in knowing that had he not been
in its path, it would have hit Stara.

More
and more arrows sailed by their heads, and Reece wondered how much longer they could
keep this up, how much longer it would be until one of the arrows was fatal. He
pulled for dear life, doubling his speed. Reece knew their situation was
desperate; if they didn’t have help soon, they would all be dead.

Reece
heard another noise, that of an arrow sailing over his head—but this time, from
another direction. He looked up in surprise to see arrows flying overhead
toward shore, launching from the Queen’s ship. At first Reece braced himself,
thinking the Queen’s men were firing upon him. But then, as he saw more and
more of them fly overhead, and as he heard the cries of Tirus’s men, he
realized: the Queen’s men were coming to their aid.

Hundreds
of arrows suddenly flew overhead from the Queen’s ship, killing Tirus’s men firing
at them. Soon, the arrows from the shore stopped landing beside them.

Out
of danger’s path, they pulled harder and harder in the churning sea—and soon,
Reece felt a tug, and realized he was being pulled in by the Queen’s men. Dozens
of sailors grabbed the ropes and yanked hard, and soon they were being pulled, faster
and faster, right for the ship.

Bobbing
desperately in the waves, gasping for air, all of them, wounded, reached the
edge of the ship. A hand reached down for Reece, and as he grabbed it he looked
up and saw one of his own, a MacGil from the mainland, eager to help.

The
sailor looked down and smiled.

“Good
to have you on board,” he said.

Romulus
led the way, marching before his million-man army as they
crested the final hill on the approach to King’s Court. As his horse reached
the top, Luanda bound behind him, the vista opened up before him, and his heart
soared with anticipation.

But
Romulus was puzzled by what he saw. He had expected to see the city packed
with people, had expected to catch his nemesis, Gwendolyn, unaware. He had expected
to see all of her men, the Silver, the last bastion of strength of the Ring, conveniently
assembled in one place for him to wipe out with his dragons. He had been
looking forward to this moment, reliving it in his head, preparing to revel in
this peak moment of his victory.

But
Romulus was dumbfounded at what he saw before him. From here, he could see
through the gates, into King’s Court, and he could not reconcile the image: it
was empty.

Gwendolyn
had fled. Somehow, she had known he was coming, he did not know how. She had
outsmarted him once again.

“It
cannot be,” Romulus said out loud, not understanding. Where could she have
gone? How could she have known he was coming? Romulus had been meticulous about
destroying everyone in his path—there was no way a messenger could have reached
her. He had even made a point of keeping back his dragons, so that they would
not hear their cries, not see the devastation they had wrought.

Yet
despite all of his preparations, all of his careful planning, somehow Gwendolyn
had found out. How could she have evacuated this entire city so quickly?

His
face flushed in rage. She had robbed him of his victory.

And
most confusing of all: where could they have gone? The Ring was a finite space,
he knew, and there was only so far they could go to hide.

Romulus
, enraged, kicked his horse with a cry, and charged
down the well-maintained road, right for the wide-open gates of King’s Court—left
open as if to tantalize him. All of his men joined him, racing behind him, Luanda still bound behind him on his horse, as they rode right into the great city.

Romulus
could barely contain his rage; his greatest moment of
satisfaction had been stripped from him. He had been dreaming of destroying
these gates himself, of murdering everyone in his path, of setting fire to the
place and enjoying the screams of pain.

Now
there was nothing for him to do but walk inside.

It
did not feel like a victory at all. It felt like a defeat. Half the fun of
taking a city was inflicting pain, torture, devastation. No, this was not a
victory at all.

Romulus
’s men cheered as they rode into the city, and the
sound of their cries inflamed him even more; stupid idiots, celebrating a
victory that they didn’t even achieve. Romulus could not stand it anymore.

Romulus
jumped down from his horse, yanking Luanda down with him,
stormed up to the first soldier he found, drew his sword, and chopped off his
head. He then charged forward and chopped off another head; then another; then
another.

Finally,
his soldiers got the point. They all stopped their revelry and grew quiet as
they made way for him. They lined up at attention, awaiting his command, trembling
in fear. The courtyard of the city, just moments before so filled with glee, now
had a pallor of death.

Romulus
stood in the center of his men as they cleared a
circle around him, and boomed out:

“There
is no victory to celebrate, fools! On the contrary, you should be ashamed. You
have all been outsmarted by a
girl
queen. She has evaded us, has rescued
her people from our grasp. Is this cause to celebrate?”

His
men stood still, not moving a muscle, as Romulus strode up and down the ranks, debating
whether to kill some more of them. He had to vent his rage somehow. Not one of
them stirred; they knew him too well.

Romulus
, hands on his hips, turned and scanned the walls,
scanned everywhere, hoping for a sign of somebody, of any life at all. But
there was none. Where could they have gone?

A shrill
cry pierced the air, followed by a flapping of wings; it grew louder, and soon over
Romulus’s head there appeared his host of dragons. They circled furiously,
they too enraged, their great talons hanging below them as they swooped down,
then up, circling again and again, as if wanting to breathe fire on them all. Romulus could feel their rage at the lack of bloodshed. It was a rage he shared.

What
sort of a victory would this be without death and destruction? What sort of a victory
would it be without knowing that Gwendolyn was dead, crushed beneath his feet, and
that all of her people were annihilated?

As
Romulus wondered where Gwendolyn could be, suddenly he had an idea. Who else
would know where that crafty girl would have gone, except one of her own?

Romulus
looked over at Luanda; she stood several feet away, gagged,
squirming against her ropes, her wrists and ankles still bound behind her back.
Romulus rushed forward, raised his knife, and her eyes opened wide with fear
as he came close.

But
he reached out and sliced her binds, including her gag.

“Where
is your sister?” Romulus demanded.

Luanda
, free from her binds, rubbing her wrists, glared
back.

“How
should I know?” she said. “You’ve got me tied up like an animal. You filthy pig.”

Luanda
reached back and smacked her palm across his face, a smack
that echoed in front of all of his men. Romulus’s first impulse was to punch
her back, and to hit her harder than she hit him. But he restrained himself. The
smack actually felt good, shook him from his dark thoughts, and he admired her
fiery spirit, the way she looked back at him with such venom. It actually made
him smile: he loved seeing someone as filled with rage as himself.

“Tell
me where she is,” he repeated slowly. “You know her. You know this place. Why
did she leave? Where did she go?”

Luanda
put her hands on her hips, looking all about King’s
Court, as if debating.

“And
if I did know,” she said, “why would I tell you?”

Romulus
stared at her, his expression darkening. But he knew
he needed her, and forced himself to use his most seductive voice.

He
took a step closer to her and smiled, raising one hand and stroking her hair.

“Because
I will make you my queen,” he said softly, his voice guttural. “You will be the
most powerful woman in the Empire.”

He
had expected her to gush in awe and gratitude; and yet instead, she surprised
him: she scoffed.

“There
is nothing I would rather less,” she spat. “I’d rather die first.”

He
scowled.

“Then
I will give you death,” he said. “Or whatever it is you want. If you do not
wish to be my queen, then just tell me what you want—anything—and you shall
have it.”

Luanda
looked long and hard at him, as if summing him up, as
if thinking. Finally, her eyes narrowed.

“What
I want,” she said slowly, “is to be the one to kill my sister. I want her
captured alive. I want her brought to me—to me personally—to beg for mercy.”

Romulus
looked her up and down, shocked at her response. She
was more like him than he’d thought. For the first time, he admired her.

Romulus
smiled broadly. Maybe after all, he would indeed make
her his queen—whether she liked it or not.

“Agreed,”
he said.

Luanda
took several steps forward, her back to him, and scanned
the gates, the courtyard, the dusty ground, seeming to think it all over.

“If
I know my sister,” she said, “she’s planned an escape route. She always plans
ahead. She plans for everything. And she’s way too smart for you. If she wanted
to save her people, she would not just plan to go elsewhere in the Ring—she
would assume that eventually you would find her. So wherever it is she went, it
would be outside the Ring. Across the Canyon. Probably across a sea. Likely her
ships are setting sail right now.”

Romulus
’s mind spun as he pondered her words. As she spoke
them, instantly, he knew that she was right. Gwendolyn
would
do
something like that. She wouldn’t just evacuate her people only to be found
inside the Ring. How stupid he had been.

He
looked at Luanda with a whole new respect. And he realized, if he was to stop
Gwendolyn, there was little time left.

Romulus
leaned back, craned his neck up to the heavens, and
raised his palms.

“DRAGONS!”
he shrieked. “TO THE CANYON!”

The
dragons screeched in unison as Romulus commanded them. His men could not reach
the Canyon crossing in time to stop her, or the sea—but his dragons could. They
could fly out in front for him, a flying army, and eviscerate Gwendolyn before he
reached her.

It
would rob him of some satisfaction.

But
it was better than none at all.

Erec
opened his eyes as the gentle rocking motion shook him from his sleep. He
looked about, disoriented, trying to figure out where he was. In all his years
as a warrior, he had never allowed himself to fall asleep, especially in a
strange environment. It was a profoundly disorienting feeling for him to now awake
and have no sense at all of where he was.

Erec
blinked and realized he was lying on his back in a small boat, perhaps twenty
feet long, a crude canvas sail attached to a mast. The boat rocked gently in
the huge, rolling ocean waves, lifting them up and down, as if lulling them to
sleep.

Erec
looked up at the sky above them, in awe at its beauty. He looked up and saw
open sky as far as the eye could see, the entire world coming alive in the
sunrise, one vast stretch of violet and pink and purple. A warm breeze stirred,
and Erec breathed deep, comforted by the ocean air, and by the soft colors of
the universe. It was the most peaceful scene he’d ever encountered, and Erec
realized why he’d fallen asleep.

Erec
looked down at the figure lying in his arms, and realized there was an even
greater reason for his sense of peace: Alistair. Erec felt her body before he
saw her, and he looked at her long blonde hair, spilling down to her waist, her
beautiful profile, her perfectly sculpted face, her eyes closed as she slept
gently, like an angel, on his chest. Lying on his back, with Alistair in his
arms and the universe spread out before him, Erec had never felt more at ease.
It was as if the entire universe had been created just for the two of them.

Erec
thought back and remembered the events of the night before, and his heart
pounded as he recalled his capture at the hands of those mercenaries, and Alistair’s
nearly being attacked. He felt overwhelmed with guilt for being surprised like
that, for not being able to defend her. He remembered Alistair’s powers, her
summoning the storm, that monster, and his thoughts switched from fear to
wonder. He gazed upon her angelic face, feeling the intense energy radiating
off of her, and he knew she was not entirely of this earth. She was other-worldly.
He wondered at the depth of the powers that coursed through her. He knew they
were immense. Yet also, perhaps, unpredictable.

Though
Erec was in awe of her, he was also perhaps, he had to admit, slightly afraid for
her. What would her powers mean for their relationship? For their life
together? For their children yet to come? Erec thought of how powerful Thorgrin
was. Would Erec’s sons then be equally as powerful? His daughters? And would Alistair
be able to love and respect him, even though he did not have the same powers as
she?

And
the most troubling thought of all: what if her powers somehow led to her
demise? Did she have a shorter time to live?

Erec
studied her face, and he felt overwhelmed with love for her, and gratitude toward
her, and he prayed that she would live forever. He was looking forward to
showing her off to his people, to their wedding to come. His joy at being with
her, and his excitement to introduce her to his family, overshadowed even his
grief for his father’s pending death.

Erec
gently loosened Alistair from his chest, eager to see where they were. He rose
to his knees, the boat rocking, then to his feet, balancing himself so as not
to fall. He stood in the center of the boat and peered into the horizon. As he
did, his heart swelled with excitement.

The
Southern Isles lay just ahead, as beautiful and resplendent as Erec remembered
them to be as a boy, the jagged cliffs encircling the islands rising up from
the ocean like a work of art, covered in a slight mist, yellowish in color. The
sun shone down directly on the isles, so strong that the islands were known as
the sunny islands. They seemed as if they were glowing in the midst of the dark
ocean, like giant orbs of light in the midst of darkness.

Erec
sensed motion beside him, felt the boat sway slightly, and he turned to see Alistair
standing beside him, smiling. She reached out and took his hand, and the two of
them looked out at the islands together.

“One
day you will be queen there,” he said. “We shall rule the islands together.”

“As
long as we’re together,” Alistair replied, “I would go with you to the ends of
the earth.”

Erec’s
heart leapt with anticipation as each wave brought them closer and closer to
the islands. Would his family be there to greet him? What would they think of Alistair?
What would it be like to return to this place he had not seen since childhood?

As
they came closer and closer, he wondered: would it be the same place that he
had once known and loved?

*

Erec
scanned the shoreline with joy as their boat touched the sand, hundreds of
Southern Islanders awaiting them, cheering their arrival. His people had showed
up with great fanfare, stretched out as far as the eye could see, greeting them
like a king and queen. Dozens of them rushed forward and grabbed the edge of
their boat and dragged it up onto the sand, as Erec jumped down and held out a
hand for Alistair. She took it and stepped onto the sand.

There
came a great cheer as she did, and Erec looked out, overwhelmed with pride to
be so happily embraced by his people, and to be by Alistair’s side. One person
after the next pressed forward to embrace him, and to kiss Alistair’s hand, as
Erec scanned the faces, trying to recognize anyone from his childhood. It was
all a blur.

Erec
had forgotten how warm and friendly the Southern Islanders were, these people who
were legendary for their warmth and hospitality, who, legend had it, were lit
alive by the sun. They were quick to laugh and smile and give you a hug or a
pat on the back; yet their kindness was never mistaken for weakness, as they
were also known to be legendary warriors, an island of strong and proud and
noble warriors, among the most skilled of all the countries. They were Erec’s
people.

As
Erec embraced them back, tears flowed from his face, and he realized how much he
had been missing his homeland, his people, this place where he had spent his
formative years, this place he still dreamt of often. It felt so good to be
home again, his feet to be back on his soil, and it felt so good to be so loved.
He had not been sure if his people would even remember him, and here he was, welcomed
like a returning hero.

It
also warmed Erec’s heart with joy to see them welcome Alistair so fondly, to
treat her as if she were already one of their own, already their queen. They
showered on her the same love and affection they reserved for Erec, and Erec
felt eternally grateful to them for it.

During
all those years Erec had spent in the Ring, ever since that day his father had shipped
him off as a boy to study under the tutelage of King MacGil and his Silver, the
Ring had felt like home to Erec. King MacGil had become like a father to him,
and the Silver had all become his brothers. Erec had never consciously thought much
of the Southern Isles, because in his mind, he had not imagined himself ever
returning. In his mind, the Ring had become his home.

And
yet now that he had returned, Erec felt a rush of sensations coming back to
him, memories, feelings, and he realized that this place was his home, too. His
first home. A place to which he owed as much loyalty as to the Ring. After all,
these were his people, his blood. He had been born here, grown up here, before
being shipped off to the Ring to become a great warrior.

He
had achieved what his father had set out for him to achieve—had become the
greatest warrior of them all—and he had done his people proud. Now, he realized,
he owed his father—and his people—a debt. It was time to serve them. Duty had
called, and it was time not just to see his dying father, but also to embrace
the role he had been destined for since his birth: to assume the Kingship of
the Southern Isles. He knew that’s what his people would demand, what his
father would demand, whether he liked it or not, and he was prepared to serve.
With Alistair by his side as Queen, he could think of no more fitting return.

“My
brother,” came a voice.

Erec
turned, thrilled to hear the familiar voice, and was happily surprised to see
standing before him his younger brother, Strom, grinning wide.

“I
would have expected your return in a more glorious ship than this!” Strom added
with a laugh, as he stepped forward and embraced him.

Erec
hugged him, then pulled him back and looked him up and down: he was shocked to
see his younger brother, now, so many years later, a full-grown man, nearly as
big as he, rippling with muscles. He had the countenance of a hardened warrior,
one who had been tested by battle. He was now a man.

“Strom,”
Erec said, eyes glistening with approval. It felt so good to see him again.

Strom,
too, looked Erec up and down, sizing him up. He shook his head.

“I
was sure I’d grown enough to be taller than you! Son of a bitch! I only needed
one more inch!” Strom laughed, squeezing Erec’s shoulder. “But it seems I’m
bigger than you at least.”

Erec
shook his head. That was his brother.

“You
haven’t changed one bit,” he said. “Still trying to outdo me.”

“What
do you mean trying?” Strom said. “
Succeeding
. I shall show you later when
we spar!”

Strom
laughed heartily, and Erec knew that his little brother meant it. Erec laughed
too, amazed at how quickly they picked up where they’d left off.

Erec
loved his younger brother, and he’d never felt any competition or jealousy with
him whatsoever. Yet Strom did not share the same point of view. For his little
brother, Erec was always the man to beat, the target to outdo; Erec could swear
that Strom had devoted his life to one-upping him any way he could.

Erec
laughed it off, but for Strom it was a deadly serious business. Erec had met
many people in his life, and yet he had never encountered a more intense
sibling rivalry, even if it was one-way. His relationship with Strom had always
been a mixed bag. Erec sensed that Strom loved him—and yet at the same time,
could not control his desire to defeat him. Erec blamed it on the competitive
way his father had raised them, always pitting them against each other. His
father had thought that would make them better men—but it had only created
divisiveness. Erec himself did not believe in fostering competition, and if he
had sons he resolved to never raise them that way; instead, Erec believed it
was better to raise them to look out for each other, to watch each other’s
backs, and to foster loyalty and selflessness. Those, Erec believed were the
true traits of a warrior. Competition was important, but not among
family—competition could be learned on the field of battle, and skills could be
sharpened other ways. Sometimes competition brought out the best in people, it
was true—and yet other times, competition only fostered the worst.

“And
bringing a bride with you?” Strom remarked, looking over Alistair, shaking his
head. “Did you have to outdo me in this, too? I haven’t found my bride yet, and
now I doubt I shall find one as beautiful as she,” Strom said, as he stepped up
and took Alistair’s hand and kissed it.

Alistair
smiled back.

“A
pleasure to meet you,” she replied. “A brother to Erec is a brother to me.”

“Well,
you should know, before you marry him,” Strom said, “that I am Erec’s better
brother. Spend some time here, and you might decide to choose me. After all,
why would you want the weaker stock?”

Strom
laughed, and Erec shook his head. Strom was as opinionated and tactless as
ever.

“I
know I shall find myself quite content with my current choice, thank you,” Alistair
replied with a smile, diplomatic as always.

Strom
stepped aside as the crowd parted ways and someone stepped forward, and Erec
was amazed to see who it was:

Dauphine
. His younger sister.

The
last time he had seen her, she had been up to his waist, and now, Erec could
hardly believe how tall she had grown; she was nearly as tall as he, with broad
shoulders, a perfect posture, and a dazzling smile. He could not believe how
beautiful she had become, either, with her long strawberry hair and bright
green eyes.

She
stood there and stared back at Erec with the same intensity he remembered from
when they were children. Just a few years younger, she’d always looked up to Erec
as a hero, had always been intent on demanding his attention, and had always
been incredibly jealous and territorial of anyone who took his attention away
from her. Possibly because their father had always been absent, ruling his
kingdom, Dauphine had looked to Erec as a father figure in their lonely
upbringing.

Erec
realized now, from her stare, and from the way she was ignoring Alistair, that
after all these years she had not changed one bit.

“My
brother,” Dauphine said, stepping forward, embracing him, hugging him tight, refusing
to let go.

Erec
held her and felt her tears run down her face and onto his neck. Erec realized
he’d missed his family dearly, despite all their quirks, and it was
overwhelming to see them all back here in one place. In some ways, it felt as
if he’d never left. It was an eerie feeling.