“I love you, Thornicus. And that is why I must kill you.”
As Andronicus raised his ax high, Thor, defenseless, raised his hands and shouted out, knowing this would be an awful way to die.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Erec quickly climbed the endless stairs leading to the top of the highest peak of the Southern Isles, looking up as he went, his heart warmed at the sight of his father’s fort. There it sat, on the highest point of the island, just as he’d remembered as a child. It was a beautiful structure, like a small castle, yet square and low to the ground, adorned with turrets and parapets. It was built of ancient stones quarried centuries ago from these cliffs, and its presence was imposing. For Erec, it was home; yet it also embodied a special place in his dreams, an almost magical place.
Erec approached its massive copper doors, tall and rectangular, shining so brightly in the sun he had to squint, with their huge carved handles that brought back memories. Erec had forgotten that the Southern Isles were a land of copper, its bountiful copper mines yielding an endless amount of material, so much so that nearly every structure in the Southern Isles, even the poorest house, had some element of copper in it. His father’s fort, the most beautiful and elaborate structure here, had so much copper on it, shined so brightly, that it was visible from nearly any point on the islands. It was designed to leave people in awe—whether friends or enemies.
Erec was breathing hard, his legs burning, as he finally reached the plateau and approached the place—he had forgotten how steep the Upper Isles were, how the entire island was basically one huge mountain range, a series of elevations, rising and falling, people constantly having to climb endless steps carved into the stone to reach anything. His father’s fort, most of all. Erec realized that, whatever shape he was in, it was still not the shape of the Southern Islanders, where all the men—and women—had legs of tree trunks, accustomed their entire lives to climbing and descending.
As Erec approached the doors, Alistair at his side, half a dozen soldiers, dressed in the uniform of the Southern Isles, head to toe in copper armor, weapons, shields, shining like the fort, immediately stepped aside and pulled open the doors for him. They bowed their heads low, offering him a reception fit for a king. It gave Erec a strange sensation; it brought home the fact that soon, his father would be dead—and he would be King.
Erec had never been treated like a king before, and he realized he did not like the feeling. He was a humble man at heart, his entire life devoted to being a loyal soldier, a warrior, a knight—not to politics or pomp. His life was devoted to serving others, to serving the Ring, to be the best warrior he could be. He cared for little else.
Seeing all these people in the Southern Isles treat him with such a reception made him realize that his life was about to change. He would soon be spending less time with his weaponry, less time in the field, and more time being a ruler, in halls of politics. He was not sure if he liked the feeling. Was that the natural evolution of a warrior? he wondered. To rise up from the field of battle, a place of honor, and to enter into the murky field of politics? Erec felt that there more honor in battle, and that the deeper one waded into the politics and power, the more one risked one’s honor. Was evolving from warrior to ruler the natural evolution of responsibility? Or was it a de-evolution, a tarnishing of one’s honors and virtues?
Erec did not know the answer, and a part of him did not want to find out. He wanted a simple life as a warrior, defending his kingdom, living amongst his people. He did not want to rule them. And yet he was his father’s firstborn, and everyone on the Isles, including his father, would expect nothing less of him.
If there was any saving grace to being King on these isles, it was that Kings here were different from Kings anywhere else in the world; to be King here meant that one not only had to picked by lineage—one also had to earn it. To earn the Kingship, Erec would have to be tested on the field of battle, by his own people. A contest would be called, and any commoner would have the right to challenge him. If any one of them defeated him, then the Kingship would pass to them. At least Erec, assuming he won, would be King through merit—and not through lineage alone.
Erec marched down the corridors holding Alistair’s hand, their footsteps echoing off the copper floors, attendants and soldiers lined up, bowing their heads as they passed. More attendants opened another set of doors for them, and they turned down another corridor, and another, and finally, before them were the doors to his father’s chamber. One last soldier opened the door, and Erec braced himself, nervous, anticipating what state his father might be in.
Alistair stopped with him before the door, tugging his hand.
“My lord, shall I enter with you?” Alistair asked, hesitant.
Erec nodded.
“You shall be my wife. It is fitting that you meet my father before he dies.”
“Yet you have not seen him since your youth. Perhaps you want some time alone with him.”
Erec clutched her hand. “Where I go, you go.”
The two entered the room and the door closed behind them, leaving just the two of them in this room with the King, along with the attendants lined up solemnly along the walls.
For the first time since he was a boy, Erec laid eyes on his father, and his heart sank. His father lay in bed, head propped up on silk pillows, silk covers up to his chest despite the warm summer day. He looked so much older, frailer, smaller than Erec remembered. The sight pained him to no end.
In Erec’s memory, his father was as a tall, broad-chested great warrior, a fierce and tough man, wise and calculating, respected by all who looked at him. He was a man who had managed to grasp the throne in his youth, to out-fight others who had royal lineage by sheer strength, determination, and fighting skill.
As he was a warrior and not a ruler, a man who did not hail from royal blood, all the islanders had been certain that he would not be able to hang onto the throne, and would not be a great ruler. But his father surprised them all. He turned out to be not only the best warrior in the Isles, but also a great and cunning ruler. He managed to hold onto the throne—and strengthen it—his entire life, and in the process, made the Southern Isles a much stronger place. He was the one who had discovered the copper mines, who had brought them all wealth, who had helped build most of the copper structures on the island today; he was the one who had extended the fishing fleet, had reinforced the cliffs, had made the islands prosperous and bountiful—and who had fended off all attacks on his islands. He had succeeded all these years, despite the predictions, and he had, unpredictably, become the greatest King the Southern Isles had ever known.