First, though, he would send his host of dragons across the ocean, would command them to set it all to fire before his arrival. He would arrive on an island flattened by devastation. He would not even need to raise a sword.
The dragons shrieked again and again, and Romulus knew he had to bring down this new Shield, to undo Argon’s handiwork. Romulus threw his head back, threw his arms out wide, opened his palms, faced the sky, and shrieked, summoning all of his newfound energy, more determined than ever. If he could summon dragons, he could summon the darkest energies of hell to do his bidding.
There came a great thunder, the earth quaked, and shafts of black light shot down from the heavens, into Romulus’s palms. They glowed and vibrated, as he felt the energy passing through him, and down into the earth.
“Ancient powers, I summon you!” Romulus shrieked. “Shatter this shield!”
Romulus opened his eyes, directed his palms forward, and with a great shriek directed all the black light to the invisible shield before him.
Argon’s shield was suddenly covered in black light, spreading over it, more and more vibrant, until finally the shield began to crack.
Suddenly, there came a huge explosion.
The invisible shield exploded into a million little pieces, sprinkling down like snow all around them. Romulus looked up, amazed, feeling the minuscule fragments rain all around him, in his hair, and settling, like dust, in his open palms.
The dragons screeched in victory as they no longer butted against an invisible wall, but flew forward, racing through the open air, across the Canyon, out toward the Wilds.
Romulus leaned back and laughed in delight, knowing that soon the dragons would cross the Wilds, would cross the ocean, would descend upon Gwendolyn and her men and destroy every last one of them.
He would follow on their heels.
“Fly, my dragons,” he laughed. “Fly.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Erec stood on a plateau in the cliffs, overlooking the contest going on before him, cheers rising up as hundreds of men sparred before him. Perhaps twenty feet below was a wide plateau, fifty yards in diameter, shaped in a perfect circle, a steep drop off all around it. A massive copper gate was erected around its perimeter, rising a good ten feet high, assuring that no warriors would fall over the edge and that none of these matches would result in death.
Yet it was still a serious business. This day’s contests dictated who had the right to challenge Erec for the kingship in the wake of his father’s death. All of these fine warriors, brothers in arms, all of the same nation and the same island, were not here to kill each other. The weapons were blunted today, and the armor was extra plated. But they all wanted to be King, and they all wanted to prove their skills on the field of battle.
As Erec watched over them, admiring their skills, his mind swarmed with a million thoughts. He was still processing his father’s last words, all he had told him about ruling a nation. Erec wondered if he was really up to the task. He looked down at all these fine warriors, at the thousands of people lining the cliffs, watching, all of them so noble, and he wondered why he should be the one to rule them.
Most of all, Erec marveled at the fact that his father had just died, and yet here were all these people, celebrating, going on as if nothing had happened. Erec himself swarmed with conflicting emotions. A part of him could understand his people’s traditions, to celebrate the life of his father, instead of mourn him; after all, mourning could not bring him back. Yet another part of him wanted time and space to mourn the man he barely knew.
“Many will fight you, my brother,” Strom said, grinning, coming up beside him and patting Erec heartily on the back. “And I will be first among them.”
Erec turned and saw the royal family beside him—Strom, Dauphine, his mother, Alistair at his side—all of them up here on this vantage point, looking down on the contests. Below there came the clang of metal, as hundreds of great warriors faced off with each other, one at a time, eliminating each other. They had been fighting like this for hours, determined to dwindle their ranks down to the twelve victors who would be left to fight Erec for the kingship.
As was the tradition, the dozen victors would represent the dozen provinces of the Islands, and each of them would have a chance to fight Erec. It would allow each province to be represented, as each province fought it out for their own individual victor. It gave each and every person on the island a chance to challenge for the kingship, the same way his ancestors had done for centuries. These twelve victors would represent the best that the people had to offer, and while, of course, Erec would be tired fighting twelve men, it was still the test of a true warrior. If he could defeat them all, back to back, then his people would be satisfied to recognize him as King.
Strom laughed again.
“You have long been away from these islands,” he added, “and I have been training for this for years. Don’t be too sad when I beat you!”
Strom patted Erec on the back and laughed heartily, delighted with himself. Erec looked his brother up and down and saw that he would indeed be a formidable foe. He had no doubt he was a fine warrior, with the finest armor, and trained by the finest of his father’s people. And he had no doubt that his brother dearly wanted the kingship—and most of all, dearly wanted to defeat him.
“Do not worry, my brother,” Erec replied. “You shall have a chance to fight me, along with everyone else.”
Strom smiled.
“Do not be disappointed if you find yourself calling me King before the day’s close.”
Strom laughed, and Erec smiled to himself. His brother was bold and confident, he always had been. But of course, that could also lead to a warrior’s undoing.
Erec turned his attention back to the fighting, studying them with a warrior’s eye. The matches went on and on, the air filled with the cries and groans of men, and with the sound of clanging metal. Warriors charged each other on horses at a full gallop and raised their lances high, jousting. The custom of the Southern Islanders, Erec knew, was that one must win both on horse and on foot—so after the men went down, the battles always morphed to hand-to-hand combat. The warriors here, after all, were tested more thoroughly than any warriors in the world.
As hours passed and the sun fell long in the sky, the last of the provinces declared a victor; finally, a chorus of horns sounded, and the people let out a great cheer.
The twelve victors of the day were lined up, fierce warriors each, all ready to fight Erec for the right to be King.