“Looks like it’s our turn, my brother!” Strom said, donning his helmet and hurrying down the stone steps.
Erec grabbed his armor, kissed Alistair, and followed him down. As Erec approached the arena, the sky grew thick with the shouts of thousands of islanders, all thrilled to welcome him, and to watch him fight the others.
Erec noticed Strom getting ready to spar, and he was confused.
“But I shall fight you last,” Erec said, catching up to him. “That is tradition.”
Strom shook his head.
“Not anymore,” he replied. “I’ve changed the rules. You will fight me first. I must defeat you right away, so that I can then defeat all the others. After all, once I’m King, I will have proved to all these people that I’m a better fighter than you. That is, unless you are afraid to fight me first.”
Erec shook his head at his younger brother’s confidence.
“I back down from no challenge,” Erec replied.
“Do not worry,” Strom said, “I’ll try not to hurt you in the process!”
Strom laughed at his own joke, thrilled with himself, and ran and mounted his horse, grabbing his lance and heading into the sparring ring.
Erec mounted the beautiful horse laid out for him, looked down, and examined three lances being held out. He weighed each one, and finally settled on one, shorter than the others, and lighter, with a copper hilt. He had barely grabbed hold of it when already his brother was charging for him.
Erec charged, too, and now that he was in fighting mode, something snapped inside of him. He transformed into a professional soldier, and he no longer saw the man riding toward him as his brother. Now he was his opponent.
Everything else fell away as he focused with laser-like clarity. As had happened his entire life, something changed inside him once he lowered his faceplate and charged, something he could not control. He became a machine, intent on defeating anyone who stood in his way, brother or not.
Erec let go of all emotions, of all feelings of competition or jealousy or envy. He knew these would only get in his way. For the professional warrior, there was no room to allow one’s mind to be clouded by emotion.
Instead, as he lowered his lance, as he heard the sound of his own breathing in his ears, Erec focused on every tiny motion of his brother—the shifting armor, where he held his lance. His brother was confident, he could see it in the way he rode. He could also see that that was his weakness.
As they neared, at the last moment, Erec made a tiny adjustment; he raised his lance a bit higher, shifted his body to the right, and struck his lance into his brother’s chest.
There came a great clang as his brother went flying off the back of his horse and landed on his back. The crowd cheered.
Erec circled around, seeing his brother lying on the ground, groaning, rolling to get up. He dismounted and stood there, waiting, giving his brother time. He felt bad; this was his brother after all.
Strom quickly rose to his feet, pulled off his helmet, his face red with fury, and screamed to his squire: “MACE!”
Erec stood opposite him, calm and cool, as he removed his helmet and took the mace handed to him from his own squire. These were large wooden maces, their studs blunted so as not to kill—but still, their impact would be felt.
“A lucky strike!” Strom yelled. “You shall not do it twice!”
Strom charged and screamed, swinging wildly. They were powerful blows—but blows clouded by emotion. Erec, focused, was able to deftly deflect each one.
Strom paused, breathing hard, and glared back.
“I’ll give you one chance to yield to me now!” Strom called out. “Yield now, and proclaim me King!”
Erec shook his head at his brother’s confidence. Although his brother was deadly serious, Erec could not help smiling.
“You are gracious to offer me the chance,” Ere called back. “But it is too kind. It is a chance I cannot accept. I did not choose to be King; I do not desire to be King; but I shall never yield in combat—not to any man, and not even to my brother.”
Strom shouted and charged like a madman, raising his mace to strike a great blow upon Erec’s head.
Erec turned his mace sideways, raised it high, and blocked the blow. He then leaned forward and kicked his brother in the chest, sending him flying back, landing on his rear on the ground.
Erec then charged forward, swung his mace around, and as Strom raised his mace to block it, Erec swung from underneath and managed to strike the head of Strom’s mace perfectly, and sent the mace flying from his brother’s hand. It went flying over the copper railing, over the edge of the arena, and down the side of the cliff.
Erec stood over his defenseless brother, the mace pointed at his throat.
Strom looked back, wide-eyed, clearly not expecting this at all.
“I love you, my brother,” Erec said. “I do not wish to harm you. End this now, and our match is over with no bruises or scratches.”
But Strom glared back at him.
“Another lucky blow,” Strom seethed. “Do you really think I would bow to my lesser in battle?”
Strom suddenly scrambled to his knees and charged for him, aiming to tackle Erec by his legs.
Erec saw it coming and sidestepped, letting his brother go barreling forward. As he did, Erec reached up and with his foot shoved him, sending him flying face-first in the dirt.
Strom rolled to his feet, face filled with hate as the crowd laughed at him.
“Sword!” Strom called out to his squire. “A REAL sword!”
The crowd gasped, as his squire rushed forward with the sword, then stopped and looked to Erec for approval.
Erec glared back at Strom, hardly believing what he was seeing, disappointed in him.
“My brother, this is a friendly contest,” he said, calmly. “Sharpened weapons should not be used.”
“I demand a real sword!” he called out, frantic. “Unless you are afraid to meet me in battle!”
Erec sighed, seeing there was no stopping his brother. He would just have to learn.
Erec nodded to the attendant, who handed Strom a sword, as Erec stood there, facing him.
“And where is your sword?” Strom asked, as he gained his feet.
Erec shook his head.
“I do not need one. In fact, I do not even need this.”
Erec dropped his mace, and the crowd gasped. He stood there defenseless, facing his brother.
“Should I kill a defenseless man?” his brother said.