“A true knight is never defenseless. Only one clouded with emotion is defenseless.”
Strom looked back, confused; he was clearly struggling, wondering whether he should attack a defenseless man. But finally his ambition got the best of him; his face collapsed in rage, and with a shout, he raised his sword and charged Erec.
Erec waited, biding his time, gauging his brother’s strength, then dodged out of the way at the last moment; the blade swished by his ear, just missing. Erec was disappointed, realizing that his brother truly had intent to kill.
In the same motion, without missing a beat, Erec reached around and elbowed his brother in the small of his back, where he had no armor. Strom cried out as Erec hit the pressure point he was hoping for, right beneath his kidney, and he dropped to his knees, dropping the sword.
Erec spun, kicked him in the back, sending him to his face, and stood on the back of his neck, keeping his face planted in the dirt. He stood more firmly than before, letting his brother know he’d had enough.
“You have lost, brother,” Erec said. “This spur is sharper than the blade of your sword. If you move but half an inch, it will sever every artery in your throat. Do you really want our fight to continue?”
The crowd fell silent, everyone riveted as they watched the two brothers.
Finally, Strom, breathing hard, shook his head slightly.
“Then declare it,” Erec said. “Yield!”
Strom lay there for several moments in the silence, not one person making a move, until finally he screamed out: “I YIELD!”
There came a great roar, and Erec lifted his foot from his brother’s throat. Strom, unharmed, got to his feet and stormed away, his back to Erec, not even turning back once, his face covered in mud.
A horn sounded, followed by a great cheer.
“And now, the twelve victors!”
Erec turned and saw the victors from the dozen provinces, lined up in respect, all waiting their turn to fight him.
He knew this would be a long afternoon indeed.
* * *
Erec jousted for hours, with one knight after another, his shoulders growing tired, his eyes stinging with sweat. By the afternoon’s end, even his sword was feeling heavy to the touch.
Erec fought one victor at a time, each from another province, each a fierce warrior. And yet, none were a match for him. One after the next, he’d defeat each one at the joust, and then each in hand-to-hand combat.
But the more fights he had, the fiercer and more accomplished the warriors became—and the more tired he became. This was truly a test of kings: to win, one had to be not only the best fighter, but also have the most stamina to fight off all twelve of the best men these islands had to offer. It was one thing to beat a challenger for the first fight of the day; it was quite another to beat him on the twelfth fight.
And yet, Erec persevered. He summoned all his years of training, of battle, of long bouts of fighting one man after the next, recalling those days when the Silver were challenged beyond extremes, having to fight not just a dozen men, but two dozen, three dozen—even a hundred men in a single day. They would fight until their arms were too tired to even raise a sword, and still have to find some way to win. That was the training King MacGil had demanded.
Now, it served him well. Erec summoned his skill, his instincts, and even in exhaustion, he fought better than all these great warriors, the greatest warriors in a kingdom known for the greatest warriors. Erec outshone them all, and with a dazzling display of virtuosity, he defeated one after the next. A horn punctuated each victory, and a satisfied cheer from his people, clearly feeling assured that they had, in their new King to be, the greatest warrior their islands had to offer.
As Erec defeated the eleventh challenger with a blow of his wooden mace on the man’s ribs, the man yielded, the eleventh horn sounded, and the crowd went wild.
Erec stood there, breathing hard, reaching down to give the warrior a hand up.
“Well fought,” the warrior said, a man twice his size.
“You fought bravely,” Erec said. “I shall make you commander of one of my legions.”
The man clasped Erec’s arm in respect, and turned and walked off to his people, proud and noble in defeat.
The crowd cheered wildly, as Erec turned toward the twelfth and final victor. The man mounted his horse on the far side of the arena and faced him. The crowd would not stop cheering, knowing that after this battle, they would have their King.
Erec mounted his horse, breathing hard, drinking from a cup of water brought to him by one of his squires, then dumping the rest of the cold water on his head. Erec then raised his helmet and put it back on his head, wiping the sweat from his brow as he grabbed a fresh lance.
Erec surveyed the knight facing him. He was twice as wide as the others, and wore copper armor with three streaks of black across it. Erec’s stomach clenched at the sight; those marks were worn by a small tribe, the Alzacs, in the southernmost part of the island, a separatist tribe that had been a thorn in his father’s side for years. They were the fiercest warriors of the island, and one of them had been King before his father. It was an Alzac that his father had had to defeat in order to seize the throne so many years ago.
“I am Bowyer of the Alzacs!” the knight called out to Erec. “Your father took the throne from my father forty sun cycles ago. Now I shall avenge my father and take the throne from you. Prepare to kneel to your new King!”
Bowyer’s head was stark bald, and he had a short, stiff brown beard. He sat erect on his horse, with a defiant face and the flattened nose of a warrior who had seen battle.
Erec knew the Alzacs to be fierce and brave—and sneaky. He was not surprised that this was the final fighter left, the champion of the victors. Erec knew it would not be easy and that this challenger should not be underestimated. He would take nothing for granted.
Erec focused as a horn sounded, visors were lowered, and the two galloped for each other.
They charged and as their lances met, Erec was surprised to feel Bowyer’s lance impact his chest, the first of the day; at the same time, Erec’s lance impacted his. Bowyer had made an unexpected last-second twist, and Erec realized that Bowyer was indeed finer than any he had yet encountered. The blow was not hard enough to knock Erec off his horse, but he did sway backwards, his confidence shaken.
Bowyer, too, remained on his horse, and they circled around to face each other again, to the cheers of the crowd. Bowyer, too, seemed surprised that Erec had impacted him, and they both charged each other with a new respect.