A Reign of Steel

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Alistair found herself flying, looking down over the Ring, and she did not know how. She had no wings, she rode on no dragon, and yet still she floated, soaring above the landscape of her home country, looking down at it all from above.

As she looked down, she was confused. In place of the summer bounty she had left, in place of the fertile fields, the endless orchards she had grown accustomed to, there was a scorched land beneath her, destroyed by the dragons’ breath. Nothing was left—not a single city, town, village, not even a hamlet. Every last structure had been burned to ashes.

The trees, once so lush, ancient, were all burnt-out stumps, and there were no more structures to mark the landscape. There remained nothing but waste and devastation.

Alistair was horrified. She flew low, covering the entire Ring, and found herself flying over the Canyon, over the great crossing. She saw below her Romulus, leading an army of millions, stretching as far as the eye could see. The Empire now occupied her homeland.

Alistair knew then that her homeland had been destroyed forever, and the Shield destroyed with it. The Ring was occupied, was now the property of the Empire. What once was would never be again.

Alistair blinked and found herself standing before her mother’s castle, her back to it, facing a great skywalk, which twisted and turned its way miles below to the mainland. It was a long, curving path, and on it there walked a sole figure. He came close, and she realized it was her brother, Thorgrin, here to see their mother.

Thor looked up at Alistair, and she was so relieved to see her brother, the last person alive in a world of desolation. She felt that in moments she’d be meeting their mother, the three of them together for the first time.

Thor came close and smiled as he held out a hand for her. She reached for him.

Suddenly, the skywalk beneath him collapsed, and Thor fell through it, plummeting through the air and toward the rocks and ocean below.

Alistair looked down and watched, helpless, her heart breaking; without thinking, she dove down, over the cliff, to save him.

“Thorgrin!” she cried.

Alistair found herself landing not in the ocean but rather on an entirely new landscape, atop a plateau, looking down over thousands of people of the Southern Isles. She turned and saw Erec standing beside her, holding her hand, each of them dressed in their wedding attire, in luxurious silk robes.

But something was wrong with Erec when he smiled: he smiled wider, and blood poured from his mouth. He then collapsed, falling face first off the edge of the cliff, arms out wide by his side, trailing blood, as his people reached out to grab him with open arms. Alistair lifted her hands, covered in blood, and found herself standing there alone, her groom diving, dead, into the masses below.

“Erec!” she screamed.

Alistair woke screaming, breathing hard, looking all around her in the predawn light of her chamber. She wiped sweat from her brow and jumped from her bed, searching her hands for blood.

But there was none.

Alistair, confused, tried to catch her breath as she paced the room, rubbing her face, trying to understand where she was. It took her several moments to realize it had all been a dream. She was safe. Erec was safe. Thorgrin was safe. She was not in the Ring but here, safe, in the Southern Isles.

Alistair breathed. It was the most horrible dream she’d ever had. It felt like more than a dream—it felt like a message. Like a twisted version of the future. And it looked very dark.

Alistair tried to shake it off, pacing in her chamber. What could be the meaning of such a dream? She tried to assure herself that it was just night panic—yet deep down, in her gut, she could not help but feel that it was something more. Was her homeland really destroyed? Was her brother about to die?

Her groom?

Surely, such travesty couldn’t all befall her at once; surely, it all meant nothing.

Alistair crossed the room and splashed cold water on her face several times. She went to the open window, soft ocean breezes rolling in, and examined the Southern Isles in the predawn light. It was still the most beautiful view she had ever seen, the smell of orange blossoms waking her, the moist air calming her. It was the cleanest she’d ever breathed.

Alistair looked out at the perfect landscape, saw all the people already up, already preparing for the big wedding that day, and felt certain that in a place like this, surely no evil could befall them.

Alistair sighed, shook her head, and chided herself. Just fancies in the night, she told herself. Just fancies in the night.

The first morning sun rose in the sky, and Alistair sat in her bridal chamber, surrounded by a dozen attendants giggling and laughing, all of them elated as they helped her prepare. As one of them made a final adjustment on her dress, Alistair stepped forward as others pulled up a huge polished glass. She stood there, heart pounding in excitement, and saw her reflection.

Alistair gasped; she had never looked so striking. She wore the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen, all white, made of lace, covering her from her neck to toe, and a veil to match the long white gloves. She had never considered herself to be pretty, despite how the men in her life had reacted to her, yet now, looking at herself like this, she felt she wasn’t as ugly as she had thought.

“It is the dress I wore at my wedding,” Erec’s mother said, smiling, coming up beside her, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “On you it’s even more beautiful. That is how it was meant to be worn.”

Erec’s mother embraced her, and Alistair had never felt so filled with joy. She could not wait for the ceremony.

Erec’s mother led her to the door, and she opened it, and pointed to a copper walkway.

“The path leads you to your groom’s chamber,” she said. “Go to him. He awaits you. He shall lead you to the ceremony.”

Alistair turned to her, touched.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, more grateful than she could express.

Erec’s mother embraced her.

“I shall be lucky to have a daughter like you.”

Alistair turned onto the copper walkway alone, making her way on the short walk toward a beautiful, small marble house, open-aired, columns on all sides, in which she knew Erec awaited her.

As she reached its entrance, she looked inside and saw Erec looking more regal than she had ever seen him, dressed in light chain-mail, covered by a silk white mantle, a gold crown on his head. He paced nervously, clearly waiting for her, and she was sure he was excited, given how much longer it had taken her to get ready.

She thought of rushing to him, but then she decided she wanted to surprise him; she wanted to see the look on his face when she walked in the door.

“My lord!” she called out playfully, hiding behind a column. “Close your eyes and count to five! I want to surprise you!”

He laughed.

“For you, anything,” he said. “I cannot count fast enough!”

She could hear the excitement in his voice, like a little boy.

“Slowly, my love!” she called back.

“One,” he called out, slowly. “Two… Three…”

Alistair made a final adjustment to her veil, then began to walk into the room.

“Four!” he called out.

She entered and looked at him, his eyes closed, beaming—and suddenly, her smile dropped. She saw something she could not understand. It was like something out of a nightmare: racing into the room, from the rear side of the open-air chamber, was a sole figure, sprinting at full speed, a sword in hand. An assassin.

He sprinted right for Erec’s back—but Erec stood there, smiling, eyes closed, unsuspecting as he awaited her.

It was happening so fast, and Alistair was so shocked, so unprepared for the sight, she could barely summon the words to warn him. They caught in her throat as it went dry.

“Erec!” she finally managed to shout, panicked, just as the man reached him.

Erec suddenly opened his eyes and looked at her, concern in his face.

By then, it was too late. The figure—whom Alistair now recognized as Bowyer, the Alzac warrior Erec had defeated in the contest—had already reached Erec. He raised his sword behind him, and with a guttural cry, he lowered it—stabbing Erec in the back.

Erec cried out, and Alistair cried out louder. He dropped to his knees, blood gushing from his mouth, from his back. Bowyer left the sword in Erec’s back as he turned and sprinted away as fast as he had entered.

“My love!” Erec cried, reaching a hand out for Alistair as he collapsed.

“NO!” Alistair shrieked, losing all sense of herself, as if she were watching someone else’s nightmare unfolding before her.

Alistair ran to Erec’s side and collapsed beside him, cradling him, his blood pouring all over her dress.

“Alistair, my love,” he said weakly.

She felt him dying her arms, felt his life slipping away as she wept, gut-wrenching cries that filled the room, radiated beyond, rose to heaven. She knew it was too late. And she felt that it was all her fault—she had distracted him with her stupid game. Erec surely would have seen the man coming otherwise if he had not closed his eyes and waited for her. She had inadvertently helped kill the man that she would die for. The man she loved more than anything in the world would soon.

Her wedding day had arrived—and the love of her life was dead.