Only the Worthy (19 page)

“I shall not
harm you,” Royce said to his foe. “We are both slaves, controlled by the same
system. Choose not to fight, and there will be nothing they can do. We will
have triumphed over them.”

Royce expected
his foe to be grateful. Grateful that Royce had spared his life. Grateful that
he was giving him a way to walk away.

But, to Royce’s
surprise, his foe scowled, clearly sharing no such sentiment. Ignoring Royce’s
entreaty, he reached down, grabbed his hatchet from the mud, and charged.

The crowd went
wild.

Royce,
defenseless, thought quick: he waited till the last moment then dodged out of
the way. His foe charged past, stumbling, and Royce spun and kicked him in the
kidneys as he did, sending him to the mud.

The crowd
roared.

The man regained
his feet and swung around quickly with his hatchet. Royce had not expected
that; he jumped out of the way, yet still, the hatchet managed to graze his
arm. It was enough to draw blood—and it hurt.

The crowd
roared.

His foe threw
his hatchet down and charged and suddenly tackled Royce, driving him down into
the mud. Royce gasped as he hit the ground hard and they slid back several
feet. Before he could get his bearings, the man, atop him, punched him in the
face once, then twice, then three times.

Royce was dazed.
This man meant to kill him, he could see it in his eyes. Indeed, he reached out
with two hands, and Royce knew he meant to gouge his eyes out.

Royce grabbed
the man’s wrists on the way down, and his whole body shook from the effort.
They were strong, broad, murderous wrists and were aimed directly for Royce’s
face.

The man’s hands
lowered, and Royce knew that in a few moments, it would all be over. This man
would kill him.

The crowd
cheered, egging him on, desperate for blood.

Suddenly, Royce
felt his gaze blur before him, felt the world go still. The world melted away,
and all fell silent. He felt a power rise within him. It came from his stomach
and rose through his chest, his body spreading with warmth, then ran down his
shoulders and through his arms. It was like an old friend. It had come back to
him, now, when he needed it the most. It was the same power he had felt in the
Red Isle, but this time it was different. He was not in control this time. He
felt himself succumb to a fresh rage, and he felt bigger than the universe.

Royce suddenly
pushed the man’s wrists upward, reversing the descent. He pushed more and more,
until he found himself sitting up.

The man stared
back, arms shaking, clearly shocked. Royce jerked his arms and threw his foe
sideways.

The man tumbled
in the mud, as Royce rose to his feet. The crowd cheered, ecstatic at this
unexpected turn.

The man picked
up his hatchet and came again, but this time, it was different. As he swung,
Royce easily ducked and dodged every strike, again and again, the hatchet
whistling past, Royce able to anticipate his every move. Finally, when he’d had
enough, Royce stepped forward and kicked the heaving man in the chest, knocking
him flat on his back and disarming him once again. He then retrieved his sword.

The crowd went
wild as Royce stood over his foe, one foot on his chest, pinning him down.

The man looked
up, dazed, humbled. For the first time, Royce saw fear in his eyes.

“Do it,” the man
said, blood trickling from his mouth.

Royce shook his
head.

“I shall not.”

Finally, the man
nodded.

“I concede!” he
called out.

The crowd booed
and hissed.

“Kill him, kill
him, kill him!” they chanted to Royce.

Royce dropped
his sword and turned and looked up.

“
You
have
lost!” he called up. “All of you have lost!”

Barely had he
uttered the words than Royce heard a sudden grunting behind him; he spun at the
last second to see his foe had retrieved his hatchet and was swinging it
straight down for his head, aiming to chop him in half.

Royce dodged the
blow, and as he did, the man swung all the way down and impaled his own leg
with the blade.

He shrieked as
blood gushed from his main artery. He dropped to one knee, then to his face.

The crowd
roared.

The man rolled
over and looked to Royce as he lay there, bleeding to death, pain and pleading
in his eyes.

“My only wish in
this world was to die valiantly, by the sword,” he groaned. “Not like this.
Don’t let me die like this. Kill me, by the sword. I beg you. If you have any
compassion for me, you will do it.”

Royce looked
down at the man, the crowd’s cheers pulsing in his ears. He looked down at the
man, already in a pool of blood, begging and pleading him, and he knew it was
the merciful thing to do. To let him suffer would be cruel. He was dying.

The thought tore
him apart, but he knew, to be kind, he had to kill this man. To fulfill his dying
wish.

Against every
bone in his body, Royce picked up his sword, raised it, and brought it down
with two hands, severing the man’s head.

The crowd
erupted, deafening.

Royce looked
down at his foe’s dead body, never having felt so sick.

A rope was lowered
for Royce’s ascent, and sheathing his sword, he grabbed it and pulled himself
up, one foot at a time.

As he reached
the top, he felt the hands of the villagers patting his back, uttering his name
again and again. He stood there in an altered state, feeling his life spinning
before him.

“ROYCE! ROYCE!
ROYCE!”

Yet in his daze,
three things came into focus. The first was the man presiding over the Pits. A
noble, dressed in royal purple. Royce recognized him immediately: he was the
local lord who had sentenced him to the Pits. Manfor’s father. Lord Nors.

The second was
this noble’s son, standing there beside him, in his fineries, wearing the
emblem of a duke, a haughty, arrogant look upon his face.

And the third,
to his utter horror, was Genevieve. There she was. Dressed in royal garb, just
like them.

Arm in arm with
the duke.

Royce stood
there, numb with horror. Genevieve was looking back at him, but she did not, he
realized, recognize him. Of course: he was still wearing his mask.

Slowly, Royce
lifted the mask covering his face, and as he did, he stared right back at her.

Genevieve’s eyes
widened and she stopped, frozen, and stared back at him. He could see the shock
on her face. Clearly, she had not expected to see him there, either. She seemed
too stunned to utter a word.

Everything
inside Royce died at once. How could it be possible? There was his beloved, the
girl he had risked it all for, the girl he had grown up with, standing there,
arm in arm with a noble. After all of this, she had betrayed him.

Royce’s heart
shattered. He felt so much pain that he didn’t know what to do with it.

More than that,
he felt ire, a desire for vengeance against these nobles that had created these
pits, that had put all these brave warriors in this awful position. Someone had
to do something. Someone had to put an end to it now.

Royce reached
over, snatched a spear from a villager’s hand, and hurled it with all his
might.

It soared
through the air, straight and true, and before anyone in the stunned crowd
could react, it found a spot in Lord Nors’ chest. Fitting, Royce thought. After
all, he was the man who had sentenced him, the man who had started it all.

Lord Nors
gasped, holding it with both hands, then keeled over and died on the spot.
Royce did not give the crowd time to react: he turned and bolted into the
masses.

A horn sounded,
and dozens of soldiers pursued. He could hear them behind him, gaining speed.
But Royce had a head start—and he was fast. His power overcame him, and he
outran them all. He spotted a horse, hopped onto it, and after a firm kick he
was galloping, leaving this muddy village, heading out into the open
countryside, far, far from this place.

He looked back
one last time, despite himself.

And the last
thing he saw, before he disappeared for good, was Genevieve’s face, staring
back at him, the hurt in her face not even close to matching the hurt in his
heart.

Genevieve stood
alone on the ramparts of the castle, staring out over the countryside, and she
wept. She had never felt so overwhelmed by her emotions, had never felt such a
mix of feelings: joy at seeing Royce’s face again, and agony and despair at
seeing the look of betrayal on his face. That look had shattered her heart. It
was a look she would carry with her the rest of her days, a look of such
accusation, such despair.

Such betrayal.

If only she’d
had one minute to explain to him, to tell him what she was doing and why—to
tell him that it had all been for him.

Yet there had
been no time. He’d run off into the crowd, and as she’d watched him go, her
heart tearing to pieces, she did not know which was more painful: seeing him
there in the first place, in that horrible situation, fighting in the Pits, or
watching him disappear yet again.

Genevieve stood
there now, weeping, and as she studied the countryside, she wished she could go
back and change everything. What she wouldn’t give for one minute with him, one
minute to explain everything.

But it was too
late now. Royce was gone—and probably this time forever.

The Duke had taken
up arms, intent on finding Royce and avenging his dead father. He had assembled
a small army, and he and his men were out for blood. Local nobles and lords
were flocking to him from all over the region, helping to hunt Royce down.
There would be nowhere for Royce to escape. Indeed, as Genevieve looked out,
she could see them in the distance, galloping across the countryside in small
groups, spreading out, barking dogs at their sides. They sounded horns
periodically, and each horn was like a knife in her heart.

Genevieve
wondered how it would all end. If only she could have changed things somehow,
had done something differently. Had she made a mistake? She had thought that
becoming a noble would help Royce. But perhaps she had been wrong. What good
had it done him, after all? She could not even help free his brothers.

Better, she
realized now, to have never ventured down this road. To have never gone to Altfor’s
chamber. To have never seen Royce again under these circumstances. At least,
then, their last glance would have been one of pure love; at least their love
would have ended on a perfect note.

Now it was
soiled, the entire thing ruined.

Genevieve walked
to the edge of the balcony, leaned over, and saw how far the fall was. Her
heart pounded in her chest. With Royce gone, what did she have left to live
for?

This time, she
would do it.

Genevieve
gripped the marble rail and began to pull herself up, preparing to jump—when
suddenly there came the sound of footsteps running behind her.

Genevieve spun
and was startled to see a messenger running, frantic, toward her. Heaving, he
held out a scroll, gasping for breath as he tried to convey his message.

“My…lady,” he
gasped. “Where is the Duke? I have an urgent message for him and his men. It
concerns Royce.”

Upon hearing
that word, Genevieve froze. It was the one word that could bring her back from
the brink.

She faced him,
trembling inside.

“And what is it
that concerns Royce?” she asked slowly, her words deliberate, forcing herself
to remain calm.

“He’s been…spotted,”
the messenger continued. “In the eastern ridge of the Northern Wood. I must
convey this information to the Duke before it’s too late!”

Genevieve’s
heart pounded as she had a sudden realization: she could still be of help to
Royce. If she were dead, it would do no good to anyone. Perhaps it was not too
late after all. Perhaps she had made the right choice, entering this family of
nobles, after all. If it were for only this one moment, it had all been worth
it. She was being given a second chance. It was an act of grace, like an angel
swooping down to save her from herself.

Genevieve
stepped toward the messenger calmly, reached out, and took the scroll. She
looked down and examined it; it was heavier than she’d expected, and sealed
with wax. It felt good to hold it in her hand.

“I am on my way
to see the Duke now,” she said coolly, “and I shall give it to him personally.”

His face
collapsed in relief. He bowed.

“Thank you,
Duchess.”

He turned and
ran off, disappearing back into the fort.

Genevieve broke the
seal, opened the scroll, and read it. It was as he’d said. She knew that her
hiding this message from the Duke would be on pain of death. If she were ever
discovered, she would be hung up and tortured and killed. And she knew that one
day, somehow or other, the Duke would find out what she had done. That a
messenger had come for him with the news. That she had intercepted the scroll.

One day there
would be a reckoning, and she would lose her life.

But that day was
not today.

Genevieve turned
back to the countryside, held the scroll out over the rail, and slowly, one
piece at a time, she tore it to pieces.

It felt good.
She watched the pieces fall, sprinkling down on the countryside, taking the
very fall that she herself had almost taken, and piece by piece, she felt her
heart begin to mend. Finally, she could sacrifice for Royce, too.

Royce
, she thought.
I love you.

*

Royce galloped
through the countryside on the back of his stolen horse, his wrists still raw
from the shackles, his body covered in cuts and scrapes from his fights in the
Pits. What hurt worst of all, though, was his heart; it ached at the thought of
Genevieve’s betrayal. All of his pain was overshadowed by the heartache of
having seen her dressed in royal garb, arm in arm with that noble. It was worse
than a thousand swords in his heart.

How could she do
it? He could not understand. Genevieve, of all people. The girl he had known
all his life. The girl who had known him better than he had known himself. The
girl he was about to wed, to be bound to for the rest of his life. The girl he
had risked his life for. Were the riches and power so tempting that she would
discard him so quickly?

Royce felt an
increasing sense of hopelessness as he rode. What was even the point of
surviving? He had returned to the mainland only to see Genevieve; it was what
had kept him alive, all these moons, in hell on the isle. It was what had
sustained him in his dreams. The hope of seeing her again. Of liberating her
from her captors.

What captors?
She had embraced them. And she had made a fool of him.

Royce entered a
thick copse of trees and came to a stop. He needed to let his horse drink, to
rest, and he needed a rest himself, even if for a few moments. He stopped
beside a stream, well hidden in the trees, and from here, high up on a hill, he
had a great vantage point of the countryside. He peered out.

There, far
below, he spotted a major crossroads filled with the King’s soldiers. Riding
every which way, they were fanning out and pursuing him as they had been most
of the day. He had a good head start, and after weaving his way through fields
and farms and groves of trees, after galloping across this land he knew so
well, he had finally lost them. He watched them turning in various directions,
arguing with each other, clearly confused about which way he had gone. He saw a
pack of soldiers looking in his direction, as if they were debating whether to
go that way. He saw them conferring with their commanders, as if awaiting word
from higher up.

Royce held his
breath, knowing his fate was in their hands. If word had reached them that he
was this way, there would be nowhere left for him to run. He would surely be
captured and killed.

He waited,
praying they would not pursue in this direction.

Suddenly a horn
sounded, and as Royce watched, they all turned and rode off in another
direction. He breathed with relief. Somehow, his life had been spared.

Royce turned the
other way, looked out at the vista before him, and his heart warmed at the
sight. His people lay just beyond those hills. He was in familiar territory
once again. The people here were loyal to him; they hated the nobles as much as
he did. Now, he had a chance.

His horse done
drinking, Royce gave him a kick, lowered his head, and off they went, galloping
back through the dense forest. He found a back trail that he knew well, and he
continued through the woods, staying out of view. He could ride this way for
hours, and reach his people the back way.

Royce rode and
rode until the sun lowered in the sky, and finally, breathing hard, exhausted
but ignoring his pain, he reached the edge of the woods. He looked across a
broad plateau, down into a valley, and his heart soared as he laid eyes on his
home village. He wiped tears from his eyes, hardly even aware he was crying. He
realized that a part of him had never expected to see it again.

He was home.

Royce had not
realized how full of longing he was for his people, his brothers, his family.
Most of all, he longed for Genevieve. But he quickly shook the thought from his
head. She was gone from him forever.

Royce galloped
down, feeling a motivation to live again, eager to be reunited with his family.
He was eager to see his brothers, to find out what had become of them after
that fateful day. He still felt guilt that they had been caught up in all of
this because of him, because of Genevieve.

Royce rode into
his village and soon found himself in the familiar dusty streets. As he rode,
one by one, eyes began to turn his way. Villagers stopped what they were doing,
dropping their wares, and gawked. He watched their eyes widen with disbelief,
then hope—then joy.

Royce dismounted
and his feet had barely touched the ground when he was embraced by a group of
villagers, old friends, rushing up, grabbing him, embracing him.

“Royce!” they
called out with joy and disbelief.

Royce hugged
them back, overjoyed to see his people again. Whatever had happened in the
past, at this moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was home
again.

He noticed he
felt like a different person now, returning home. After all he had been
through, everywhere he had traveled, he felt bigger, stronger. This place
seemed smaller. He felt as if he had left a boy and returned a man.

Royce hurried
through the crowd, making his way to his home cottage, eager to see his family
again. As he reached it, his heart was filled with anticipation. He wondered if
his family would be awaiting him inside, as eager to see him as he was them.

Royce went to
open the door, and was surprised to find it already ajar. He pushed it open and
stepped inside, and he stood there, surprised. He was baffled to find it empty.
Completely
empty. There were no furnishings, no possessions—nothing.

Royce turned and
faced the villagers crowding behind him.

“What has
happened?” he asked with alarm.

The people
looked back somberly and his face fell, all his joy gone, as he saw their
concern.

“Where are
they!?” he demanded.

Slowly, the
villagers shook their heads, silent.

“Tell me!” Royce
said, his voice rising. “Where is my family?”

Finally, one of
his cousins, Aspeth, a short stocky boy with an earnest faced, answered him.

“Your brothers
were imprisoned,” he said softly, his voice heavy with regret. “Your parents
were forced to leave the village. We do not know where they went. There were rumors
they might have been taken, too. None of your family remains here.”

Royce felt his
heart fall at his words.

“My brothers,
are they okay?” Royce asked.

Aspeth looked
away.

“The rumor is
that they are still alive,” he said. “They were thrown into the dungeon.”

Royce felt a pit
in his stomach. It was all his fault. Here he was, standing free, while his
brothers were rotting away in a dungeon for his actions.

“They pay for my
sins,” Royce said, lowering his head, heavy with remorse.

The man shook
his head.

“Not your sins,”
he corrected. “What you did was honorable. You fought for Genevieve. You fought
for us all. If only the others in our country had half the heart you did.”

Royce took a
deep breath, taking comfort in his words.

“The people
here, look at them,” his cousin said.

Royce looked
about and saw all the villagers staring back at him, hope in their eyes.

“For them, you
are a hero. The only one who stood up to the great beast. And not just these
villagers, but people in all the land. Word has spread. People heard what you
did—and even now word has already spread of what you did in the Pits. You are
the next champion. More than that, you have killed Lord Nors. The people look
to you now as their leader. You cannot let them down.”