Only the Worthy (20 page)

Royce watched as
the villagers gathered around him, and he saw them looking up at him with
adulation. His cousin was right: they needed a leader now.

“I wasn’t trying
to be a leader,” Royce said, humbled. “I was merely trying to save the girl I
love.”

Royce noticed
that he wasn’t able to bring himself to use the past tense.
Loved.

Aspeth nodded.

“Yet in so
doing,” he replied, “you became a leader. You stood up for her, for justice,
for what was right. You didn’t let them take her. No one amongst our people has
ever done that before.”

“We’re with you,
Royce!” one person called out.

“WE’RE WITH
YOU!” they all chimed in.

Royce felt his
heart lift with the support of all these people. He had felt so purposeless
since he had discovered Genevieve’s betrayal; yet now, seeing his people,
feeling their support, their desire for justice, the way they looked at him, he
felt a new purpose arise. These people, he could see, needed him. As much as he
needed them.

“They are coming
for me,” Royce said. “With an army.”

“We will not let
them take you,” Enid, his other cousin, called out. “Every one of us here would
die for you!”

The crowd
cheered in approval.

“We can hide
you,” another friend, added. “There are places in this village where they will
never find you. And if they come, there are other villages we can bring you to.
An entire network of people who want to live free. Villagers waiting for a
leader like you.”

Royce rubbed his
chin, pondering.

“Stay with us,” Aspeth
implored, grabbing his arm. “Train us. Lead us.”

Royce looked out
at the sober looks on their faces, and he could see that they meant it.

Finally, he
looked back and clasped his cousin’s arm and nodded.

“Okay,” he
replied, and the villagers cheered.

“But if we are
going to start a war,” he added, “we’ll need warriors. Trained fighters. My
friends—Mark, Altos, and Rubin—they were sentenced to the Pits. I vowed to help
them, and we need them. We must free them.”

The crowd
cheered back, and within moments Royce was mounting his horse again, joined by
the men all around him, all rushing to mount their horses.

Royce kicked,
leading them, and a great cheer erupted behind him as they rode forward, as
one, out into the countryside, sparking the war for freedom.

Royce rode all
night, leading the pack of villagers, all of them sticking to the wood as they
rode through the local forests that they knew so well—and all determined not to
rest until they had reached the fighting pits and liberated Altos, Mark, and Rubin.
The sound of galloping horses filling his ears, Royce glanced back and was
amazed to see the growing mob following him. Peasants were rising up in every
place they passed through, from town to town. There were already nearly a
hundred men. Most were farmers, strong men with good hearts, though not trained
fighters. They were boys who Royce knew from growing up, cousins, friends of
his and Genevieve’s, boys whom he had known for most of his life. Boys he could
trust.

And for now,
that was all he needed.

As they rode and
rode, Royce knew that, whatever happened, he could not abandon his friends,
just as he knew they would not abandon him. He would rather die trying to save
Mark, Altos, and Rubin than stay here, in hiding, however safe.

Finally, after
hours more riding, they reached the edge of the woods and Royce stopped, all
the others stopping behind him. Royce peered out from the edge of the wood
line, looking into the night, the sound of horses snorting in his ears as he
sat there, breathing hard. Torches lit the night in the distance, a broad
circle of them, surrounding what must certainly be a pit. In the glow he could
see the faces of hundreds of men, villagers cheering, egging on the bloodlust.

They had made
it.

The sight
infuriated Royce. These men were too happy to watch others die for their sport
and pleasure; yet none of them surely would survive a second in the pits
themselves. Intermingled amongst them were more nobles, dressed in their
finery, shouting, fighting, betting on these men as if they were animals. The
whole sight sickened Royce. Did they need the constant death of men to satisfy
them?

There was no
time to waste. If they could get in and get out quickly enough, maybe, just
maybe, they could free Royce’s friends—and the other fighters—and escape from
here. Royce knew that, while he had been separated, the three of them had been
taken off together.

“Charge!” Royce
cried.

There came a
great shout as the villagers charged behind him. They rode hard, a death
squadron racing down the hill, towards the distant village. Finally, when they
were ten yards away, Royce raised a fist, and at his command, they all sounded
horns. Royce wanted to terrify the enemy; if he struck fear in them, he
figured, it might just stun them long enough to grant him the edge of
surprise—especially against such greater numbers.

Royce charged
ahead, raised his sword, and as the first soldier turned and raised his weapon,
Royce stabbed him in the chest. He then dismounted and kicked him, sending him
flying backwards into the pit below.

All around him
his men did the same, all dismounting, some wielding spears, others pitchforks,
whatever weapons they had to attack the rings of soldiers guarding the pits.
Cries rang out in the night as the much better armed soldiers fell,
disoriented, clearly unsure who was attacking them. Nobles and soldiers were
never
attacked. Not in this kingdom.

They quickly
gained the advantage. Royce felt filled with hope as he scanned the faces and
he spotted Mark and Altos in a line, chained to a dozen other boys, all
awaiting their turn to fight in the Pits.

“Royce!” Mark
called out in joy, instantly recognizing his friend amidst the chaos.

Royce rushed
forward, raised his sword, and slashed the shackles connecting Mark and Altos,
freeing them. They, in turn, grabbed swords from the fallen soldiers and freed all
the boys up and down the line.

All these boys,
in turn, joined in the battle, more soldiers for Royce’s growing army.

The crowd of
soldiers had thickened around him, and Royce realized there would be no way out
now without fighting their way out.

The fighting
became thick, hand-to-hand, wall to wall with men and boys. As three soldiers
charged him, Royce ducked beneath a sword slash, then smashed his foe in the
head with the hilt of his sword. He then spun around and elbowed a man charging
him with a spear, then spun forward and slashed another in the stomach as he
came at him with an ax.

Royce spotted
another soldier charging him out of the corner of his eye, moving too fast for
him to react in time. He braced himself for the blow, the soldier’s sword
raised high—and then he saw his friend Mark raise his sword, step forward, and
save him from the deadly blow, a shower of sparks landing all around Royce.
Mark then stabbed his foe in the stomach.

The clanging of
swords and pitchforks, of shields and spears, filled the night as men groaned
and died, fighting to the death on both sides. One soldier after another fell;
yet so did the peasants. The soldiers, in the end, were better trained and
better armed, and the element of surprise, Royce could see, was quickly wearing
off.

Royce’s people
fought like mad, like men possessed, fighting for their lives, and that gave
them the edge. As he looked all around him, Royce could not help but feel as if
this were the first battle of the revolution.

But a horn
pierced the night, a sound that instilled fear in Royce’s heart, and he looked
out to the horizon as he heard a rumble. That horn could only mean one thing:
reinforcements were on the way.

There wasn’t
much time.

“We must leave
now!” Mark shouted out, blood on his face, groaning as he deflected a blow with
his sword then elbowed his opponent in the face.

Royce agreed;
yet he suddenly realized one boy was missing, and he looked around, trying to
find him, knowing he could not leave without him.

“Where’s Rubin?”

Mark knocked
back two soldiers, smashing them with his shield.

“In the Pits!”
Mark called back. “He was fighting in there before this all began!”

Royce turned and
looked down, into the pit, and he spotted Rubin down there, fighting a much
larger brute with wild, long hair, who was getting the best of him.

“Leave him!”
Mark called out. “It’s too late for him!”

But Royce was
already in motion. He ran and jumped into the pit, never slowing, sword raised
high.

Royce landed in
a roll, jumped up and deflected the blow of Rubin’s opponent right before he
struck him a deadly blow in the chest, saving Rubin’s life. He then kicked his
foe, knocking him back in the mud.

Rubin looked up
at Royce, stunned, and as the brute jumped up and ran for Royce, this time Rubin
jumped up, charged, and ran his sword through the brute’s chest.

The brute
dropped to the ground, lifeless.

Rubin turned and
stared at Royce, stunned and clearly grateful.

But there was no
time for words—a rope was suddenly thrown down over the side and Royce reached
up and grabbed it, Rubin behind him. He looked up and saw Mark and Altos
pulling, and they climbed and soon the two of them reached the top, rejoining
their men.

Royce saw more
and more soldiers gathering, and he knew he had to get his men out quickly. He
mounted his horse and kicked, the others following, and soon they were all
following his lead, galloping off into the night.

Royce led his
men, now joined by Mark, Altos, Rubin and several new warriors, hardened men
trained for the pits, through the black night, over fields and rolling hills,
and back into the woods. He glanced back and saw they had quickly lost track of
the discombobulated soldiers, still recovering from the surprise attack.

Royce rode and
rode, joined by his joyful men and the newly liberated soldiers, none of them
slowing, all trying to gain as much distance as they could. As they rode, Royce
began to feel as if he were at the head of a real, and growing, army. All
throughout the night, in each village they rode through, they gathered more and
more men, commoners flocking to their cause, all wanting to be a part of it.

After riding all
night, the sky lightening, Royce glanced over his shoulder and was elated to
see hundreds of men now joined him. The rebellion was surging. He saw the
joyful faces of countrymen looking to him with approval, with hope. As they
rode, Royce was getting the craziest idea: perhaps they could sweep across the
entire countryside, village to village, and grow an army of their own. Perhaps
they could really win, could really restore freedom to all the land.

After a long,
barren stretch, they finally came to another village, and Royce led his men to
a stop, knowing they and their horses needed some rest. Exhausted from the
hours of riding, satisfied that the nobles were no longer on their tail, Royce
realized it was time for he and his men to take a break.

As they entered
they were greeted by a cheer, this village lit by torches, filled with excited,
cheering men awaiting them. Clearly word was spreading.

Royce looked out
and was surprised to see hundreds more men awaiting them here, cheering,
greeting their arrival as if they were lords themselves. This was a major
village, Entvin, lying at a crossroads, a strategic town, situated high on a
plateau, making it easy to defend. It was filled with men loyal to his family.
Loyal to his captured brothers.

Royce dismounted
and was embraced by all the men, all treating him as if he were family. It felt
good. He blinked in surprise as he realized the number of people in this one
village alone would double the size of his army. He and his men were offered
jugs of water, of wine, led close to raging bonfires that warmed the night.
They were handed sticks of meat, and Royce bit into a piece of chicken,
devouring it, realizing how famished he was. All around him his men did the
same, feasting and washing it down with wine. He could hear their laughter, see
their smiles, and it was a sight for sore eyes. He had not seen laughter, he
realized, for twelve moons.

Royce felt a
clasp on the shoulder and looked over to see Mark, Altos, and Rubin standing
beside him, eyes filled with gratitude.

“You came back
for us,” Mark said, shaking his head. “You really did. Somehow you managed to
free yourself and do it.”

Royce smiled.

“Did you ever
think I would turn my back on you?”

Mark smiled
broadly. “No, I guess I did not.”

“I, for one, did
not think you’d live,” Altos added. “I did not think any of us would.”

“A few minutes
later, and we’d have all been dead,” Rubin chimed in.

Rubin, glassy-eyed,
stared back, clearly touched and at a loss for words.

“You’ve made me
even more ashamed of my actions than I was before,” he added.

He lowered his
head in shame.

“I shall spend
the rest of my life making it up to you,” he said. “To all of you.”

Royce sensed he
was sincere, and he marveled at the ability of men—even the seemingly worst
men—to change their character. He realized at that moment that Rubin never had
anyone to care for him before; when one person did, it really changed his
nature.

“And now what,
Commander?” came a voice.

The group of men
parted, and there stepped forward a large man with broad shoulders, perhaps in
his forties, a rough chin with stubble, a broad forehead and nose, and a crop
of black and gray hair. Royce recognized him right away. Izzo—one of the most
well-respected men in this region, and the leader of this village. It stunned
Royce to hear him call him
commander
.

“I am no
commander,” Royce corrected.

Izzo shook his
head.

“Aren’t you?”
Izzo said. “You have commanded all these men on this night. You have had the
courage to face off against the nobles, time and again. These men love you, and
would go anywhere for you. You are our commander.”

There came a
huge cheer of agreement, and Royce turned and was stunned to see all these men
looking to him as a leader. He was the youngest of the bunch, the one no one
had ever expected anything of. It seemed surreal to him.

“I am only a man
who wishes to be free,” Royce said. “Who wishes for those whom I love to be
free.”

Izzo nodded.

“And that is
indeed what makes you a leader.”

There came
another cheer, and as the men gathered around him Royce looked in their faces
and could see that they desperately needed a leader. If that’s what they
needed, then that’s what he would give them. Not because he wanted to be—but
because he wanted to give these men what they needed.

“Then I shall
lead you,” Royce said, “if that is what your heart desires.”

There came a
cheer.

“I shall listen
to whatever it is you want me to do,” he added. “I will lead only as a fellow
soldier riding beside you.”

There came an
even louder cheer, and even more men crowded in, swarming around Royce.

“Where next?”
one man called out.

“My only plan,”
Royce called back, “was to free my brothers-in-arms from the Pits—and then to
free my brothers. The first half is done—the latter still calls.”