Only the Worthy (5 page)

“How wrong you
are, young girl,” he replied, laughing as he rode. “You are mine.”

Royce stood
amidst the wheat fields, hacking away with his sickle, his heart filled with
joy as he thought of his bride. He could hardly believe his wedding day had
arrived. He had loved Genevieve for as long as he could remember, and this day
would be a day to rival no others. Tomorrow, he would wake with her by his
side, in a new cottage of their own, with a new life ahead of them. He could
feel the flurries in his stomach. There was nothing he wished for more.

As he swung the
sickle, Royce thought of his nightly training with his brothers, the four of
them sparring incessantly with wooden swords, and sometimes with real ones,
double-weighted, nearly impossible to lift, to make them stronger, faster.
Although he was younger than his three brothers, Royce realized he was already
a better fighter than them all, more agile with the sword, faster to strike and
to defend. It was as if he were cut from a different cloth. He was different,
he knew that. Yet he did not know how. And that troubled him.

Where, he
wondered, had his fighting talents come from? Why was he so different? It made
little sense. They were all brothers, all of the same blood, the same family.
Yet at the same time the four of them were inseparable, doing everything
together, whether it was sparring or working the fields. That, in fact, was his
one touch of apprehension to this joyful day: would his moving out be the
beginning of their growing apart? He vowed silently that, no matter, he would
not allow it to be.

Royce’s thoughts
were suddenly interrupted by a sound at the edge of the field, an unusual sound
for this time of day, a sound he did not want to hear on a perfect day like
this. Horses. Galloping with urgency.

Royce turned and
looked, instantly alarmed, and his brothers did, too. His alarm only deepened
as he spotted Genevieve’s sisters and cousins riding for him. Even from here
Royce could see their faces etched with panic, with urgency.

Royce struggled
to comprehend what he was seeing. Where was Genevieve? Why were they all riding
for him?

And then his
heart sank as he realized that clearly something terrible had happened.

He dropped his
sickle, as did his brothers and the dozen other peasant farmers of their
village, and ran out to meet them. The first to meet him was Sheila, Genevieve’s
sister, and she dismounted before her horse had come to a stop, clutching
Royce’s shoulders.

“What is it?”
Royce called out. He grabbed her shoulders, and he could feel her shaking.

She could barely
get the words out between her tears.

“Genevieve!” she
cried out, terror in her voice. “They’ve taken her!”

Royce felt his
stomach plummet at her words, as worst-case scenarios rushed into his mind.

“Who?” he
demanded, as brothers ran up beside him.

“Manfor!” she
cried. “Of the House of Nors!”

Royce felt his
heart slamming in his chest, as waves of indignation coursed through him. His
bride. Snatched away by the nobles, as if she were their property. His face
burned red.

“When!?” he
demanded, squeezing Sheila’s arm harder than he meant to.

“Just now!” she
replied. “We got these horses to come tell you as soon as we could!”

The others
dismounted behind her, and as they did they all handed the reins to Royce and
his brothers. Royce did not hesitate. In one quick motion he mounted her horse,
kicked, and was tearing through the fields.

Behind him, he
could hear his brothers riding, too, none missing a beat, all heading through
the stalks and for the distant fort.

His eldest
brother, Raymond, rode up beside him.

“You know the
law is on his side,” he called out. “He is a noble, and she is unwed—at least
for now.”

Royce nodded
back.

“If we storm the
fort and ask for her back, they will refuse,” Raymond added. “We have no legal
grounds to demand her back.”

Royce gritted
his teeth.

“I’m not going
to ask for her back,” he replied. “I’m going to take her back.”

Lofen shook his
head as he rode up beside them.

“You’ll never
make it through those doors,” he called out. “A professional army awaits you.
Knights. Armor. Weaponry. Gates.” He shook his head again. “And even if you
somehow manage to get past them, even if you manage to rescue her, they will
not let her go. They will hunt you down and kill you.”

“I know,” Royce
called back.

“My brother,”
Garet called out. “I love you. And I love Genevieve. But this will mean the
death of you. The death of us all. Let her go. There is nothing you can do.”

Royce could hear
how much his brothers cared for him, and he appreciated it—but he could not
allow himself to listen. That was
his
bride, and whatever the stakes, he
had no choice. He could not abandon her, even if it meant his death. It was who
he was.

Royce kicked his
horse harder, not wanting to hear anymore, and galloped faster through the
fields, toward the horizon, toward the sprawling town where Manfor’s fort
stood. Toward what would surely be his death.

Genevieve
, Royce thought.
I’m coming for you.

*

Royce rode with
all he had across the fields, his three brothers at his side, cresting the
final hill and then charging down for the sprawling town that lay below. In its
center sat a massive fort, the home of the House of Nors, the nobles who ruled
his land with an iron fist, who had bled his family dry, demanding tithe after
tithe of everything they farmed. They had managed to keep the peasants poor for
generations. They had dozens of knights at their disposal, in full armor, with
real weapons and real horses; they had thick stone walls, a moat, a bridge, and
they kept watch over the town like a jealous hen, under the pretense of keeping
law and order—but really just to milk it dry.

They
made the law.
They enforced the cruel laws that were passed down by all the nobles throughout
the land, laws that only benefited
them
. They operated in the guise of
offering protection, yet all the peasants knew that the only protection they
needed was from the nobles themselves. The kingdom of Sevania, after all, was a
safe kingdom, isolated from other lands by water on three sides, at the
northern tip of the Alufen continent. A strong ocean, rivers, and mountains offered
thick walls of security. The land had not been invaded in centuries.

The only danger
and tyranny lay from within, from the noble aristocracy and what they milked
from the poor. People like Royce. Now even riches were not enough—they had to
have their wives, too.

The thought
brought color to Royce’s cheeks. He lowered his head and braced himself as he
tightened his grip on his sword.

“The bridge is
down!” Raymond called out. “The portcullis is open!”

Royce noticed it
himself and took it as an encouraging sign.

“Of course it
is!” Lofen called back. “Do you really think they are expecting an attack?
Least of all from us?”

Royce rode
faster, grateful for his brothers’ companionship, knowing all his brothers felt
as strongly for Genevieve as he did. She was like a sister to them, and an
affront to Royce was an affront to them all. He looked out ahead and on the
drawbridge spotted a few of the castle’s knights, halfheartedly looking at the
pastures and fields surrounding the town. They were unprepared. They had not
been attacked in centuries and had no reason to expect to be now.

Royce drew his
sword with a distinctive ring, lowered his head and held the sword high. The
sound of swords rang through the air as his brothers drew, too. Royce kicked
out front to take the lead, wanting to be the first into battle. His heart
pounded with excitement and fear—not fear for himself, but for Genevieve.

“I will get in
and find her and get out!” Royce called out to his brothers, formulating a
plan. “You all stay outside the perimeter. This is my fight.”

“We shall not
let you go inside alone!” Garet called back.

Royce shook his
head, adamant.

“If something
goes wrong, I don’t want you paying the price,” he called back. “Stay out here
and distract those guards. That is what I need the most.”

He pointed with
his sword at a dozen knights standing at the gatehouse beside the moat. Royce
knew that as soon as he rode over the bridge they would break into action; but
if his brothers distracted them, it could perhaps keep them at bay just long
enough for Royce to get inside and find her. All he needed, he figured, was a
few minutes. If he could find her quickly, he could snatch her and ride away
and be free of this place. He did not want to kill anyone if he could help it;
he did not even want to harm them. He just wanted his bride back.

Royce lowered
his head and galloped as fast as he possibly could, so fast he could hardly
breathe, the wind whipping his hair and face. He closed in on the bridge,
thirty yards away, twenty, ten, the sound of his horse and his heartbeat
thundering in his ears. His heart slammed in his chest as he rode, realizing
how insane this was. He was about to do what the peasant class would never
dream of doing: attack the gentry. It was a war he could not possibly win, and
a sure way to get killed. And yet his bride lay behind those gates, and that
was enough for him.

Royce was so
close now, but a few yards away from reaching the bridge, and he looked up and
saw the knights’ eyes widen in surprise as they fumbled with their weapons,
caught off guard, clearly not expecting anything like this.

Their delayed
reaction was just what Royce needed. He raced forward and, as they raised their
halberds, he lowered his sword and, aiming for the shafts, cut them in half. He
slashed from side to side, destroying the weapons of the knights on either side
of the bridge, careful not to harm them if he didn’t need to. He just wanted to
disarm them, and not get bogged down in combat.

Royce gained
speed, urging his horse on, and he rode even faster, using his horse as a
weapon, bumping the remaining guards hard enough to send them flying, in their
heavy armor, over the sides of the narrow bridge, and into the moat’s waters
below. It would take them a long while, Royce realized, to get out. And that
was all the time he needed.

Behind him,
Royce could hear his brothers helping his cause; on the far side of the bridge
they rode for the gatehouse, slashing at the guards, disarming them before they
had a chance to rally. They managed to block and bar the gatehouse, keeping the
flummoxed knights off guard, and giving Royce the cover he needed.

Royce lowered
his head and charged for the open portcullis, riding faster as he watched it
begin to lower. He lowered his head and managed to burst through the open arch
right before the heavy portcullis closed for good.

Royce rode into
the inner courtyard, heart pounding, and took stock, looking all around. He’d
never been inside and was disoriented, finding himself surrounded by thick
stone walls on all sides, several stories high. Servants and common folk
bustled to and fro, carrying buckets of water and other wares. Luckily, no
knights awaited him inside. Of course, they had no cause to expect an attack.

Royce scanned
the walls, desperate for any sign of his bride.

Yet he found
none. He received a jolt of panic. What if they had taken her elsewhere?

“GENEVIEVE!” he
called out.

Royce looked
everywhere, frantically turning on his neighing horse. He had no idea where to
look, and had no plan. He had not even thought he would make it this far.

Royce racked his
brain, needing to think quick. The nobles likely lived upstairs, he figured,
away from the stench, the masses, where the wind and sunlight was strong.
Naturally, that was where they would take Genevieve.

The thought
inflamed him with rage.

Forcing his
emotions in check, Royce kicked his horse and galloped across the courtyard,
past shocked servants who stopped and stared, dropping their work as he raced
by. He spotted a wide, spiral stone staircase across the way and he rode all
the way to it, dismounting before the horse could even stop, hitting the ground
at a run and sprinting up the stairs. He ran around and around the spirals,
again and again, ascending flight after flight. He had no idea where he was
going, but figured he would start at the top.

Royce finally
exited the staircase at the highest landing, breathing hard.

“Genevieve!” he
cried out, hoping, praying for a response.

There was none.
His dread deepened.

He chose a
corridor and ran down it, praying it was the right one. As he raced past, a man
suddenly burst open a door and stuck his head out. It was a nobles, a short,
fat man with a broad nose and thinning hair.

He scowled at
Royce, clearly summing him up from his garb as a peasant; he wrinkled his nose
as if something unpleasant had entered his midst.