Only the Worthy (18 page)

“And yet you
wear the garb of the nobles,” he said, his voice dark and hard.

The other
brothers examined her, too, and she watched their faces drop with condemnation.

“Have you
forgotten our brother so soon?” Garet asked.

Genevieve felt a
pain in her chest at his words.

“I love your
brother with all that I am,” she said.

“And yet your
dress says otherwise,” Lofen replied. “Have you married one of them?”

They looked at
her, aghast, and she did not know what to say.

“Had I a
choice?” she finally replied. “I was taken, remember?”

“We remember
very well,” Raymond replied. “Our brother lost his life—we have all lost our
lives—because of that day.”

“What would you
have me do?” she asked.

“To be taken is
one thing,” Lofen said. “To be wed is another.”

She shook her
head, trying to get the words out, unsure what to say. The problem was that she
shared their feelings—she hated herself, too.

“It is not what
you think,” she finally said, trying to explain and not knowing where to begin.

Yet as she stood
there she could see in their faces that their feelings were hardening. They
were all beginning to hate her, their minds made up, and she could see that
nothing she said would change their minds.

“I’ve come here
to talk to you,” she explained, in a rush. “To see if there is some way I can
help you. To try to free you. To try to find a way to—”

“We want nothing
from you,” Raymond spat.

The venom in his
tone hurt her heart.

“It is clear
what you have become,” he continued. “You’ve turned your back on Royce—and have
become a traitor to us all.”

“I have not!”
she cried.

One by one they
turned their backs on her and retreated to the far end of the cell. They would
not look at her again.

Genevieve broke
down weeping. She did not know what to say, how to explain herself. She wanted
to tell them she would die for them, any of them. But the words would not come
out, replaced only by sobs.

Genevieve slowly
realized that nothing she could say would make any difference now. Coming here,
she realized, had been a horrible mistake.

Unable to
control her emotions, she turned and ran, weeping as she fled the dungeon,
wondering if she could ever have her old life back again.

Royce walked off
the plank and took a step onto dry land for the first time in weeks, and
stopped, breathed deep, and smelled the air, smiling. He relished the feeling
of being back on dry land, of having steady earth beneath him, of returning to
his homeland. The voyage was over. He had made it.

It was a
disorienting feeling at first to not have the earth moving beneath him, and he
felt relieved and disturbed at the same time. He was relieved that he was
finally off the ship, away from the Black Isle, back on the same continent as
his family and Genevieve—yet disturbed because his arrival here only meant one
thing: it was time for him to face the Pits.

Beside him,
Mark, Altos, and Rubin stepped forward, the four of them standing side by side,
surrounded by dozens of Empire soldiers who stepped up to greet them, new
shackles in hand. Royce looked around and found they had docked in a small,
teeming harbor village, led into a bustling crowd of villagers hurrying about
their daily business. Within moments all four of them were already shackled,
with nowhere to run.

Royce stood with
the others in the small town square as dozens of curious villagers glanced at
them askance. His homeland seemed much busier, faster, more crowded than when
he had left it all those moons ago. Perhaps the emptiness, the quiet, of the Black
Isle had seeped into him. The faces of all these people seemed to be those of
strangers, and Royce hardly felt as if he had returned home.

Royce felt the
cold metal of new shackles on his wrists, and he knew he was at a crossroads.
The apprehension in his stomach deepened as he looked at his friends’ faces
staring back and knew that this was very likely the last time he would see them
again.

Mark stepped
forward and managed to reach out a hand, and clasped Royce’s arm before the
soldiers could yank him away.

“You’ve been a
good friend,” Mark said. “I hope to one day repay the favor.”

Royce thought of
all they had been through, and he could only nod as he clasped his friend’s
arm.

“You already
have,” Royce replied.

Altos clasped
his arm.

“Do not forget
me,” he said meaningfully.

And then, to
Royce’s surprise, Rubin stepped up too, clasping his arm before he was yanked
away. He nodded sadly, and Royce could see in his face a look of respect, one
he’d never expected to see from him.

“I am good to my
word,” Rubin called out. “I shall repay my debt to you.”

Royce found
himself yanked roughly by the shackles, pulled forward into the crowd. He
looked back, but could no longer find his friends, each yanked in a different
direction. At the same moment, a leather mask was pulled down roughly over his
face, leaving slits for eyes and slits to breathe, but disguising him
otherwise. This was, he realized, how they adorned the fighters in the Pits.

Royce was soon
led through chaotic village. Shouts and cheers rose up as a crowd began to take
notice and thicken around him. They all peered at him as if he were an animal
in a zoo, paraded through the town. He did not like the feeling. Some villagers
patted him on the back, while others taunted him.

Royce understood
the crowd’s reaction. Most of those thrown into the Pits, he realized, were
hardened criminals, there for murder or worse crimes. They assumed he was the
same. If only they knew, Royce thought, that he was there for no other reason
than for attempting to retrieve his stolen bride. Would they greet him like
this then?

Royce was pushed
and shoved down the center of the village, while the cries of the crowd reached
a deafening point. He felt something building, as if he were being led
somewhere.

Finally they
stopped short, and as the crowd parted ways, Royce stopped and looked down in
shock at the sight before him.

There, at his
feet, was a massive pit, twenty feet in diameter, twenty feet deep. At its edge
stood hundreds of spectators, cheering as he walked forward. Before he even had
a chance to process it all, Royce heard a clinking, then felt his shackles
being unlocked as he was shoved forward.

Royce was
airborne. His stomach dropped as he fell through the air, falling a good twenty
feet until he landed on the muddy ground below, winded.

The crowd
roared, and Royce scrambled to his feet, disoriented, his body covered in mud.
He tried to quickly get his bearings. He looked up and saw at once that the
walls were too steep and muddy to climb. Even if he could, up above the pit was
ringed with hundreds of people, leaning over with pitchforks, clearly eager to
prod him back down. It was a deathtrap.

Royce looked
around, heart pounding, wondering why he was alone down there—when suddenly,
the crowd erupted. He looked up and saw a blur of motion as something suddenly
got shoved over the side. The crowd went wild as it landed in the pit, opposite
Royce.

Royce stared in
shock. He expected to see another fighter. But it was no fighter at all.

There, hardly
twenty feet in front of him, was a monster. It resembled a tiger, but had two
heads, long fangs, and long claws. It snarled as it stared back at him with
angry red eyes.

Royce heard the
frenzied clanging of metal, and he looked up to see the villagers frantically
exchanging sacks of gold, betting on his fate.

The beast raised
its head, bared its fangs, and roared, clearly preparing to pounce. Royce
backed up, but his back soon hit the mud wall. There was no way out.

Defenseless,
Royce braced himself as the monster leapt.

Heart slamming,
nowhere to go, Royce felt his instincts kicked in: he dropped to one knee,
remembering his training, remembering the lessons Voyt had ingrained in him:

Always use your
opponent’s strength against him.

Never take fear
in an opponent’s size.

The bigger they
are, the less they can maneuver.

Speed wins—not
strength.

Royce had been
trained for this. He remembered the days he and his brothers had been thrown in
a pit, pitted against animals, monsters, everything under the sun.

He focused. He
curled himself in a ball, raised his hands overhead, and as the monster leapt,
he shoved it in its soft belly, pushing with all his might, standing while he
did so.

He threw the
beast overhead, and it went flying through the air and slammed against the mud
wall.

The crowd
roared.

It landed on its
feet, though, quicker than Royce had expected, and turned and faced him again.
Royce knew, without a weapon, his options were limited. He was defenseless after
all, and there was nowhere to run. He might fend it off, but he could not win.

Perhaps, though,
he could tire it out.

Use its own
strength against it.

Royce searched
the pit frantically and spied roots on the far side of the mud wall. He
sprinted across the pit, and as the beast lunged at him again, he darted for
them and leapt.

Royce grabbed
one of the roots and with all his might pulled himself up. Soon he was up off
the ground, four, five, six feet. He prayed that it held.

The monster
lunged for him, and as it did, Royce curled into a bull, raising his feet. The
beast just missed, grazing his foot, and slammed into the mud wall.

The crowd
roared, clearly not expecting Royce to survive that.

Royce clung to
the vine, climbing even higher, and as the furious beast snarled, the crowd
cheered his ingenuity. Soon he was safely out of range.

Royce’s heart
pounded as he looked down, breathing hard, glad for the respite, wondering how
he could ever win this. He looked up and saw the vine did not go very high, and
he knew he could not climb to the top anyway, not with all the villagers
waiting to prod him back down.

No sooner had he
had the thought than there suddenly came an awful creaking noise—and he felt
the worst feeling of his life: the root was slowly separating from the mud
wall. Royce began to fall—and there was no way to stop it.

Royce went
flying through the air, landing back in the pit, just feet from the creature.
The crowd cheered. No sooner had he landed than the beast landed on top of him,
clawing and scratching furiously. Royce felt in awful pain from the blows, and
he raised his bloody hands, trying to fend it off.

Royce knew he
had but moments if he were to survive this. He reached up, desperate, and
grabbed the beast by the throat. He spun and slammed it down, climbing on top
of it. He squeezed, holding the beast just far enough away so that its claws
missed him.

He squeezed and
squeezed, choking the life out of it. Royce hated to hurt this beast, even if
it was trying to kill him. But he knew if he did not, his life would be over.

Royce held on,
even while the beast let out awful snarls, writhing to kill him. But no matter
what it did, Royce would not let go. He knew that to do so would mean his
death.

Finally, the
beast went limp in his arms.

Dead.

The thought both
shocked and saddened Royce. He was relieved to kill it, but also sad to kill
it.

The crowd fell
silent, clearly stunned itself.

Royce rose to
his feet, out of breath, covered in scratches and wounds, dripping blood. He
was exhausted, and had no idea how he had won the match. His adrenaline had
taken over in a wild blur.

It didn’t
matter. He had won. The deed was done and he had done what he had never wanted
to: survive, at any cost. Even at the cost of killing a living thing. In a way,
his victory had vanquished him.

Royce looked up,
waiting for the villagers to lower a rope to raise him up. He was, after all,
the victor.

Yet his heart
sank as a horn sounded and the crowd, instead of dispersing, only grew thicker.
The cheers came again, growing louder, and Royce suddenly realized, with a
sinking feeling, that his fighting had not even begun.

A fighter was
suddenly thrown over the edge, landing in the pit but a few feet away from him,
to the roaring of the crowd. Royce studied him: it was a huge man, muscular,
wearing no armor or clothing whatsoever except for a loincloth and a sinister
black mask covering his face. This man, with olive skin, covered in scars and
tattoos, was clearly a professional killer.

The crowd
cheered.

Royce backed up
as the man came slowly, menacingly, toward him, a huge hatchet in his hand.
Royce’s heart sank. He did not see how he could escape this one.

Something came
flying through the air, and as Royce heard it hit the mud beside him, he turned
and was relieved to see what it was: a sword.
His
sword. The Crystal Sword.

Royce lunged and
grabbed it, ducking from under the swing of the hatchet as it came down for his
head.

The villagers
roared as Royce raised the sword from the mud and faced his attacker. No sooner
had he spun than his opponent came down at him with an awful shriek, raising
the hatchet with both hands as if to split Royce in half. Royce raised his
sword and blocked it, sparks flying everywhere, barely able to hold back the
man’s enormous strength, stopping the hatchet but inches from his face.

But his
attacker, so fast, sidestepped in the same motion and head-butted Royce in the
face, knocking him back several feet and onto his back.

Royce, sitting
in the mud, was dizzy from the pain as the crowd roared. He looked up just in
time to find the hatchet coming down for him again, and it barely missed him as
he dodged. He then dodged the other way as the hatchet came down again. The man
was incredibly fast.

This time the
hatchet came straight down the middle. Royce, thinking fast, leaned back, spun
around in the mud and swept the man’s legs out from under him. His hatchet went
flying.

The crowd
roared, clearly surprised, as his foe now lay there, defenseless.

Royce regained
his feet quickly and stood over him. As his foe scrambled in the mud, Royce
knew this was his moment. He knew he had the power of death before him. This
was his chance to kill his foe and be done with it and emerge the victor.

Yet as he stood
over him, clenching his sword, he did not attack. Instead, he turned to the
crowd, looked up, raised his sword for all the masses to see, and in full view
of them all, he dropped it down to the mud. He would not let them control him.
He would not kill an innocent man. He would not become the monster they wanted
him to be.

Enraged, the
crowd booed and hissed. In this one moment Royce had taken away their power.
There was nothing they could do. They could not make Royce kill him. It was the
one thing they did not have power over.

“I shall not
kill a man for your pleasure!” Royce called out.

The crowd booed
and hissed.

Royce turned and
held his arms out, defenseless, as the man rose and faced him. The man stared
back, clearly stunned for a moment,