Only the Worthy (23 page)

Royce rode
beside Lord Jakoben, Mark, Altos, Rubin, Sovil and Aspeth at the head of the swelling
army, his thousand men joined by several thousand of Lord Jakoben’s, all of
them spreading out over the countryside like a weapon of destruction. The sound
of horses galloping in his ears merged with the clanging of armor and weaponry,
all of them riding east, to Celcus, the capital city of the Kingdom of Sevania,
where the King and Queen and royal knights, resided. The time had come to test
Royce’s lineage.

It felt surreal.
Here Royce was, at the head of an army, not just of peasants and farmers, but
now also of warriors, of knights and nobles. It felt as if he were being caught
up in something bigger than himself, something he could not stop if he tried.
And somehow, he had been placed at its head.

Royce looked out
at the rolling hills before him and pondered what lay ahead. The thought of
heading to Castle Celcus, into the very lair of his enemy, thrilled him. He was
not a man who liked to run from a fight, and he had not liked running. He
wished to face his demons head-on, and now, finally, he had a chance to do just
that. He would rather die fighting than live running. He felt his cause was
just, and he had no reason to have to act like a criminal.

They rode and
rode, thundering across the countryside, and as the sun fell low in the sky,
the clouds a palette of brilliant reds, finally, in the distance, Royce saw it:
there, high up on a hill, shining against the sun, was the magnificent Castle Celcus,
sprawled out over the land like an indomitable force. And inside, Royce knew,
sat the Sword of Might.

Royce felt a
thrill at the sight of it. He felt a tingling in his hands, and he knew he was
riding to his destiny. He knew the chances of his emerging alive were slim—and
that if he did, he would be King. Either way, on this day his life would change
forever.

The more they
entered enemy territory, the more surreal it felt. Here he was, riding headlong
into the enemy’s lair, the very fort where thousands of soldiers were looking
to kill him. What if he were never even afforded a chance to reach the throne
room?

A series of
horns sounded in the twilight and Royce looked out as they crested a hill to
see thousands of soldiers lined up alongside the embankments, their armor
shining scarlet in the sunset. They bordered an imposing moat, spanned by a
long, narrow bridge, and a huge gaping portcullis. It seemed impossible to
approach, must less attack.

At their
approach, the horns sounded, and all the soldiers around it assumed a defensive
formation, coming close together, lowering visors and lances as Royce and his
men rode down the final slope, approaching the gate. Royce slowed, as did the
others behind him, to indicate this was no attack charge. He warily eyed the
thousands of arrows trained upon them from the parapets and did not want his
men dying before they even reached it.

Royce stopped
about fifty yards away from the gate, so that no hasty mistakes would be made
that could jeopardize his men. His men came to a stop behind him, and he turned
and faced them.

“I shall ride
forward alone and present my request,” he said. “You shall all wait here. If
they attack me, that will give you the chance to ride to freedom.”

Lord Jakoben
nodded back his approval.

“A group of us
shall join you,” he replied.

Royce left the
bulk of his army behind and rode off toward the gate with a small group, Lord
Jakoben and several of his men, Mark, Altos, Rubin, Sovil and Aspeth beside him.
Aspeth carried a long white flag, a symbol of a peaceful message.

Royce braced
himself as he neared, wondering if the King’s men would attack. To his relief,
a small contingent of knights left the line of soldiers guarding the bridge and
rode out to greet them.

They all came to
a stop, horses breathing hard in the silence, and stared, facing each other
warily. Royce looked back at Manfor’s brother Altfor, joined by a dozen nobles,
smiling back arrogantly, and felt his blood boil.

“I never thought
the stars would grant me such luck,” Altfor said with a wide grin. “I had come
to Celcus to amass an army to kill you. And you, stupid peasant that you are,
have walked right into our arms.”

He grinned and
took a step closer.

“Would you
really be so stupid to come here when we have soldiers everywhere looking for
you?” Altfor asked. “You know we are going to capture and kill you, regardless
of what you have to say. But before I do, I want you to know something: Genevieve
is mine forever.”

Royce felt his
anger flare, and he involuntarily reached out and grasped the hilt of his
sword. As he did, soldiers drew on all sides, the distinctive sound
interrupting the silence.

But Royce felt a
calming hand on his wrist and looked over to see Lord Jakoben laying a gentle
hand on his wrist and shaking his head.

Lord Jakoben
scowled at Altfor.

“Mind your
tongue, boy,” Lord Jakoben said. “You will speak with respect to the son of a
king.”

Altfor looked at
the noble as if he were mad, then turned and looked at Royce with a
disbelieving look. He scoffed.

“Son of a king!”
he laughed. “You mean son of a peasant!”

All of his men
laughed, and as Royce’s cheeks burned, it took all of his willpower to remain
calm. He had to remind himself he was leading other men now, not just himself.

But Lord Jakoben
stared back, deadly serious.

“He is the son
of King Artis,” he retorted. “And he’s come to draw the Sword of Might.”

Altfor stared back
in disbelief for a few moments. Then slowly his face morphed to scorn.

“Only nobles can
attempt to draw the sword,” he countered.

“And so shall
he,” Lord Jakoben replied. “To deny him will result in a revolt on your
family’s house. Is that something you wish?”

Altfor stared
back with a vexed look, seeming stumped. But finally, his frown turned into a
smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Of course you
can, try,” he said to Royce. “I cannot think of anything more foolish for you
to do. For if you fail—and fail you shall—that shall be by penalty of death.
Not that we can’t kill you right now, but I’d like to see you make a fool of
yourself before I do. Please,” he said, stepping side and waving his arm as his
men parted ways. “Enter. You’ll save us the shackles.”

A horn sounded,
and Royce rode forward, joined by his convoy.

As he rode
across the drawbridge, horses’ hooves clomping on the wood, heading toward the
large stone arch, chains rattled and the portcullis was slowly raised. Altfor
rode up close beside him and grinned.

“I want you to
know,” he said in a dark voice, “that I’ve had your precious Genevieve. I had
her first. And I shall have her forever. You may have freed her from my
brother, but not from me.”

Royce felt
himself fill with fury. He clenched the hilt of his sword and wanted more than
anything to draw and run it through this man’s chest. It took all his willpower
to contain himself.

Altfor’s time
will come
,
he told himself.

Royce rode
through the open portcullis, beneath the gaping stone arch and into the
darkened courtyard of the castle, keeping silent all the while. He would not
honor this man with a response. Words were meaningless; he would let the sword
speak for him.

They rode on,
horses’ hooves clomping on the cobblestone, crossing the stone courtyard, while
all around and high up on the parapets, thousands of knights watched warily and
hundreds of onlookers gawked, watching Royce’s contingent go. They all seemed
to watch in disbelief.

Soaring oak
doors were opened for them by a half dozen knights, and Royce and the others
dismounted before them. Escorted by a dozen more knights, they all walked
inside in a group, led up a spiral stone staircase. More and more knights
poured in, escorting them in front and behind. Royce realized there would be no
way out of here but victory.

They ascended
the stairs and turned down several more corridors, and as they reached the end,
another pair of oak doors, guarded by several knights, swung open for them.

Royce looked out
in awe as they entered a massive chamber, ceilings over a hundred feet high,
the chamber spreading out endlessly in every direction. His heart pounded as he
realized where they were.

The throne room.

At the far side
of the room sat the King himself, on his throne, surrounded by dozens of knights,
clearly having learned of their presence, watching them with interest. Hundreds
more knights stood along the walls, as did hundreds of nobles. They all looked
over Royce with disdain, as if he were a peasant. Word must have spread that
Royce would attempt to draw the sword, for hundreds of peasants crammed in,
too, anticipation on their faces. This must, Royce realized, be their favorite
sport to watch: the anticipation of a new king—and the death following a failed
attempt.

Royce’s heart
pounded as he felt the thousands of eyes upon him, knowing this was his moment,
the moment that would change everything.

He walked slowly
into the room as men parted ways and stared at the massive black boulder of
granite sitting in its center. In it sat the sword, lodged deeply inside.

Royce’s heart
beat faster at the sight, his palms sweaty. There it was. The Sword of Might.
It had been trapped in this rock for centuries—indeed, the entire castle had
been built around this rock. It was the very epicenter of their kingdom. Royce
knew that whoever could draw that sword would by law hold the right to rule the
kingdom.

No one had ever
drawn it. The royalties’ claim to legitimacy had been always been weak, since
they had never been able to draw it themselves, and only claimed that their
ancestors had. It had, indeed, been a source of contention throughout the
kingdom, of jockeying for position between rival nobles and monarchs. However
firm the nobles would like it to seem, the kingship was always up for grabs.
And thus every attempt to draw the sword was perceived as a threat.

That was why,
Royce knew, Lord Jakoben was supporting him now. He wanted a chance to knock
his rivals from power. To have an alliance with a legitimate kingship. And he
was all too happy for Royce to take the chance of drawing it, so that Royce
would die if he failed, and not his own people.

The King, a
mighty man, barrel chested, with a broad forehead and a stern jaw, beard
streaked with gray yet still a warrior in his prime, stood from his throne and
walked slowly across the room until he faced Royce on the opposite side of the
stone. The room fell deadly silent as he looked Royce over with disdain.

“I would expect
nothing less of these peasants,” the King said scornfully, looking over Royce
and his friends. “But you, Lord Jakoben,” he added. “You have sworn your
allegiance to us. You dare bring this murderer into our castle? The most wanted
man in the kingdom?”

Lord Jakoben held
his ground.

“My grace,” he
replied, speaking loud enough for all to hear. “As you know, every man of noble
lineage has a right to try to draw the sword. This is a right bestowed on us by
my father and by yours. We are only giving him his right.”

“And when he
fails? He shall be killed. And you and your men can be imprisoned with him.”

Lord Jakoben held
his ground.

“He shall not
fail. For you look now upon King Artis’s son.”

A gasp spread
through the crowd, as everyone examined Royce. He felt uncomfortable, hating to
be at the center of attention. What if he failed? What if he let all these
people down?

“Then let your
King
step forward and try,” the King said, mocking. “And may he be prepared, when he
is unsuccessful, to lose his head.”

“And if he draws
it, he shall be King,” Lord Jakoben added.

The King nodded
back.

“The law is the
law. If he draws, he is King.”

Royce stepped
forward and he could feel the room grow silent, all eyes on him.

The entire world
melted away. He developed tunnel vision for the sword. This, after all, would
be the defining moment of his life.

Royce held out
one sweaty palm and slowly reached out for the sword. He stared at it in awe.
It was a thing of beauty. He had never been this close to it, had never even
seen it before, and it was a magnificent thing. Its metal was black, shining,
its hilt gold, inlaid with precious rubies and sapphires. It was immersed
deeply in the massive black boulder.

As Royce slowly
lowered his hand and wrapped it around the hilt, he felt an incredible energy.
It was like fire running up his arm and shoulder. He could almost feel it
humming inside him.

This was his
moment, he realized. The moment he had lived for his entire life. And the
moment he could die for.

Royce closed his
eyes. He tightened his grip on the sword and realized his entire life had been
lived for this moment. He had always sensed, all these years since he was a
boy, while working those endless days on the farm, that he was someone else,
someone special. And now, with thousands of eyes upon him, he could feel it.