Only the Worthy (7 page)

The ropes
tightened around his waist, and with a jerk, Royce felt himself thrown
backwards from his horse. He landed on the ground hard, winded, bound from
behind. He looked over and saw Genevieve bound by ropes, too, also yanked to
the ground.

Royce rolled and
stumbled, frantically trying to break free, the ropes tight around his arms and
shoulders. He reached down to his waist, grabbed his dagger, and with one jerk,
managed to cut them loose.

Free, he rolled
out of the way of a club as it came down for his head. He reached out and
grabbed his attacker’s sword, and then he wheeled, standing in the center of
the courtyard, surrounded by what was now nearly a hundred knights. They closed
in on him from all sides.

They charged.
Royce raised his sword and fought back, defending as they slashed, slashing
back himself, feeling invincible, stronger and faster than all of them. Still,
they closed in tighter and tighter, their ranks growing thicker.

Royce raised his
sword and blocked a blow aimed for his head; he then spun and slashed at
another sword aiming for his back, and slashed up and knocked the sword from
his attacker’s hands. He then leaned back and kicked another knight in the
chest as he neared, forcing him to drop his club.

Royce fought
like a man possessed, slashing and parrying, managing to keep dozens of them at
bay, as swords clanged and sparks showered down all around him. He breathed
hard, barely able to see from the sweat stinging his eyes. And all the while he
thought of only one thing: Genevieve. He would die here for her.

The ranks
thickened even more, and soon, it was too much even for him. Royce’s arms and
shoulders ached, his breathing grew heavy, as he found the crowd so thick, so
close, that he could barely maneuver to swing. He raised his sword one last
time to slash, when suddenly, he felt an awful pain in the back of his head.

He dropped to
the ground, dimly aware he had been clubbed. The next thing he knew he was
lying sideways on the ground, unable to move, as dozens of knights pounced on
him. It was a wall of metal pinning him to the ground, bending his arms, knees
in his back, arms on his head.

It was over, he
realized.

He had lost.

Royce woke,
startled, to the feeling of ice water on his face, to the sounds of shouts and
jeers, and he squinted in the light. One of his eyes, he realized right away,
was sealed shut, the other barely open, just enough for him to see by. His head
reeled from the pain, his body stiff, covered in lumps and bruises, and he felt
as if he had been rolled down a mountain. He looked out at the world before
him, and wished he hadn’t.

A bustling mob
encircled him, some shouting and jeering, others protesting, seemingly on his
behalf. It was as though these people had erupted in civil war, he in the
center. He struggled to make sense of what he saw. Was this, he wondered, a
dream?

The pain was too
intense for this to be a dream; the stabbing headache, the coarse ropes digging
into his wrists. He struggled, to no avail, at the ropes binding his wrists and
ankles and looked down to realize he was tied to a stake. His heart pounded to
see a pile of wood beneath him, as if ready to be lit. Fear crept over him as
he realized he was strung up in the castle courtyard.

Royce looked out
and saw hundreds of villagers swarming into the courtyard, saw dozens of
knights and guards standing along the walls; he saw a makeshift wooden stage,
perhaps fifty feet away, and on it, tribunal judges, all nobles. In the center
sat a man he recognized: Lord Nors. The head of the nobles’ family. Manfor’s
father. He was the presiding judge of the countryside. And he sat in the center
and stared down at Royce with a hatred unlike any Royce had seen.

It did not bode
well.

All of it came
rushing back to Royce. Genevieve. Breaking into the fort. Rescuing her. Killing
Manfor. Jumping. Fighting off those knights. And then…

There came the
slamming of a hammer on wood several times, and the crowd quieted. Lord Nors stood,
glowering down at all, and he was even more fierce, more commanding, standing.
He set his fury-filled eyes on Royce and Royce realized he was being put on
trial. He had seen several trials before, and none had gone well for the
prisoners.

Royce scanned
the faces, desperate to find any glimpse of Genevieve, praying she was safe,
away from all this.

Yet he found
none. That was what worried him most of all. Had she been imprisoned? Killed?

He tried to
block out various nightmare scenarios from his mind.

“You hereby
stand accused of the murder of Manfor of the House of Nors, son of Lord Nors,
ruler of the South and the Woods of Segall,” Lord Nors boomed out, and the
crowd grew completely still. “What is your plea?”

Royce opened his
mouth, struggled to speak—but his lips and throat were parched. His voice fell
short, and he tried again.

“He stole my
bride,” Royce finally managed to reply.

There came a
chorus of supportive cheers, and Royce looked out to see thousands of
villagers, his countrymen, pouring in, wielding clubs and sickles and
pitchforks. His heart leapt with hope and gratitude as he realized all his
people had come to support him. They had all had enough.

Royce looked up
at Lord Nors and saw him lose his conviction, just a touch. A nervous look
spread across his face as he turned and looked to his fellow judges and they
looked to the knights. It seemed as if they were beginning to realize that they
might, if they condemned Royce to death, have a revolution on their hands.

Finally, Lord
Nors slammed his hammer, and the crowd quieted.

“And yet,” he
boomed, “the law is clear: any peasant woman is the property of any noble until
she is wed.”

There came a
loud chorus of boos and hisses from the crowd, and the mob surged forward. An
anonymous person hurled a tomato toward the stage, and the crowd cheered, as it
barely missed Lord Nors.

There came a
horrified gasp amongst the nobles, and as Lord Nors nodded, the knights began
to push into the crowd, eager to find the offender. Yet they soon stopped and
thought better of it as they were swarmed by hundreds more villagers bustling
into the square, making passage impossible. One knight attempted to elbow his
way forward, but he soon found himself completely engulfed by the masses, shoved
every which way, and amidst angry shouts and cheers, he backed away.

The crowd
cheered. Finally, they were standing up for themselves.

Royce felt a
surge of optimism. A turning point had arrived. All the peasants, like he, had
had enough. No one wanted their women taken anymore. No one wanted to be
thought of as property. All of them realized that they could be in Royce’s
position.

Royce scanned
the mob, still desperate to find Genevieve—and his heart suddenly leapt as he
spotted her at the edge of the courtyard, she, bound in ropes. Nearby stood his
three brothers, they, too, bound as well. He was relieved to see that at least
they were alive, and uninjured. But upset to see them bound. He wondered what
would become of them, and he wished more than anything that he could take their
punishment for them.

As the crowd
swelled, the magistrates looked more nervous than before, and they looked to
Lord Nors with uncertain glances.

“It is
your
law!” Royce called out, finding his voice, emboldened. “Not ours!”

The crowd let
out an enormous roar of approval, as it surged forward dangerously, pitchforks
and sickles raised high in the air.

Lord Nors,
scowling back down at Royce, held up his hands, and the crowd finally quieted.

“My son is dead
on this day,” he boomed, his voice heavy with grief. “And if I were to uphold
the law, you would be killed, too.”

The crowd booed
and swarmed threateningly.

“And yet,” Lord
Nors boomed, raising his hands, “given the situation of our times, killing you
would not be in the best interests of the crown. And thus,” he said, turning
and looking to his fellow magistrates, “I have decided to grant you mercy!”

There came a
great cheer from the crowd, rippling through in waves, and Royce felt a surge
of relief. Lord Nors raised his hands.

“Your brothers
killed none of our men in your raid, and thus they shall not be killed,
either.”

The crowd
cheered.

“They shall be
imprisoned!” he boomed.

The crowd booed.

“Yet your
bride-to-be,” Lord Nors boomed, “shall never be yours. She shall become the
property of one of our nobles.”

The crowd booed
and hissed, but before they could get any louder, Lord Nors finished, pointing
down at Royce with all his wrath:

“And you, Royce,
shall be sentenced to the Pits!”

The crowd booed
and rushed forward, and soon a brawl erupted in the streets.

Royce did not
have a chance to watch it unfold. Suddenly the ropes were severed from his
wrists and ankles, and he fell to the ground, limp. He felt arms all around
him, metal gauntlets grabbing him, dragging him away through the chaos.

As he was
dragged through the crowd, Lord Nors’ words echoed in his mind. The
Pits
.
Royce felt a deepening sense of foreboding. It was the brutal bloodsport for
the nobles’ entertainment, one no one survived. Lord Nors had shrewdly spared
him a death sentence to appease the masses—and yet the Pits were a sentence
worse than death. It was a crafty move. Lord Nors had spared a revolution, and
yet had still managed to kill Royce.

Royce was
crestfallen. Better to have died here, nobly, before his people, than to be
shipped off to die an even more horrible death.

Yet as he was
dragged through the rioting crowd, toward the towering arches to the city’s
exit, Royce thought not of himself but of Genevieve. She was all that mattered
to him now. She was all that had ever mattered to him. The idea of her being
given to another noble was too much for him. It made all of this futile.

Royce bucked and
writhed, trying uselessly to get free. He glanced back as they dragged him,
hoping for one last glimpse of her.

“Genevieve!” he
called.

He spotted a
glimpse of her between the swarming crowd.

“Royce!” she
called back, weeping.

Yet there was
nothing either of them could do.

Royce was led
through the arched gates, away from the city, away from his life, banished forever
from everyone he’d ever known and loved and facing a journey before him that
would be far worse than death.

The Pits
, Royce thought.
Better to have died.

Royce stumbled,
shoved from behind, and bumped roughly into the group of boys as they were all
herded onto the ship’s long ramp. One eye still swollen shut, his head and body
still killing him from all the lumps and bruises, Royce did not think he could
feel any worse—until he finished climbing the ramp and set foot on board the ship.
It rocked violently in the choppy waters, and as it lurched and he bumped into
boys to the left and right of him, he received sharp elbows in the ribs and
kidneys in return. He did not know which was worse: the elbows, or the sudden
feeling of nausea.

Royce winced as the
soldier grabbed him roughly from behind and threw him forward. He tried to turn
and swing back, but he could not, his wrists still bound tightly behind him.

Still reeling
from the events of the last few hours, still trying to process how his life had
changed so dramatically so quickly, Royce tried to snap out of it, to take in
the scene around him as best he could. As much as he felt like dying after
being separated from Genevieve, from everyone he loved, his survival instincts
kicked in, and he knew that if he wasn’t on alert, he would get killed on this
ship.

He looked around
and saw hundreds of boys being prodded aboard, some appearing innocent, as
shocked and disoriented as he, while others looked like professional criminals.
Many of them, he noticed, were taller, broader, older, with rough stubble,
prominent scars, shaved heads, and a look that told him that they’d kill over
nothing. Even the boys his age looked prematurely aged, as if life had had its
way with them.

It was a sea of
desperate faces, of boys and men who knew they were being shipped off to their
deaths and who had nothing left to lose.

The plank was
raised behind him, slammed shut, and Royce felt his apprehension deepen, a
heavy knot forming at the base of his throat, as he was shoved forward, deeper
into the ship. He turned and watched the soldiers sever the ropes keeping the
ship at shore, and all of a sudden, the ship began to move.

Royce lost his
balance as the ship lurched forward. He looked out as the land began to get
farther away and saw the docks were filled with bustling people—none of whom
even looked their way to say goodbye. This ship, it seemed, was filled with
people who were expendable. As they gained even more distance from shore, Royce
knew that his life was about to change forever.

The waters
became rougher as they left the harbor, and Royce struggled to gain his balance
with his hands still bound behind him. The crowd became even thicker as all the
boys surged forward, so thick he could barely breathe, the stench of unbathed
men overwhelming. The ship seemed to groan with all the weight; it seemed as if
there were too many people on board to survive the ship ride. Maybe that was
the point, Royce realized. Maybe they wanted to kill some of them off.

Indeed, Royce
looked around and noticed several boys lying on the deck, unmoving. They were
being trampled over casually by the masses, as still more people moved forward
on the ship. He marveled that these boys were so hardened that they did not
care about stepping on others, and he wondered why the boys lying down on deck
weren’t crying out in pain.

And then he
realized. He looked down and saw the eyes wide open, and he knew with a chill
that they were dead. Whether they had died from being trampled or from something
else, he could not tell. One of them, he noticed, had a small dagger lodged in
his chest. Royce glanced around at the hardened faces all around him and
wondered which one might be responsible. From the looks of them, it could have
been any of them. And probably, sadly, over nothing at all.

Royce felt more
on guard than ever, realizing his troubles had not even begun. He was on a ship
full of professional criminals, boys who were being sent to their deaths, who
were desperate, who would kill over something small—or over nothing at all.

“Forward!”
yelled a rough voice.

Royce felt a
boot in the small of his back, and he stumbled forward as he was kicked. He
slammed his head onto a wooden beam, the pain blinding, and he felt himself
squeezed in from all sides. Suddenly the ship was hit by a wave, and icy spray
rushed over the sides and across the ship, dousing Royce, shocking him fully
awake. It was freezing, and the salt water stung his wounds. The water sloshed
on the deck beneath his feet and he lost his footing and suddenly fell flat on
his back, slamming his head on the wooden deck, unable to gain his balance with
his hands bound behind his back.

The next thing
Royce knew he felt the pain of a heavy boot stepping on his stomach; panic
flooded him as he realized he might be trampled to death. Someone stepped on
his leg, another person on his arm, and Royce looked up and saw another boot
coming for his face and braced himself for the pain to follow.

Suddenly Royce
felt hands on his back and was yanked back to his feet just before he was
stepped on. He looked over to see a boy about his age, with sad, sunken green
eyes and wavy black hair down to his chin. He did not look like the others
here, Royce was surprised to see; his eyes were filled with kindness and
intelligence, and he seemed to be of noble breeding.

He smiled wide,
showing perfect teeth.

“Close call,” he
remarked.

Royce stared
back, shocked, as he breathed a sigh of relief.

“You saved me,”
Royce said, stunned. “Why?”

He grinned.

“Mark’s my
name,” he replied, “and I hate to see them trample people. I figured it would
be a shame to let you die before you even had a chance to make it down below.”

Royce nodded
back with gratitude and was about to thank him—when a moment later, Mark
himself was shoved across the deck by several guards. Royce tried to follow,
but quickly lost him in the thickening crowd.

Royce felt
guards grab him from behind, yank back his arms, and he wondered briefly if
they were about to break them as the pain became more and more intense. His
heart quickened as he saw a sharp knife. Were they going to stab him? What had
he done?

To his surprise
and relief they instead sliced the ropes binding his wrists; all around him
they sliced the ropes of all the boys. Royce immediately held his wrists out
before him, rubbing them, purple from being restrained, so grateful to have
them free. He wondered if things were going to turn for the better.

But then he was
kicked again, and a moment later he found himself flying down into the gaping
hole leading below deck.

Royce dropped
several feet, flailing through the air, and finally landed in the darkness,
hitting the ground hard.

He slowly rose
and looked around, as more and more boys were thrown in all around him. It was
dim down here, this hold lit only by the light filtering down through the slats
above. He saw the faces of the boys already amassed down here, hundreds of them
on hammocks, hundreds standing, and hundreds more sleeping on the floor. He had
never seen so many people packed into such a small space in his life. It was
airless down here, and the stench was overwhelming.

More and more
boys were being thrown through the hold. Trying to get away from the flying
bodies, Royce made his way deeper inside, stepping over people carefully. He
suddenly heard a dark laugh behind him.

“What are you
avoiding them for, boy?” came a voice. “They been dead a long time.”

Royce turned to
see the menacing faces of a group of boys behind him, and watched as one of
them, a tall boy with a big belly and dark, beady eyes, reached down, picked up
one of the boys and held him to Royce’s face. Royce recoiled as he saw the
boy’s face was covered in boils, his eyes wide open, his tongue hanging out of
his mouth.

The boy gave a
grim laugh.

“Don’t think
it’s not coming for you, too,” he warned. “They don’t send us down here to
live—they send us down to die.”

Royce felt his
apprehension deepen as a fresh wave of boys were thrown down and the mob pushed
him forward. He pushed his way as deep into the hold as he could, desperate to
get free, hoping to find a way back up. He slipped as the ship rocked, and he
heard shouts and saw a fight break out in a dark corner of the hold. Above his
head in the cramped space came the sound of thousands of heavy footsteps,
floorboards creaking, as if the weight of the world were above him. He broke
out into a sweat from the claustrophobic feeling down here; he felt as if he
had been plunged into a vision of hell.

Royce rubbed his
wrists again, thrilled to have them free of the binds, and wondering if he
could somehow make it back above. Better to die up above, he figured, than down
here.

He looked up
ahead and saw one of the boys with the same idea, climbing, trying to get out
of the hold and go above. Yet Royce watched in horror as he suddenly heard the
thwack of a spear and saw the boy pierced in the chest. The boy fell back below
with a thud, a spear in his chest, dead.

A soldier’s face
appeared above, glaring down at them, as if tempting anyone else to try.

Royce gave up on
his idea and instead retreated to the darkest corner he could find, knowing for
now he just needed to survive. He finally found a hammock, deep in the darkest
corner, in which a boy lay unnaturally. Royce looked closely and as he
suspected, the boy was dead, eyes wide open, a confused expression across his
face, as if wondering how he could die here.

Royce
tentatively reached up, pried the boy’s stiff fingers off the net, and rolled
him off the hammock. Royce hated to do it, and he braced himself as the body
fell and landed on the floor with a thud. He had no other choice. The boy was
dead now, and this hammock would do him no good.

But then a
horrible thought crossed his mind: had the boy been killed in this hammock
because someone else had wanted it?

Royce had no
choice. He needed to get up off the ground, off the river of vomit and blood
and death.

He pulled
himself up, climbed into the hammock, and for the first time he felt a feeling
of weightlessness. The aching in his feet and back momentarily subsided as he
lay there, rocking with the ship.

He breathed
deep. He wrapped himself in a ball as he swayed, the groaning of death all
around him, and he knew, despite all that he had seen, his hell had not even
begun.