Only the Worthy

by Morgan Rice

  Royce lifted his head slowly, half of it dripping, the other half dry and sunburned, and blinked several times as he wiped salt-encrusted water from his eyelids. His head was splitting, his throat parched, and his body felt like one big bruise.

  He slowly rose to his hands and knees, breathing hard, wondering what had happened, and wondering how he had survived the storm.

  The silence was most unnerving of all. During these past moons the ship had been clamorous, filled with the sounds of boys groaning, shrieking, fighting, dying. It had been filled with the ubiquitous sounds of soldiers relentlessly ordering, whipping, beating, killing. It had been filled with ever-present sounds of agony and misery and death.

  Yet now it was silent, still. Royce looked out and saw the sun breaking over the sky, a dull red, and it felt as if he were the last man alive in the world. How had he survived? How had the ship survived?

  He looked around and saw it was badly listing, limping along in the open waters, which were now calm as a lake. Royce felt something bump against his knee, looked down—and wished he hadn’t. There was a corpse, a boy who looked to be his age, lifeless, eyes open to the sky as he floated across the deck, bumping against him.

  Royce turned and scanned the deck and, in the breaking dawn, saw dozens more bodies floating, some face up, some face down, all sloshing on the ship. He felt a wave of revulsion. It was a floating graveyard.

  Royce shook his head, trying to push the image from his mind. The storm had taken nearly all of them. He closed his eyes and tried not to hear the screams, tried not to think of all the faces, of all the boys who had died, now somewhere overboard, carried off in the wind and waves.

  And yet he supposed he should be grateful. If things had stayed as they were, if he had stayed down below, he would surely have died eventually, of plague or the dagger, if not starvation. This storm at least had allowed him to get out from below; indeed, he turned and looked over at the hatch below, saw its edges been shattered, and was shocked to see it was now entirely filled with water. Floating up from out of it were several dead bodies, sloshing across deck.

  Slowly, there emerged sounds of life, a distant splashing, and Royce turned to see one boy rising to his hands and knees from the deck as the sun rose in the sky. Then came another.

  And another.

  One by one, signs of life began to return.

  Soldiers began to rise, too, one at a time, and soon dozens of members of the ship came back to life. As the sky lightened, Royce realized with a combination of relief and dread that he was not the only one. Somehow, despite it all, others had survived.

  As the new day broke Royce looked out and was amazed at how calm the sky was, how calm the waters were, as if a storm had never happened. The water was shockingly still, no sound audible save for the slightest lapping against the hold. It was like sailing on a lake.

  As Royce looked he was startled to see something else: there, on the horizon, was a landmass. He spotted craggy black cliffs rising up from the sea, as if a sulfur monster had emerged and hardened. It looked to be a bleak, unforgiving place, yet still, Royce’s heart quickened: it was land, at least. The first land he had seen in weeks.

  And clearly, their destination.

  “Slaves, get back to work!” called out a rough voice.

  Royce sensed a commotion behind him, and found himself pushed, stumbling forward. He couldn’t believe it: already the soldiers were rounding up the boys, ordering them around as if nothing had changed, despite the carnage around them. Royce wondered how many of them had survived, if the boys now outnumbered the guards and could stage a revolt. Yet as he looked around Royce saw a surprising number of guards had lived, more and more of them seeming to rise from the dead. And this ship was in too bad a shape to take anywhere.

  Royce soon found himself herded with a group of several dozen boys, a dozen soldiers behind them, being shoved toward the bow. The soldiers wanted to make them work the sails, to steer the ship; yet the sails were tattered and the wheel had blown off. So instead, they shoved and pushed Royce and the others toward several shattered benches affixed to the edge of the deck.

  “Oars!” they commanded.

  Royce found himself shoved roughly onto the remains of a bench, a huge oar placed into his hand. He looked over the ship and saw the oar descended thirty feet into the water, and he followed as the others reached forward with their oars, then pulled back, tugging at the water. Royce felt his arms, weak from hunger, shake.

  Slowly, the ship began to move. It had been drifting, directionless, yet now it moved straight ahead, toward the distant isle. Royce heard the crack of a whip, saw one of the boys nearby lashed, and as he heard him cry out in pain, Royce rowed harder. The guards were merciless, even in a state like this.

  There came a commotion, and Royce glanced over to see a boy shoved onto the bench behind him—and his heart lifted to see it was Mark. He had made it.

  Mark looked back at Royce, equal surprise and gratitude in his eyes.

  “You should have let me die,” Mark said with a grin, as a soldier roughly handed him an oar. “You saved my life at the expense of your own, and don’t think I shall ever forget that. You shall have me at your back, always—assuming we survive.”

  Mark reached out and Royce clasped his forearm. It felt good to have a friend, to have someone he could trust here.

  “And I can say the same of you,” Royce replied.

  Royce looked out to the sea as they rowed, their ship gaining momentum.

  “Where are they taking us?” Royce asked.

  “The Black Isle,” Mark replied. “From what I hear, it will make our ship ride seem like a fairytale.”

  Royce felt his apprehension deepen.

  “I think the point of this journey is to kill most of us,” Mark continued. “And for whoever survives, they will let the isle kill the rest.”

  Royce wondered as he watched the isle near. It was the most inhospitable place he had ever seen. He saw no signs of life on it, and it certainly seemed like a place to go to die.

  Royce went back to rowing, his body shaking from the effort, and as he fell back into the monotony of it, he looked over and noticed the scars across Mark’s back from where he been flogged. He wondered if his back bore the same scars. He arched it, and it still felt raw from where the nobles had beaten him. He noticed a small sun insignia tattooed into the back of Mark’s left shoulder, and it made him wonder who he was, and where he was from.

  Royce was about to ask him about it, when suddenly three boys sat down on the bench beside him, sliding over and squeezing in beside him—tToo close. They were broader and larger than him, and he could feel their hot, sweaty bodies beside him.

  Royce looked over, surprised, as one removed a dagger and held it up against his throat, the blade hurting. The boy looked furtively around to make sure the guards weren’t watching. Royce could barely breathe. He wished he had reacted sooner, but it had all happened too fast.

  He smiled, a cruel smile, showing yellow teeth. His head was shaved bald, and he had several chins, being overweight. Yet he was also muscular.

  “Do you remember me?” he asked. “The name is Rubin. I want to be sure it is one you never forget. These two boys are my friends, Seth and Sylvan. Twins. But you’d never guess by looking at them.”

  Royce glanced over and saw the two other boys, neither smiling, and neither resembling the other. They both bore dark features, yet one, Seth, was thin, with a lean, angry look, while the other, Sylvan, was muscular, with a broad face and nose, and a neck as large as Royce had ever seen.

  Rubin smiled, prodding the knife to Royce’s throat.

  “Now that we’ll all be best friends,” he continued, “you can start by handing me that chain of yours.”

  Royce looked down, and was surprised to see that his golden necklace—the only thing he had ever owned—was now openly on display, gleaming in the light. Stupid of him. He had kept it safely hidden all this time, under his shirt; but in
the storm his tunic had become frayed.

  “Hand it over!” Rubin hissed. “Or the fish will have more food.”

  Royce wanted to fight back, but the boys were much larger than he was, and had slid all the way over, squeezing him against the hull and leaving him no room to maneuver. He felt the point of the dagger pushed up against his throat, and he did not doubt for a moment that they would kill him.

  The thought of handing over the necklace left him with a profound sense of tragedy. The necklace was all he’d ever owned and it had remained a constant in his life. It had been given to him by his mother, and she had told him to hold it dear—and that one day he would learn the source of it. It was the one thing that had given him hope and mystery throughout his childhood.

  As the dagger was pushed deeper into Royce’s throat, Royce sensed motion from the corner of his eye, and suddenly there came a cracking sound, as Mark spun around and kicked Rubin in his face. Rubin fell backwards and dropped the knife.

  Royce wasted no time. He lunged forward and tackled Seth and Sylvan at once, driving them backwards, tackling them down to the ground and jumping on top of them.

  “Fight!” came a chorus of shouts as Royce wrestled with them. Suddenly they were surrounded by boys.

  Royce wasted no time. He punched Seth, then wheeled and elbowed Sylvan. Yet as he hit one, the other pounced on top of him, making it impossible for him to gain momentum. Finally, Sylvan rolled on top and grabbed for Royce’s face, digging his fingers into his cheeks and trying to gouge out his eyes.

  Royce knew that if he did not act fast, he would succeed. He had no other choice: he threw both of his arms in between the boy’s wrists, broke his grip, and raised his forehead as his head came down.

  There came a crack, and Royce saw had had broken Sylvan’s broad nose. Sylvan cried out, clutching it, and rolled off.

  No sooner had he done so when Seth jumped atop him.

  Royce felt several guards grabbing him, pulling him to his feet, while they pulled Seth off. He was thrown roughly across the deck, back to his seat at the bench, while beside him Mark—who had beaten Rubin back as well—was thrown, too. The two landed beside each other, as the guards drew their swords.

  “Back to the oars!” they commanded. “Fight again and you’ll all be thrown overboard. We need to lighten this ship anyway!”

  “Save your fighting,” the other guard added with an evil grin. “Where you’re going, you’ll need it.”

  Royce and Mark went back to rowing, and Royce looked over and grinned at Mark.

  “It is I who owe you now,” Royce said to him.

  Mark grinned back.

  “No you don’t. That was fun,” he replied.

  Royce and Mark looked at the looming island together. Having Mark beside him, Royce felt a little less alone in this ship full of thieves, bullies, and criminals. He knew he was sailing to his death, but it felt better not doing it alone.

  “That isle will kill us both, you know,” Mark said.

  Royce nodded. He knew it to be true.

  “But if we have each other’s back,” Mark said, “we may live long enough, just long enough, to return back to the mainland, and see the people we love.”

  Mark held out his forearm, and Royce clasped it.

  “You die, I die,” Mark said.

  Royce nodded. He liked the sound of that.

  “You die,” he replied, “I die.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Royce grabbed hold of the ship’s rail as it approached the shore. A moment later it slammed into the rocks and bobbed as the waves pulled it back. It crashed again and again into the craggy boulders that acted as a shoreline for the Black Isle, the boys helpless to steer it.

  “Ropes!” the soldiers cried. “Anchors!”

  Royce immediately jumped into action, Mark at his side, as they ran with the other boys, grabbed the long, thick ropes coiled on deck, and threw them overboard. The ropes were heavy, wet with sea foam, and coarse, cutting into his palms, which were already calloused from hours of rowing. They stung at the touch.

  As Royce tossed the heavy ropes overboard, making sure the line was secure to the mast, his shoulders ached, and he was relieved, at least, that the journey was done. This isle may very well hold death, but at least it would be a death on dry land, and not, like so many boys, on this cursed ship.

  Royce heard a commotion and looked out to see the fierce faces of the soldiers waiting to greet them on the rocks below. They grabbed the ropes and secured them, pulling the ship in, and as Royce looked at this welcoming party, he wondered if arriving here was a relief. They were greeted by cold, hard gazes, summing up the new crop of boys. They stood on a beach made of sharp, black rocks, stretching the length of the isle. Fields of black soil lay behind it, no trees in sight. The isle looked completely lifeless, no birds, no animals, no sound other than the crashing of the waves and groaning of their ship.

  These warriors were clearly hardened men, overgrown, muscle-bound, heads shaved, faces covered in scars. They wore a black, lightweight mesh armor, furs over their shoulders, gold insignias branded on them. All wore long beards and sour faces, as if they had never learned to smile. Clearly, this was a place of men.

  Before them all stood a man who appeared to be their leader, larger than the others, with broad shoulders, extra furs, hard black eyes, and one of his ears mangled. He stood there, hands on his hips while his men worked the ropes, and stared up at the boys in disgust, as if the sea had washed up something foul.

  “Welcome to home,” Mark muttered sarcastically to Royce under his breath.

  “MOVE!” bellowed a voice behind them.

  Royce, shoved from behind, fell in line with the other boys, herded toward a wide plank lowered from the ship. Royce watched as the plank fell through the air in an arc thirty feet high, and landed on the rocks below with a bang. Beneath it waves crashed, and sharks, he could see from here, swarmed in the waters. The plank was narrow and crowded.

  Royce, prodded from behind, joined the others as they all hiked down the makeshift ramp. It groaned beneath them with the weight of all the boys disembarking at once. Royce understood too well why they were so eager to get off this ship. Yet at the same time, he wondered what the rush was: did they not realize a different death awaited them on this isle?

  They stampeded down the plank like an army of elephants, and there soon arose cursing as the boys shoved and elbowed each other. Royce heard one boy cry out and glanced back to see Rubin, the bully who had tried to take his necklace, who had tormented those down below, with his bald head, double chin, narrow brown eyes, and angry jaw, turn and put a shoulder into one boy. The boy shrieked as he fell from the plank, still a good thirty feet up, and into the waters.

  Within seconds he was swarmed by the school of sharks, tearing him to pieces as he shrieked. Finally he was dragged under, the waters turning red.

  Royce, sickened, looked away. Death, it seemed, awaited them at every turn.

  Royce glared back at Rubin, filled with anger and disgust, and Rubin returned the glare.

  “What are you looking at?” Rubin barked.

  Royce silently vowed to take vengeance for that boy. Rubin’s time would come.

  They kept moving and Royce continued quickly down the plank, Mark beside him, all the boys pressing in close, not wanting to meet the same fate. Soon Royce stepped foot on a boulder, and he breathed a sigh of relief to feel dry land beneath his feet. He took a few more steps and found himself on a black beach of rocks.

  “Line up!” cried the guards.

  They all lined up beside each other, and Royce looked over to see that there were only one hundred survivors left. The numbers stunned him. When they had departed there had been several hundred aboard. Had they lost that many to the sea?

  Lined up side by side, they all faced the warrior Royce could only assume to be their new commander, and as Royce looked up into his hardened face, his cold black eyes assessing them as he walked up and down the
line, he shivered. This man was formidable, a man to be respected. Towering over all the others, with dark skin, a wide jaw, a bald head, and a scar running from chin to ear, he looked to be afraid of nothing. He was like a walking mountain.

  He walked slowly up and down the line, surveying them, and Royce could feel his heart pounding in the silence, the air thick with tension. Without rhyme or reason the commander suddenly walked up to a boy and punched him with an uppercut to his mouth.

  The boy fell flat on his back, moaning in pain. He then sat up.

  “What did I do?” the boy asked.

  The commander grinned.

  “You exist,” he replied, his voice as deep and hard as his appearance. “And next time, you will address me as Commander Voyt.”

  Commander Voyt stepped over the boy’s head, smiling an evil grin as he continued surveying the others.

  “Welcome to the Black Isle,” Voyt boomed, his voice ominous and anything but welcoming. “Home for centuries to the best fighters our kingdom has to offer. I am your master. Your owner. You will look up to me as if I am God. Because I am God. If I decide you die, you die. If I decide you live, well, you live for now. Until you die at some other time. Do you treasure life that much that you wish to live longer—only to die later?”

  It was a curious question, and as he continued to pace the ranks, Royce wasn’t certain he was seeking an answer. He seemed to look into each boy’s soul as he passed them.

  “That is the central question here, one you will learn to ask yourself: how many times will you pray to die? To die the death of training? Training to die in glory.”

  He paced, hands behind his back, and as he looked out at the sea, he looked as if he were talking more to himself, as if he had seen endless crops of boys arrive and die.

  “When you have reached the end of your training—if you do—” he continued, “you’ll be sent to the Pits. There you will learn what true death means. You’ll find yourself pitted against savages from every corner of the world. Men who are as likely to bite off your faces as clasp your hand. They show no mercy. They seek no mercy. And that is our motto here on the Black Isle: Show No Mercy. Seek No Mercy. It is one you will learn too well. For that is the way of steel.”