by Morgan Rice
“My…lady,” he gasped. “Where is the Duke? I have an urgent message for him and his men. It concerns Royce.”
Upon hearing that word, Genevieve froze. It was the one word that could bring her back from the brink.
She faced him, trembling inside.
“And what is it that concerns Royce?” she asked slowly, her words deliberate, forcing herself to remain calm.
“He’s been…spotted,” the messenger continued. “In the eastern ridge of the Northern Wood. I must convey this information to the Duke before it’s too late!”
Genevieve’s heart pounded as she had a sudden realization: she could still be of help to Royce. If she were dead, it would do no good to anyone. Perhaps it was not too late after all. Perhaps she had made the right choice, entering this family of nobles, after all. If it were for only this one moment, it had all been worth it. She was being given a second chance. It was an act of grace, like an angel swooping down to save her from herself.
Genevieve stepped toward the messenger calmly, reached out, and took the scroll. She looked down and examined it; it was heavier than she’d expected, and sealed with wax. It felt good to hold it in her hand.
“I am on my way to see the Duke now,” she said coolly, “and I shall give it to him personally.”
His face collapsed in relief. He bowed.
“Thank you, Duchess.”
He turned and ran off, disappearing back into the fort.
Genevieve broke the seal, opened the scroll, and read it. It was as he’d said. She knew that her hiding this message from the Duke would be on pain of death. If she were ever discovered, she would be hung up and tortured and killed. And she knew that one day, somehow or other, the Duke would find out what she had done. That a messenger had come for him with the news. That she had intercepted the scroll.
One day there would be a reckoning, and she would lose her life.
But that day was not today.
Genevieve turned back to the countryside, held the scroll out over the rail, and slowly, one piece at a time, she tore it to pieces.
It felt good. She watched the pieces fall, sprinkling down on the countryside, taking the very fall that she herself had almost taken, and piece by piece, she felt her heart begin to mend. Finally, she could sacrifice for Royce, too.
Royce, she thought. I love you.
*
Royce galloped through the countryside on the back of his stolen horse, his wrists still raw from the shackles, his body covered in cuts and scrapes from his fights in the Pits. What hurt worst of all, though, was his heart; it ached at the thought of Genevieve’s betrayal. All of his pain was overshadowed by the heartache of having seen her dressed in royal garb, arm in arm with that noble. It was worse than a thousand swords in his heart.
How could she do it? He could not understand. Genevieve, of all people. The girl he had known all his life. The girl who had known him better than he had known himself. The girl he was about to wed, to be bound to for the rest of his life. The girl he had risked his life for. Were the riches and power so tempting that she would discard him so quickly?
Royce felt an increasing sense of hopelessness as he rode. What was even the point of surviving? He had returned to the mainland only to see Genevieve; it was what had kept him alive, all these moons, in hell on the isle. It was what had sustained him in his dreams. The hope of seeing her again. Of liberating her from her captors.
What captors? She had embraced them. And she had made a fool of him.
Royce entered a thick copse of trees and came to a stop. He needed to let his horse drink, to rest, and he needed a rest himself, even if for a few moments. He stopped beside a stream, well hidden in the trees, and from here, high up on a hill, he had a great vantage point of the countryside. He peered out.
There, far below, he spotted a major crossroads filled with the King’s soldiers. Riding every which way, they were fanning out and pursuing him as they had been most of the day. He had a good head start, and after weaving his way through fields and farms and groves of trees, after galloping across this land he knew so well, he had finally lost them. He watched them turning in various directions, arguing with each other, clearly confused about which way he had gone. He saw a pack of soldiers looking in his direction, as if they were debating whether to go that way. He saw them conferring with their commanders, as if awaiting word from higher up.
Royce held his breath, knowing his fate was in their hands. If word had reached them that he was this way, there would be nowhere left for him to run. He would surely be captured and killed.
He waited, praying they would not pursue in this direction.
Suddenly a horn sounded, and as Royce watched, they all turned and rode off in another direction. He breathed with relief. Somehow, his life had been spared.
Royce turned the other way, looked out at the vista before him, and his heart warmed at the sight. His people lay just beyond those hills. He was in familiar territory once again. The people here were loyal to him; they hated the nobles as much as he did. Now, he had a chance.
His horse done drinking, Royce gave him a kick, lowered his head, and off they went, galloping back through the dense forest. He found a back trail that he knew well, and he continued through the woods, staying out of view. He could ride this way for hours, and reach his people the back way.
Royce rode and rode until the sun lowered in the sky, and finally, breathing hard, exhausted but ignoring his pain, he reached the edge of the woods. He looked across a broad plateau, down into a valley, and his heart soared as he laid eyes on his home village. He wiped tears from his eyes, hardly even aware he was crying. He realized that a part of him had never expected to see it again.
He was home.
Royce had not realized how full of longing he was for his people, his brothers, his family. Most of all, he longed for Genevieve. But he quickly shook the thought from his head. She was gone from him forever.
Royce galloped down, feeling a motivation to live again, eager to be reunited with his family. He was eager to see his brothers, to find out what had become of them after that fateful day. He still felt guilt that they had been caught up in all of this because of him, because of Genevieve.
Royce rode into his village and soon found himself in the familiar dusty streets. As he rode, one by one, eyes began to turn his way. Villagers stopped what they were doing, dropping their wares, and gawked. He watched their eyes widen with disbelief, then hope—then joy.
Royce dismounted and his feet had barely touched the ground when he was embraced by a group of villagers, old friends, rushing up, grabbing him, embracing him.
“Royce!” they called out with joy and disbelief.
Royce hugged them back, overjoyed to see his people again. Whatever had happened in the past, at this moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was home again.
He noticed he felt like a different person now, returning home. After all he had been through, everywhere he had traveled, he felt bigger, stronger. This place seemed smaller. He felt as if he had left a boy and returned a man.
Royce hurried through the crowd, making his way to his home cottage, eager to see his family again. As he reached it, his heart was filled with anticipation. He wondered if his family would be awaiting him inside, as eager to see him as he was them.
Royce went to open the door, and was surprised to find it already ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside, and he stood there, surprised. He was baffled to find it empty. Completely empty. There were no furnishings, no possessions—nothing.
Royce turned and faced the villagers crowding behind him.
“What has happened?” he asked with alarm.
The people looked back somberly and his face fell, all his joy gone, as he saw their concern.
“Where are they!?” he demanded.
Slowly, the villagers shook their heads, silent.
“Tell me!” Royce said, his voice rising. “Where is my family?”
Finally, one of his cousins, Aspeth, a short stocky boy with an earnest faced, answered him.
“Your brothers were imprisoned,” he said softly, his voice heavy with regret. “Your parents were forced to leave the village. We do not know where they went. There were rumors they might have been taken, too. None of your family remains here.”
Royce felt his heart fall at his words.
“My brothers, are they okay?” Royce asked.
Aspeth looked away.
“The rumor is that they are still alive,” he said. “They were thrown into the dungeon.”
Royce felt a pit in his stomach. It was all his fault. Here he was, standing free, while his brothers were rotting away in a dungeon for his actions.
“They pay for my sins,” Royce said, lowering his head, heavy with remorse.
The man shook his head.
“Not your sins,” he corrected. “What you did was honorable. You fought for Genevieve. You fought for us all. If only the others in our country had half the heart you did.”
Royce took a deep breath, taking comfort in his words.
“The people here, look at them,” his cousin said.
Royce looked about and saw all the villagers staring back at him, hope in their eyes.
“For them, you are a hero. The only one who stood up to the great beast. And not just these villagers, but people in all the land. Word has spread. People heard what you did—and even now word has already spread of what you did in the Pits. You are the next champion. More than that, you have killed Lord Nors. The people look to you now as their leader. You cannot let them down.”
Royce watched as the villagers gathered around him, and he saw them looking up at him with adulation. His cousin was right: they needed a leader now.
“I wasn’t trying to be a leader,” Royce said, humbled. “I was merely trying to save the girl I love.”
Royce noticed that he wasn’t able to bring himself to use the past tense. Loved.
Aspeth nodded.
“Yet in so doing,” he replied, “you became a leader. You stood up for her, for justice, for what was right. You didn’t let them take her. No one amongst our people has ever done that before.”
“We’re with you, Royce!” one person called out.
“WE’RE WITH YOU!” they all chimed in.
Royce felt his heart lift with the support of all these people. He had felt so purposeless since he had discovered Genevieve’s betrayal; yet now, seeing his people, feeling their support, their desire for justice, the way they looked at him, he felt a new purpose arise. These people, he could see, needed him. As much as he needed them.
“They are coming for me,” Royce said. “With an army.”
“We will not let them take you,” Enid, his other cousin, called out. “Every one of us here would die for you!”
The crowd cheered in approval.
“We can hide you,” another friend, added. “There are places in this village where they will never find you. And if they come, there are other villages we can bring you to. An entire network of people who want to live free. Villagers waiting for a leader like you.”
Royce rubbed his chin, pondering.
“Stay with us,” Aspeth implored, grabbing his arm. “Train us. Lead us.”
Royce looked out at the sober looks on their faces, and he could see that they meant it.
Finally, he looked back and clasped his cousin’s arm and nodded.
“Okay,” he replied, and the villagers cheered.
“But if we are going to start a war,” he added, “we’ll need warriors. Trained fighters. My friends—Mark, Altos, and Rubin—they were sentenced to the Pits. I vowed to help them, and we need them. We must free them.”
The crowd cheered back, and within moments Royce was mounting his horse again, joined by the men all around him, all rushing to mount their horses.
Royce kicked, leading them, and a great cheer erupted behind him as they rode forward, as one, out into the countryside, sparking the war for freedom.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Royce rode all night, leading the pack of villagers, all of them sticking to the wood as they rode through the local forests that they knew so well—and all determined not to rest until they had reached the fighting pits and liberated Altos, Mark, and Rubin. The sound of galloping horses filling his ears, Royce glanced back and was amazed to see the growing mob following him. Peasants were rising up in every place they passed through, from town to town. There were already nearly a hundred men. Most were farmers, strong men with good hearts, though not trained fighters. They were boys who Royce knew from growing up, cousins, friends of his and Genevieve’s, boys whom he had known for most of his life. Boys he could trust.
And for now, that was all he needed.
As they rode and rode, Royce knew that, whatever happened, he could not abandon his friends, just as he knew they would not abandon him. He would rather die trying to save Mark, Altos, and Rubin than stay here, in hiding, however safe.
Finally, after hours more riding, they reached the edge of the woods and Royce stopped, all the others stopping behind him. Royce peered out from the edge of the wood line, looking into the night, the sound of horses snorting in his ears as he sat there, breathing hard. Torches lit the night in the distance, a broad circle of them, surrounding what must certainly be a pit. In the glow he could see the faces of hundreds of men, villagers cheering, egging on the bloodlust.
They had made it.
The sight infuriated Royce. These men were too happy to watch others die for their sport and pleasure; yet none of them surely would survive a second in the pits themselves. Intermingled amongst them were more nobles, dressed in their finery, shouting, fighting, betting on these men as if they were animals. The whole sight sickened Royce. Did they need the constant death of men to satisfy them?
There was no time to waste. If they could get in and get out quickly enough, maybe, just maybe, they could free Royce’s friends—and the other fighters—and escape from here. Royce knew that, while he had been separated, the three of them had been taken off together.
“Charge!” Royce cried.
There came a great shout as the villagers charged behind him. They rode hard, a death squadron racing down the hill, towards the distant village. Finally, when they were ten yards away, Royce raised a fist, and at his command, they all sounded horns. Royce wanted to terrify the enemy; if he struck fear in them, he figured, it might just stun them long enough to grant him the edge of surprise—especially against such greater numbers.
Royce charged ahead, raised his sword, and as the first soldier turned and raised his weapon, Royce stabbed him in the chest. He then dismounted and kicked him, sending him flying backwards into the pit below.
All around him his men did the same, all dismounting, some wielding spears, others pitchforks, whatever weapons they had to attack the rings of soldiers guarding the pits. Cries rang out in the night as the much better armed soldiers fell, disoriented, clearly unsure who was attacking them. Nobles and soldiers were never attacked. Not in this kingdom.
They quickly gained the advantage. Royce felt filled with hope as he scanned the faces and he spotted Mark and Altos in a line, chained to a dozen other boys, all awaiting their turn to fight in the Pits.
“Royce!” Mark called out in joy, instantly recognizing his friend amidst the chaos.
Royce rushed forward, raised his sword, and slashed the shackles connecting Mark and Altos, freeing them. They, in turn, grabbed swords from the fallen soldiers and freed all the boys up and down the line.
All these boys, in turn, joined in the battle, more soldiers for Royce’s growing army.
The crowd of soldiers had thickened around him, and Royce realized there would be no way out now without fighting their way out.
The fighting became thick, hand-to-hand, wall to wall with men and boys. As three soldiers charged him, Royce ducked beneath a sword slash, then smashed his foe in the head with the hilt of h
is sword. He then spun around and elbowed a man charging him with a spear, then spun forward and slashed another in the stomach as he came at him with an ax.
Royce spotted another soldier charging him out of the corner of his eye, moving too fast for him to react in time. He braced himself for the blow, the soldier’s sword raised high—and then he saw his friend Mark raise his sword, step forward, and save him from the deadly blow, a shower of sparks landing all around Royce. Mark then stabbed his foe in the stomach.
The clanging of swords and pitchforks, of shields and spears, filled the night as men groaned and died, fighting to the death on both sides. One soldier after another fell; yet so did the peasants. The soldiers, in the end, were better trained and better armed, and the element of surprise, Royce could see, was quickly wearing off.
Royce’s people fought like mad, like men possessed, fighting for their lives, and that gave them the edge. As he looked all around him, Royce could not help but feel as if this were the first battle of the revolution.
But a horn pierced the night, a sound that instilled fear in Royce’s heart, and he looked out to the horizon as he heard a rumble. That horn could only mean one thing: reinforcements were on the way.
There wasn’t much time.
“We must leave now!” Mark shouted out, blood on his face, groaning as he deflected a blow with his sword then elbowed his opponent in the face.
Royce agreed; yet he suddenly realized one boy was missing, and he looked around, trying to find him, knowing he could not leave without him.
“Where’s Rubin?”
Mark knocked back two soldiers, smashing them with his shield.
“In the Pits!” Mark called back. “He was fighting in there before this all began!”
Royce turned and looked down, into the pit, and he spotted Rubin down there, fighting a much larger brute with wild, long hair, who was getting the best of him.
“Leave him!” Mark called out. “It’s too late for him!”
But Royce was already in motion. He ran and jumped into the pit, never slowing, sword raised high.
