Only the Worthy

by Morgan Rice

  Royce landed in a roll, jumped up and deflected the blow of Rubin’s opponent right before he struck him a deadly blow in the chest, saving Rubin’s life. He then kicked his foe, knocking him back in the mud.

  Rubin looked up at Royce, stunned, and as the brute jumped up and ran for Royce, this time Rubin jumped up, charged, and ran his sword through the brute’s chest.

  The brute dropped to the ground, lifeless.

  Rubin turned and stared at Royce, stunned and clearly grateful.

  But there was no time for words—a rope was suddenly thrown down over the side and Royce reached up and grabbed it, Rubin behind him. He looked up and saw Mark and Altos pulling, and they climbed and soon the two of them reached the top, rejoining their men.

  Royce saw more and more soldiers gathering, and he knew he had to get his men out quickly. He mounted his horse and kicked, the others following, and soon they were all following his lead, galloping off into the night.

  Royce led his men, now joined by Mark, Altos, Rubin and several new warriors, hardened men trained for the pits, through the black night, over fields and rolling hills, and back into the woods. He glanced back and saw they had quickly lost track of the discombobulated soldiers, still recovering from the surprise attack.

  Royce rode and rode, joined by his joyful men and the newly liberated soldiers, none of them slowing, all trying to gain as much distance as they could. As they rode, Royce began to feel as if he were at the head of a real, and growing, army. All throughout the night, in each village they rode through, they gathered more and more men, commoners flocking to their cause, all wanting to be a part of it.

  After riding all night, the sky lightening, Royce glanced over his shoulder and was elated to see hundreds of men now joined him. The rebellion was surging. He saw the joyful faces of countrymen looking to him with approval, with hope. As they rode, Royce was getting the craziest idea: perhaps they could sweep across the entire countryside, village to village, and grow an army of their own. Perhaps they could really win, could really restore freedom to all the land.

  After a long, barren stretch, they finally came to another village, and Royce led his men to a stop, knowing they and their horses needed some rest. Exhausted from the hours of riding, satisfied that the nobles were no longer on their tail, Royce realized it was time for he and his men to take a break.

  As they entered they were greeted by a cheer, this village lit by torches, filled with excited, cheering men awaiting them. Clearly word was spreading.

  Royce looked out and was surprised to see hundreds more men awaiting them here, cheering, greeting their arrival as if they were lords themselves. This was a major village, Entvin, lying at a crossroads, a strategic town, situated high on a plateau, making it easy to defend. It was filled with men loyal to his family. Loyal to his captured brothers.

  Royce dismounted and was embraced by all the men, all treating him as if he were family. It felt good. He blinked in surprise as he realized the number of people in this one village alone would double the size of his army. He and his men were offered jugs of water, of wine, led close to raging bonfires that warmed the night. They were handed sticks of meat, and Royce bit into a piece of chicken, devouring it, realizing how famished he was. All around him his men did the same, feasting and washing it down with wine. He could hear their laughter, see their smiles, and it was a sight for sore eyes. He had not seen laughter, he realized, for twelve moons.

  Royce felt a clasp on the shoulder and looked over to see Mark, Altos, and Rubin standing beside him, eyes filled with gratitude.

  “You came back for us,” Mark said, shaking his head. “You really did. Somehow you managed to free yourself and do it.”

  Royce smiled.

  “Did you ever think I would turn my back on you?”

  Mark smiled broadly. “No, I guess I did not.”

  “I, for one, did not think you’d live,” Altos added. “I did not think any of us would.”

  “A few minutes later, and we’d have all been dead,” Rubin chimed in.

  Rubin, glassy-eyed, stared back, clearly touched and at a loss for words.

  “You’ve made me even more ashamed of my actions than I was before,” he added.

  He lowered his head in shame.

  “I shall spend the rest of my life making it up to you,” he said. “To all of you.”

  Royce sensed he was sincere, and he marveled at the ability of men—even the seemingly worst men—to change their character. He realized at that moment that Rubin never had anyone to care for him before; when one person did, it really changed his nature.

  “And now what, Commander?” came a voice.

  The group of men parted, and there stepped forward a large man with broad shoulders, perhaps in his forties, a rough chin with stubble, a broad forehead and nose, and a crop of black and gray hair. Royce recognized him right away. Izzo—one of the most well-respected men in this region, and the leader of this village. It stunned Royce to hear him call him commander.

  “I am no commander,” Royce corrected.

  Izzo shook his head.

  “Aren’t you?” Izzo said. “You have commanded all these men on this night. You have had the courage to face off against the nobles, time and again. These men love you, and would go anywhere for you. You are our commander.”

  There came a huge cheer of agreement, and Royce turned and was stunned to see all these men looking to him as a leader. He was the youngest of the bunch, the one no one had ever expected anything of. It seemed surreal to him.

  “I am only a man who wishes to be free,” Royce said. “Who wishes for those whom I love to be free.”

  Izzo nodded.

  “And that is indeed what makes you a leader.”

  There came another cheer, and as the men gathered around him Royce looked in their faces and could see that they desperately needed a leader. If that’s what they needed, then that’s what he would give them. Not because he wanted to be—but because he wanted to give these men what they needed.

  “Then I shall lead you,” Royce said, “if that is what your heart desires.”

  There came a cheer.

  “I shall listen to whatever it is you want me to do,” he added. “I will lead only as a fellow soldier riding beside you.”

  There came an even louder cheer, and even more men crowded in, swarming around Royce.

  “Where next?” one man called out.

  “My only plan,” Royce called back, “was to free my brothers-in-arms from the Pits—and then to free my brothers. The first half is done—the latter still calls.”

  “They are being held in the dungeon beneath the fort,” Izzo said, his voice grave. “It’s one thing to rescue a few boys from the Pits—it’s quite another to get inside the fort. You’ve tried it once before and it ended badly for you. And this time they’re prepared. We have a few hundred men, and most are not warriors. They have a few thousand, all professionals. If this is what you wish to do, we shall do it—but you will lead all your men to death.”

  Royce stared back, thinking, realizing the wisdom in his words.

  “There may be another way,” called out a voice.

  Royce turned to see Sovil, an old friend of his father. He had tilled the soil for many seasons by his side, and he was a strong man with graying hair and a proud heart, well respected.

  “The Jakobens,” he said.

  The crowd fell silent, and Royce did, too, as he pondered the name. It was a name that carried much power and weight. The Jakobens. The nobles of the North. They hated the local lords as much as Royce and his people did. Perhaps in them they could find an ally. Yet the Jakobens were nobles, too, after all.

  “They have an army,” Sovil continued. “A small one, but a true one. Men with horses and armor and the weaponry we need. If they join our cause, we could take the fort and free your brothers—and perhaps even our land.”

  Izzo shook his head.

  “It would spark a civil war,” he said.<
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  “What makes you think the Jakobens will join us?” another man called out. “And not turn us in as their prize?”

  “Because they despise the House of Nors,” Sovil called back.

  The man shook his head.

  “But they are nobles themselves. And if there is anything they despise more it is our class. Peasants. We are threatening to them. They have an even greater motivation to keep us under their thumb.”

  “Yet they are out of our region,” Sovil countered. “They stand more to gain by joining our cause.”

  The men continued grumbling while Royce stood by, contemplating their words. These were complicated matters for complicated times. He did not see how he could solve all of this, much less lead these men.

  And yet as the crowd quieted, he could sense them all slowly looking to him to decide. Was that what leaders did? Royce wondered. Make hard decisions, with no time to consider them, and with little information to act on?

  A silence fell, all eyes on him.

  “I have no great experience,” he said back softly. “I am but a boy, one of you, a peasant who only wishes for freedom. Nothing else.”

  There came a grumble of approval, while Royce gathered his thoughts.

  “I do not know the answers to all of these questions,” he continued. “I do not know which is the best path to follow. None of us do. If you think that trying to convince the north to help us is the best course of action, then I shall do it. All I know is that I love my brothers. They are prisoners. And I want them freed!”

  The crowd cheered.

  “They are our brothers, too!” someone called out.

  The crowd cheered again, warming Royce’s heart, then broke into an excited murmur, all the men debating amongst themselves what the best course of action was.

  As he stood there, suddenly a man stepped forward from out of the shadows and walked right toward Royce. Royce looked back at the old man, and was surprised to recognize who it was: Sol. The village historian and scholar. Royce remembered his father visiting him a few times as a boy, and the respect in which all the men held him.

  Sol stepped closer to Royce, eyes burning with intensity, walking with his staff. He stared at Royce, squinting, as if trying to decide something. The way he examined Royce made him feel uncomfortable. Slowly, the crowd quieted and watched.

  Sol’s eyes lowered to Royce’s neck.

  “What is that you wear about your neck?”

  Royce looked down and suddenly remembered his necklace; it had come loose in the battle and now hung over his shirt, visible for all to see.

  Wondering what this was about, Royce slowly removed it and held it up in the torchlight, slowly placing it in Sol’s outstretched, cold, wrinkled palm. Royce felt a wave of apprehension, remembering how Voyt had reacted to it. Did this man know his father? His real father? Or had Voyt been wrong all along?

  Sol’s eyes narrowed in the torchlight as he studied it, then slowly, they widened. He looked up at Royce with a new expression, as if an alien had just landed in his midst.

  “As I thought,” Sol continued, his voice soft, hoarse. “I could see it in your eyes.”

  Royce wondered what Sol was speaking of, when suddenly he turned to the group of men and shouted:

  “Behold, Artis’s son lives!”

  The crowd gasped. All eyes fell to Royce, and he felt his cheeks burn as they stared at him as if he were a stranger. He was baffled. He felt as if he were a stranger to himself.

  Royce’s heart slammed in his chest. He felt the world spinning, felt outside of himself. Clearly, Sol must be mad.

  “This pendant,” the old man said, holding it up to the fire’s light, slowly turning, “it could be no other. This is the lost boy!”

  The crowd stared at Royce, now in a thick silence, and he could see their expressions slowly shift to one of wonder and awe.

  Royce shook his head.

  “You are confused,” he insisted. “I am the son of Murka, son of Anka, a farmer and a peasant, as was his father before him.”

  But Sol only shook his head.

  “You are no son of Murka,” he replied. “And you are no peasant.”

  Royce felt as if everything he had ever known for certain in the world were falling apart around him. Could any of this be true? What would it all mean?

  “Who, then, is Artis?” Royce demanded.

  Sol stepped forward, looking at Royce with a new respect, as if he were a great ruler. Slowly, he placed a cold hand on his shoulder and stared into his eyes.

  “Artis,” he said slowly, “was our former king. And you, my boy, are next in line.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Royce’s head spun as he rode amidst the thunder of hundreds of men’s horses, across the plains at night, galloping north, as they had been for hours. Finally, the sun was beginning to break over the horizon, giving some respite to the cold, endless night.

  Royce glanced down again at his necklace.

  A king. My father.

  When he had heard the words, Royce had felt the world sinking beneath his feet. It was one of those life-changing moments, one that made him look at the world in an entirely different way. All of his life, Royce had felt, deep down, that something was different about him. He had felt he was unlike his brothers, unlike his family, unlike everyone around him. They had loved him and embraced him, as he had them, yet never quite as an equal, never quite as a normal member of their family. His powers, which came to him at the most unexpected times, had always made him feel different, too. He had always been a little faster and stronger and more skilled at fighting than he should be. And while that had thrilled him, it had also terrified him.

  Why? he had wondered again and again. How was he different?

  He had been reluctant to ponder it, yet Royce had to admit that he had always, deep down, suspected that perhaps more than a mere farmer’s blood ran through him. He had always felt it was the blood of a warrior.

  Perhaps, even, if he ever dared to think of it, the blood of a king.

  Royce had always shaken the thought away, though. It was clearly ridiculous. Yet now, hearing someone else utter the words, he sensed that it was all true. Everything he had ever felt in his life about himself, that he had been afraid to trust. He was, truly, set apart. He was not a mere villager.

  He was a warrior.

  A king.

  And that meant he had a destiny to fulfill.

  A destiny. It was a powerful word. One he’d never thought would apply to himself. It was a word that changed the way he felt about himself, and the way he looked at the world. Indeed, as he rode, he kept seeing the King’s face, a face he did not know, and yet somehow he did. His true father. He felt him looking down upon him, and he could not help but feel, for the first time in his life, that his father was with him. Even now. Watching over him. Urging him not to fail.

  As he rode and rode, the sound of hundreds of hooves galloping in his ears, Royce wondered what the future held for him. Looking on all sides, he could hardly believe his growing army had swelled to over a thousand men, that men were flocking to them from all the villages. It gave him something to take his mind off of Genevieve—and off of his brothers, rotting in a dungeon and awaiting his help.

  They rode and rode, and finally, in the distance, against the breaking dawn, Royce spotted their destination, high up on a hill: Mountrock. The castle of the Jakobens and stronghold of the north.

  It was a dazzling sight, carved of ancient stone, adorned with parapets and turrets. Royce felt a burst of inspiration, yet he also felt a pit in his stomach. Nobles and lords resided in that castle, and he didn’t trust any of their class. They also had a well-trained army, one invested in keeping the peasantry down. True, they were in rivalry with the House of Nors, yet all these warring houses of lords still answered to the King and Queen of Sevania in their capital of Celcus, and their army of knights. How would they receive Royce and his men? Would they wage a war that would end it all right he
re? Wouldn’t they have to, to remain loyal to the King?

  Or would they invite them in, and join them in attacking the south?

  Sovil and the others seemed to think that if they knew Royce was King Artis’s son, they would look upon him differently, that it would give them the cover they needed to join the peasantry. King Artis, after all, had ruled in the north. He’d had many loyal followers—yet he’d also, from what Royce had heard, had many enemies.

  They crested a hill and it all spread out before them as they approached the castle. They rode up steep grass embankments, the men gathering around Royce, forging a tight line, like an arrowhead soaring up the mountain. A deep moat awaited them at the top, ringing the fort, spanned by a long, wooden bridge, an ancient thing. Dozens of soldiers in gleaming armor stood before it and along it. All were, despite the time of day, at perfect attention.

  These were professional soldiers, Royce could tell at a glance. They had clearly spotted Royce and his men from miles away, because they already had lances down, visors drawn, the portcullis lowered. They were ready to greet them. Royce looked up and spotted even more men lining the parapets. There were layers and layers of defenses here. He could not help but admire it all.

  Horns sounded up and down the line from the fort, and Royce saw a row of archers take a knee, take aim, and draw their bows.

  Royce realized at once that, even with his thousand men, this was a battle they could not win.

  Royce and his followers finally reached the entrance to the bridge, and as they did, Royce signaled for his men to stop, while he stopped before them.

  A knight stepped forward, a man in gleaming armor, and he raised his visor and stared back at Royce, a stern, unyielding expression in his eyes.

  With all eyes on him, Royce knew he had to make a quick decision. He dismounted, not reaching for his sword, to show he meant no harm. He stood there and stared back.

  “You’ve trespassed on Lord Jakoben’s property,” he snapped. “What business have you here? If it’s a war you want, you have come to the wrong place. One nod from me, and those two hundred archers will place arrows through all of your hearts.”