Only the Worthy (12 page)

Royce marched in
a long row of boys, his legs aching, slipping on the wet rocks that made up
this isle, and wondering, as the sun hung low in the grey sky, if this trek
would ever end. They crested yet another hill and he looked out, hopeful that
this time a destination would lie before them.

His heart fell
in disappointment. There, as far as the eye could see, was more of the same: an
endless wasteland, no landmarks in sight, the ground composed of slick, black
rock interlaced with small puddles, stretching for an eternity. His stomach
grumbled, weak from hunger. They’d had no break, no water, no food. Worst of
all, the incessant, biting wind would not leave them be. His clothes were still
wet from the voyage, and were too light, besides, for the weather here. The
dampness made his clothes stick to his skin, and the cold sank deep into his
bones. He looked at the other boys and saw he was not the only one shivering,
and he found himself looking at his captors’ furs and envying them more than
ever. The soldiers here were all heavily dressed, bedecked in furs, shielding
the cold, with thick boots that could handle the slippery, rocky terrain—unlike
all the new arrivals, including himself, who were badly equipped for this
clime, terrain, or march. It was all a test, Royce realized.

They paused atop
the hill, and Voyt turned and faced the boys, wearing a satisfied smirk.

“I know you all
are cold. And tired. And hungry. Very good,” he said with a smile. “Feel what
it feels like to suffer. Embrace it. It is the only friend you will have here.”

He breathed,
hands on hips, and Royce could tell he relished the bleakness of this place.

“Turn around and
face the sea,” he commanded.

Royce turned
with the others and peered into the distance. It was gray and thick with fog,
and he could barely even see a glimmer of the horizon.

“Behind you
there lies nothing,” Voyt continued. “Before you lies nothing. Except the
faintest glimmer of hope. Before that, you will march. A march that will take
you to the end of all that you are. This is how we welcome initiates here. It
is the march of the worthy.”

He surveyed them
all as the wind howled amidst the silence.

“Only the worthy
will survive this march,” he continued. “Many have taken it before you, and
many have died on this very stone. Feel free to lie down and give up any time.
Most do. You will spare me the effort of killing you later.”

There came a
noise and Royce turned to see one of the boys, a tall, skinny lad who had
seemed to barely cling to life throughout the journey, step out of line, drop
to his knees, and clasp his hands together, begging for mercy.

“Please,” he
called out, weeping. “I can’t take another step. I’m too cold,” he said, his
teeth chattering. “Too tired. Too weak. I cannot go on. Please. Let us rest.
Mercy!”

All the boys
watched nervously as Voyt walked slowly over to the boy, his boots crunching on
the gravel. He suddenly drew his sword and, before Royce could even process
what was happening, stabbed the boy in the heart.

The boy gasped and
dropped onto his side, unmoving, eyes open. Dead.

Royce looked
down at him, stunned.

“There is
mercy,” Voyt said, calmly, to the dead body.

Voyt turned and
looked out at the group of boys.

“Does anyone
else wish for mercy?” he asked.

Royce stood
there, heart pounding, and none of the boys moved.

Finally, slowly,
Voyt turned and continued to march, back into the bleakness.

*

Royce marched
and marched, one foot at a time, and was surprised to find himself slipping in
something soft. He looked down and realized the terrain had changed from black
rock to black mud as they began to descend a new hill. Mark, beside him, lost
his balance and began to fall, and Royce reached out and grabbed his arm,
steadying him.

Mark gave him a
look of gratitude as they continued to walk side-by-side.

“I don’t think I
can make it,” Mark finally confided.

Royce noticed
how pale his friend looked, how unsteady on his feet, and he worried for him.

“You
will
make it,” Royce said. Royce had been feeling on the verge of dying himself, but
at his new friend’s words, he felt a sudden surge of strength. He realized that
when he took his mind off of himself and put it on other woes, when he focused
on worrying for others and not for himself, all his weariness went away.

“You
must
make it,” Royce continued. “
We
must make it. You made a vow, remember?
To watch my back. And I yours. You can’t watch it if you’re dead.”

Mark looked back
and grinned, and he seemed to gain a bounce to his step.

“I remember,” he
conceded. “For you, I will do it. But once we arrive to camp—I will die. Then
you shall watch your own back.”

Royce laughed.

“Deal,” he
agreed.

Suddenly, Royce
felt himself shoved from behind and he stumbled, losing his balance, and fell
to the mud. He felt a pain in his hand and looked down to see he had scraped
his palms on a sharp rock.

Furious, Royce
stood and turned, looking for the culprit. Behind him he saw Rubin, smiling
back, flanked by Seth and Sylvan. They all laughed at Royce.

“Maybe you’ll
watch where you’re going next time,” Rubin mocked.

Royce felt a
wave of fury. He sensed right away that this boy was a bully, a predator,
testing everyone, looking for the weak ones he could dominate. Royce had seen
him do it to others on the ship, testing them as far as they could go until he
finally broke them—and eventually killing them. Royce knew he was being singled
out now, that he was being tested. He could not allow it to happen.

Seeing red,
Royce charged. He came close and kicked, sweeping his legs around, kicking Rubin
as hard as he could and aiming for the back of his knees. He connected with the
soft flesh behind his knee, and as he did, he kicked Rubin’s legs out from
under him and sent him flying, till he landed flat on his back.

The boys crowded
around, instantly cheering.

“FIGHT!”

Royce pounced
before Rubin could get up, kneeling atop him, grabbing his neck and squeezing.

Rubin, though,
was surprisingly strong. He grabbed at Royce’s hand, pulling it off, yet Royce
held on, determined, as if it were a matter of life and death.

“Test me,” Royce
seethed, “and I will kill you. I’ve nothing left to lose. Try me.”

Royce knew he
should stop, yet he kept squeezing. He squeezed until the boy’s face turned
purple. Royce was overcome with rage. He couldn’t take it anymore. He was in a
rage at being taken away from Genevieve, from his brothers, from everyone he
loved in the world. He could not tolerate any more meanness.

Out of the
corner of his eye Royce saw the twins coming for him. He saw Mark rushing
forward and tackling them, sending them both to the ground.

Suddenly, Royce
felt himself kicked in the chest by a huge boot and he was airborne, flying off
the boy; he tumbled on the rock, and then was kicked across the face.

Royce, in pain,
rolled and groaned and looked up. Voyt stood over him, while another soldier
stood over Mark, kicking him off the twins and separating them.

Voyt sneered.

“
I’ll
tell you when it’s time to kill,” he admonished Royce. “Until then, be grateful
I don’t kill you myself.”

Royce stood and
looked over to see Mark, wiping blood from his lip, too. Rubin and the twins
slowly stood, scowling back at Royce and Mark. But this time they did not laugh
or attempt to approach him. He had stood up to the bully and had proven his
point.

“You and me,” Rubin
said, pointing threateningly at him. “Later.”

Royce opened his
arms wide.

“Come now,” he
said, not backing down.

But Rubin turned,
grinning, and strutted off with the twins. But this time, Royce noticed, they
kept their distance.

Rubin acted as
if he had won, and yet Royce knew he had gained his respect. And not just his.
Royce glanced around and saw the faces of dozens of other boys, potential
enemies, potential friends, staring at him. They learned, too. He would not lie
down.

That was
valuable, Royce knew.

In a place like this,
that was more valuable than gold.

*

The sky had
turned dark by the time Royce, frozen to the bone, weary with exhaustion, weak
with hunger, stepped onto real grass. He looked down at first, puzzled, not
understanding why the texture had changed beneath his feet. He had been lost in
a world of fantasy, had been imagining himself anywhere but here. He had seen
himself back at home, with his brothers, reaping the fall harvest, so happy to
be alive. He had seen himself reunited with Genevieve, on their wedding day,
about to exchange vows.

But now, as he
stepped onto the soft new surface, he looked up for the first time in hours and
saw the night sky. It wasn’t quite black in this part of the world, but
streaked with phosphorescent purples and greens. He had lost count of how many
hours—or was it days and nights?—they had been marching. He looked behind him
and saw that of the hundred boys who had come off the ship and set out on this
trek, only a few dozen now remained. The others had died somewhere along the
way, dropping on the isle like flies, landing on the stone with no one to bury
them. The birds that increasingly followed them, though, huge vulture-like
things, hardly waited before descending on their corpses.

Royce, teeth
chattering, looked over and was relieved to see his friend Mark still alive
beside him, though he was hunched over now, barely able to walk. He glanced
back over his other shoulder and was disappointed to see Rubin was still alive,
the twins, too, all glaring back with hatred as if they’d been staring the
entire time. Hatred, Royce realized, could outlive anything.

Royce looked out
before him and was surprised to find, on the far end of the grassy field, a
structure, the first he had seen in this entire isle. It appeared to be a large
cave carved into the side of a mountain—and inside the cave, Royce was shocked
to see, raged a roaring bonfire. Around its flames there glowed the faces of
what appeared to be a hundred soldiers, all standing there, waiting.

Royce, with a
rush of hope, suddenly understood what this meant. He had done it. He had
survived the march of the worthy.

Even better,
Royce was suddenly struck by the smell of roasting meat. It hit him in the
stomach. On the fire he spotted small, roasting game, along with jugs of water,
and of wine. He never thought he would smell food again. Would they allow him?
he suddenly wondered with panic. Or was this all a cruel trick?

Voyt stopped
before them all, turned, and smiled.

“Tonight,” he
boomed, his voice dark, commanding and oddly as full of energy as when Royce
had first heard it, as if the trek across the world had not fazed him at all,
“you dine with men. You enjoy the warmth of the fire. The water. The wine. You
few who have survived have earned it.”

He took a deep
breath.

“And tomorrow,”
he added, “you shall learn what it means to become men. Rest up, for this may
be the last night that many of you shall have on this earth.”

Royce stood
there, cold and exhausted and hungry, barely able to even move, and watched as
the other soldiers slowly left the fire and walked out to embrace their fellow
soldiers. The dozen surviving boys headed toward the fire like moths to a
flame, and Royce walked with them, grabbing Mark’s arm and prodding him along.

Soon they
reached the bonfire, and Royce held out his shaking hands before it. Slowly,
the pain struck him, a million needles in his fingers, his hands coming back to
life. He rubbed them, slowly at first, awkwardly, and they began to thaw. It
was painful; but it was exquisite.

Royce reached
out to Mark, still hunched over, and helped him hold up his hands. He then went
over to one of the roasting spits of meat, and looked up at the soldiers
standing nearby. They nodded back down, granting permission.

Royce took two
pieces and gave one to Mark first.

“Eat,” he urged.

Mark reached up,
took the piece, and slowly took a bite.

Royce took a
bite himself, and it was the best feeling of his life. He chewed and took bite
after bite, barely swallowing before chewing more.

Royce felt
something heavy on his shoulders, and looked back to see a soldier had draped a
heavy fur over him. The soldiers were going from boy to boy, draping a thick,
heavy fur over each. Royce realized it was a badge of honor, a gift for the
survivors. He wrapped the fur tight over his shoulders, and for the first time
since arriving here he felt impervious to the winds of the isle.