Only the Worthy (13 page)

Royce took the
jug of wine that the soldiers were passing around, took a long sip, and
immediately felt the warmth spreading through his body. This, combined with the
furs and the warmth of the fire, slowly brought him back to life.

Tomorrow, he
might die. But tonight, and for this moment, he was alive again.

Royce was
awakened by rough hands on his back, yanking him to his feet. He stood there,
wobbly, still in the world of dreams and unsure if he was awake or asleep.
Disoriented, he opened his eyes, on alert, wondering what was happening. He
looked out and saw the world was scarlet, the breaking dawn before him seeming
to fill the entire world, and he had never felt more exhausted in his life. He
felt as if he had just closed his eyes to sleep a moment ago. Still knocked out
from the march, it had been the deepest—and shortest—sleep of his life.

Royce heard a
commotion and saw all the other boys being jerked to their feet, too, all
roughly rounded up by the soldiers. The smell of smoke heavy in the air, he
looked over and saw the bonfire was smoldering, and he realized, in his
exhaustion, he had collapsed beside it the night before. His clothes reeked of
smoke.

At least now,
though, his body felt warm. Yesterday he had been as cold as he had ever been,
certain he would never get warm again. Now, though, with the thick furs, the
warm food and wine in his belly and the night he had spent beside the flames,
he felt ready to face the world again.

“Move out!” a
voice yelled, piercing the morning silence.

Royce saw Mark
standing beside him, looking half-dead, but before he had a chance to speak to
him he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his back, jolting him fully awake. He spun
to see he been jabbed in the small of his back by a long staff, a soldier
scowling back as he moved up and down the line, jabbing all the boys, herding
them like sheep.

Royce moved with
all the others down a hill of rock and soon found himself standing in a field
of mud. He and the boys lined up beside each other, all surrounded by the
soldiers, who formed a broad, wide circle. Royce, heart pounding, wondered what
was happening. He didn’t like the looks of it.

Long, wooden staffs
suddenly flew through the air as soldiers each threw one toward the boys. One
was aimed right for him, and Royce snatched it mid-air, wondering.

Voyt stepped
forward sternly and addressed them.

“A few dozen of
you against a hundred of us,” he said, grinning. “You will learn to fight
together, and to fight as a team. You will learn to need each other. In the
Pits you will fight alone. But in order to learn how to fight for oneself, one
must first learn how to fight for others.”

A horn sounded,
there came a great shout, and suddenly the dozens of soldiers charged. Royce
braced himself as the soldiers bore down with heavy, wooden swords, raising
them high for maximum damage.

Without
thinking, Royce raised his staff to block. The soldier came down with such
strength that Royce thought it would snap his staff in two. The staff held. Yet
the vibration ran through Royce’s arms, his attacker’s strength surprising him.

The clacking of
wood filled the air, as Royce blocked one blow after the next, the soldier driving
him back. He raised his staff and stopped a sword slash before it came down for
his head, then sidestepped and blocked another blow before it reached his ribs.
He saw an opening and lowered his staff and then brought it up high, knocking
the sword from his attacker’s hands. He was stunned he had done so, and pleased
with himself.

But he then felt
a terrible pain in his back, and he dropped to a knee and turned to see he had
been whacked by another soldier, in his kidney. The pain was unbearable.

Before he could
gather himself, he suddenly felt an awful pain in his head, as he was whacked
yet again.

He dropped
face-first onto the mud, feeling a lump forming on his head.

“Get up!” a
soldier snarled, standing over him. “Warriors don’t quit.”

He shoved Royce
with his boot, rolling him over in the mud, and as Royce looked up, he saw the
wooden sword coming down for his chest. He knew it would really hurt, and that
he didn’t have much time.

Royce suddenly
realized if he wanted to survive this place, he would have to rise above his
pain, above his suffering. He would have to learn to survive—and even
thrive—while in the midst of pain.

Royce,
determined, forced himself to fight back. He felt a sudden rush of rage, a
determination not to get beaten down here in the mud, however imposing the foe,
and as the sword came down, he rolled, swung around with his staff, and whacked
the soldier hard behind the knees. The blow knocked the soldier off his feet,
and Royce watched with satisfaction as the man fell to his back.

Royce jumped to
his feet, spun, and blocked the below from another soldier, right before it hit
his face. He stepped forward and jabbed his staff into the other attacker’s
solar plexus, dropping him, with a whoomph, to his knees.

Royce,
invigorated, spun every way, fighting for his life, fully awake, determined not
to go down again. He was reeling from the pain and bumps and bruises, but was
determined to rise above it. Holding his staff with two hands, he blocked a
mighty blow of the sword as it came down right for his head. He then leaned
back and kicked his attacker, driving him back.

Another soldier
rushed him from the side, and this time, Royce was able to detect him. He did
not know how, but as he fought, it was as if his abilities were fine tuning, as
if some foreign force were overtaking him. He reached around and jabbed the man
with his staff before he could get close.

He then spun and
whacked another soldier across the hands as he lowered his sword, disarming
him.

He then ducked
as a blow came for his head, swung around, and cracked another attacker in the
back.

Royce fought
like a man possessed. He felt a familiar energy rising within him, one he had
never understood but was learning to embrace. It spread throughout his chest,
his palms, a warmth, a surge. He looked around and the world slowed and came
into focus. He could see everything in minute detail. The sounds became muted,
and it was as if, for just a moment, the universe existed solely for him.

Royce saw the
other boys getting beaten, falling in all directions. Some dropped to their
knees as they were slashed and jabbed in the stomach; others were struck across
the back. Even Rubin and the twins were on the ground, on their bellies in the
mud, staffs long knocked from their hands, as soldiers whacked them again and
again. Blows rained down upon them from all directions. It was a beating. A
trial by fire. This was no sparring match.

It was a brutal
initiation.

He realized with
a sudden fury that some of these boys might even die from these blows.

Royce was filled
with indignation. It was unfair. This entire isle, his entire reason for being
sent here, was unfair. He railed at the injustice of the universe. They weren’t
looking to train them, he suddenly realized. They were looking to break them.

Royce refused to
let himself die. Not this way.

Royce felt the
power course through him, a power that had always been lingering just below the
surface, a feeling that set him apart, that made him different. It made him
stronger, faster, lighter. He had never been able to consciously tap it before.

Not until now.
Here, in this desolate place, at the end of the earth, with nothing left to
lose, the power came to him.

Royce allowed
himself to be subsumed by it. He allowed himself, for the first time, to be controlled
by something he did not understand.

Suddenly, the
world came rushing back to full speed again. He swung his staff with all his
might, knocking the sword from an approaching soldier’s hands. The soldier,
much larger, looked at him, stunned, and Royce brought his staff straight up,
connecting under his chin and knocking him flat on his back.

Royce ducked a
blow and lifted up, using his back to send a soldier flying. He then spun,
again and again, cutting through the crowd, attacking instead of retreating. He
was like a fox, darting in and out of them, spinning and striking, ducking and
jabbing, leaving a field of victims in his wake. No one could touch him.

Royce moved like
a snake through water. He did not allow himself to stop even for a moment, and
soon, he was dimly aware that he was downing all of the soldiers in the field.

As the rage
consumed him, Royce felt caught up in a blur of motion, swinging and striking,
kicking, jumping, throwing himself into the battle with careless abandon. He
felt himself melting into the power of the universe. And for the first time in
his life, he felt invincible.

When it was all
done, Royce hardly knew what had happened. He stood there, breathing hard, and
took in the now-quiet scene, shocked. Lying on the ground around him were
nearly a hundred men, soldiers, all on their hands and knees, all in a state of
shock.

But what
unnerved Royce most was the look they all gave him. It was not only shock. Not
only awe.

They looked at
him as if he were different.

And he felt it
himself, coursing in his veins. He was not of these boys, of these men.

He
was
different.

But how?

Who, after all,
was he?

Six
moons later

Royce lunged,
slashing at his friend Mark, the click clack of wooden swords filling the air as
they drove each other back and forth across the summer fields. Royce could not
help but notice that they were both stronger now, faster, more hardened—and
better warriors. Neither was able to get the best of one another.

They swung and
parried like a well-oiled machine, testing and prodding each other’s
weaknesses, getting better with each swing, as they had for the past six moons.
They had trained so much, it was like they could read other’s thoughts, and as
Royce lunged, again and again, Mark always anticipated, blocking or dodging
just in time. Yet Mark, too, could not gain a move on him.

Royce heard the
shouts and cheers all around him, dimly aware of the dozen boys surrounding
them, egging them on. But six moons ago there were dozens of these boys. But
these past six moons had been too cruel, had narrowed their ranks too thinly.
There had been losses from starvation, from the bitter cold, from sparring,
drowning, encounters with beasts, battles with authority, and from relentless
training sessions that were so grueling that some of the boys had dropped dead
on the spot.

As Voyt had
warned, the weak were weeded out here, day after day.

As Royce
slashed, he tried to push from his mind the most recent funeral for one of his
brothers in arms, earlier this morning, a grim affair for a boy who had drowned
while trying to swim across the Great Channel. It had been the final leg of a
day-long training session, and as he’d cried for help, caught up in the tides,
but feet from shore, no soldiers had gone for him. Nor had they allowed Royce
or the others to go for him. It was part of the training, they’d said.

Royce tried to
shake the thought from his mind, but the boy’s cries still echoed in his head.

Distracted,
Royce felt a sting of pain as he suddenly looked up to see Mark landing a blow
on his arm. Before he could react, Mark spun his sword around quickly and
disarmed him, knocking Royce’s sword out of his hand, leaving him defenseless.

Surprised,
Royce, defenseless, charged and tackled his friend to the ground, driving him
down. The two wrestled on the ground, until Royce managed to get Mark in a
lock, grabbing his shoulders and pinning him down.

“Give!” Royce
demanded.

“Never!” Mark
said.

Mark rolled and
threw Royce off of him. The boys cheered as the two of them regained their feet
and their swords, facing each other, looking for an opening to lunge again.

“Match!” cried a
voice.

Royce and Mark
looked over as Voyt marched up and appeared before them, a wooden sword in
hand. He scowled down.

“You both fought
miserably,” he said. “Keep fighting like that, and you shall surely be killed
in the Pits.”

Royce was
unsurprised by his words. Voyt had not had a kind word to say since the day
they’d arrived. Yet deep down, secretly, Royce knew that he had improved—very
much improved—and he sensed Voyt admired him.

A horn sounded,
shouts rang out, and more boys entered the ring and began fighting. The
click-clack that never ended on this isle rose again.

On and on it
went, as it had hour after hour, day after day.

“Royce!” shouted
a voice.

Royce turned to
see Voyt scowling down at him, hands on his hips.

“Come with me.”

Royce exchanged
a glance with Mark, who looked back nervously. Voyt had never summoned any of
them before. Royce did not see how this could go well.

Royce turned and
followed as all the other boys stared, clearly wondering what this could be
about, and he hurried to catch up to Voyt.

“You lose, time
and again, because of the way you hold your sword, the way you hold your body,”
Voyt said, disappointment in his voice, looking ahead as he walked.

Royce frowned.

“I did not
lose,” he said. “It was a draw.”

Voyt huffed.

“A draw is a
loss,” he chided. “Not winning is a loss. In the Pits, if you don’t win, you
are dead.”

They walked on
in silence, up and down rolling hills, Royce’s apprehension deepening. None of
this boded well. Would he be killed?

Finally, they
reached a large, burnt tree, its twisted branches reaching to the sky, and Voyt
came to a stop in the clearing beneath it.

Voyt turned and
faced him. He drew two real swords from his belt, holding one and throwing the
other to Royce.

Royce caught it
mid-air, surprised by the weight of it. He held it up, admiring its heavy metal
hilt, the double thick blade. He looked up and saw Voyt grinning, his sword
gleaming in the light, and he felt a wave of fear. It was the first time they’d
held real swords.

“Have I done
something wrong?” Royce asked. “Are you going to kill me?”

Voyt smiled, and
Royce realized he had never seen him smile. It came out more like a frown. He
was a large, intimidating figure, casting a broad shadow over the entire group,
soldiers and boys alike.

“If you are not
fast enough, I just might.”

Voyt suddenly
charged, raising his sword, coming for him. Royce, out of sheer instinct,
raised his own sword at the last second and blocked the heavy blow. The sharp
clang of metal rang out, and sparks came showering down all around them. The
vibration of the blow rang up Royce’s arm, through his elbow. He was stunned by
the commander’s overpowering strength and speed, and he had no idea how he
could fight him.

Voyt didn’t even
pause; he spun his sword around, and in one quick motion slashed Royce’s sword.
There came the sound of steel scraping steel as he knocked Royce’s sword from
his hand.

Royce, helpless,
watched it go flying, until finally it landed in the dirt several feet away.
Voyt held the point of his sword to Royce’s neck, and Royce stood there,
defenseless, ashamed.

“You are going
to have to do a lot better than that,” Voyt reprimanded. “Have the past six
moons taught you nothing?”

Royce looked
down, shamed, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks.

“Why have you
brought me here?” Royce asked.

A heavy silence
fell as Voyt stepped forward, boots crunching in the gravel. Royce braced
himself for a fatal blow.

“To teach you
how to stay alive,” he replied in his deep voice.

Royce looked up,
stunned. He suddenly realized that he wasn’t led here to be killed; on the
contrary, he realized that Voyt had taken an interest in him. He wondered why.

“Why me?” Royce
asked. “Why now?”

Voyt lowered his
sword.

“You have a
quality unlike the others,” Voyt said. “I may be interested to see you live a
little bit longer. Then again, I may not. Now go get your sword and stop asking
questions.”

Royce bolted off
after his sword and held it up again. This time he tightened his grip, vowing
not to lose it.

Voyt attacked
again, groaning as he came down, and Royce blocked it, sparks showering.

“Two hands!”
Voyt yelled.

Royce tightened
his grip as Voyt swung around, a mighty blow that would have chopped a tree in
half. Royce deflected the blow in a shower of sparks, his entire body teetering
from it.

Voyt charged,
swinging again and again, side to side, driving Royce back across the clearing
beneath the twisted tree. Yet each time, Royce managed to block, drenched in
sweat, arms shaking, but surviving. Sparks rained down all over him, Royce
barely able to hold his own against Voyt’s herculean strength.

“You are slow,”
Voyt called out as he swung. “Like a duck wading through mud. Because you move
with your arms, not with your hips, as you should. Power starts at your feet,
not your shoulders. Fight with your feet—and the rest will follow.”

Before Royce
could process his words, Voyt suddenly swung around with his foot and swept
Royce’s legs out from under him.

Royce fell on
his back in the mud, winded, and blinked as he looked up at Voyt, who stood
over him, shaking his head.

“You focus too
much on your foe’s weapons,” Voyt chided. “There are many weapons to a
combatant. Swords, yes. But hands and feet, too.”

Royce scrambled
back to his feet and faced off again, breathing hard, wiping sweat from his
eyes. Again Voyt charged, and again Royce blocked.

As Voyt drove
him around the clearing, this time Royce tried to pay attention to what he’d been
taught. He focused on his feet, and he began to feel himself moving more
quickly, a bit more agile. He realized that Voyt was right. He managed to
sidestep two blows that would have reached him before.

 “Better,” Voyt
commented as he slashed down, just missing his arm. “But still too slow.”

“This field is
mud,” Royce called back, slipping. “That’s what’s stopping me.”

Voyt laughed.

“And do you
think I am fighting on water?” he rebuked. “We share the same ground.”

He snarled as he
charged Royce with a fierce combination of slashes, seeming to rain down on him
from all directions at once. It was all Royce could do to block them.

“Why do you
think I brought you are here?” Voyt barked. “Do you think your opponent shall
fight on a different ground than you? Do you think he, and he alone, holds the
advantage? Do you think the Pits are made of grass and gravel? You’ll be
fighting in mud. And you’ll likely die in mud. And from the looks of you,
complaining the whole time.”

Voyt let out a
cry as he lunged again; this time Royce sidestepped and just missed the blow as
Voyt went rushing past.

Royce was
surprised at his own dexterity.

Voyt turned and
faced him.

“Quick,” he
commented. “But another failure. You missed an opportunity. When you’re close,
you must forget your weapon and use your hands. You should have grabbed and
thrown me as I passed by.”

As he said these
words he spun around and in one quick motion elbowed Royce in the back.

Royce stumbled
forward, the pain blinding between his shoulder blades, and landed face first
in the mud, winded. It felt as if a sledgehammer had smashed his back; he could
scarcely believe one man could be that strong.

A moment later
he felt strong hands lift him to his feet.

Royce stood
there, face covered in mud, embarrassed, dejected.

“You will meet
me here tomorrow before dawn,” Voyt said. “Before the others wake. We shall try
again.”

Royce looked at
him, shocked at the honor. He was filled with gratitude even while he was
filled with pain.

“Why me?” he
asked again.

Royce stared at
Voyt and he found himself looking into the dark eyes the eyes of a killer. Yet
they were also the eyes of a brave and true warrior, one Royce admired more
than he could say.

“Because I see
myself in you,” Voyt said

Royce wondered
how that could be possible. Voyt was the greatest warrior he had ever met. And
a leader amongst men.

“If any one of
this crop has a chance of surviving, it is you. The rest are already dead in my
eyes.”

Royce was
floored by the compliment; he had no idea how he had even caught the attention
of Voyt, who he had always thought looked down upon him. Yet at the same time
Royce thought of Mark, and his heart dropped for his friend, as he imagined him
not surviving.

Royce stared
back.

“You really
think I can survive?” he asked.

Voyt stared
back, deadly serious.

“Probably not,”
he replied. “Not for long. But if I can prolong your life a little more, that
will be enough.”

Royce was
baffled by this mysterious man.

“But why?” he
asked. “Why do this for me?”

Voyt glanced
down, and Royce realized he was looking at his necklace. He then looked back to
Royce.

“For your
father.”

Royce stood
there, completely baffled.

“My
father
?”
Royce asked. “My father is but a peasant, a farmer in a small village. How
would you, a great warrior, ever know my father?”

Slowly,
seriously, Voyt shook his head.

“Your father is
the only man who ever defeated me. And the only warrior I ever loved.”

Voyt suddenly
turned and marched off, leaving Royce standing there, filled with wonder.

Royce reached
down and looked at his gold necklace as if never seeing it before, and for the
first time in his life, a new thought crossed his mind.

Who was his
father?

And who, after
all, was he?