Only the Worthy (21 page)

“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.

“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.”

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 here? 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.”

Royce slowly
shook his head, facing the man proudly.

“We have not
come to wage war,” he replied. “But to invite you to wage one with us. As
brothers, side by side.”

The knight
stared back, clearly perplexed.

“And why would
we join in such a war? Against whom?”

“Against the
nobles of the south,” Royce replied. “The House of Nors.”

The knight
appeared to let his guard down just a little bit, yet still remained very much
on edge.

“If we wanted to
wage war, we would do so,” he replied. “We wouldn’t need your help. We don’t
know you. You have not yet even announced yourself.”

Royce stepped
forward, removed his chainmail helmet, held it in his hands, and stared back
earnestly at the knight. He stood there, the wind blowing in his face, then
finally took a deep breath, his heart trembling to say the words.

“I am Royce,” he
said. “Son of King Artis.”

It felt strange
to say the words aloud; yet it also felt right. And for the first time in his
life, it filled him with a sense of pride.

The soldier
blinked, clearly stunned. He examined Royce for several seconds, studying his
face, and finally his eyes widened and his face changed entirely. After an
eternity, all facing off in a tense silence, the wind ripping through the
plains, the knight glanced back at his lines of men, then nodded in
acknowledgment.

He raised a
lance high in the air.

“Open the
gates!” he called out.

The sound of
heavy chains groaned through the air, and Royce watched, his heart pounding
with excitement, as the thick portcullis was raised. He mounted his horse and
began to ride slowly over the bridge, all his men following. The rows of
knights lowered their lances as they passed, horses’ hooves clomping over the
wood.

As they reached
the huge stone arch, though, a group of knights lowered their lances and
blocked their way.

“Only a few of
you may pass through,” he said. “The rest of your men must wait here.”

“You cannot!” Altos
cried out to Royce. “It may be a trap! We cannot protect you inside.”

Royce glanced
back and saw his men all looking at him with concern. He then turned and looked
back at the open portcullis, the army of waiting knights, and he realized that
this was one of the defining moments in his life. His men were looking to him
for leadership, and he owed it to them to give it to them.

He nodded.

“I shall go,” he
said to his men. “If I die, I shall die with honor, and you shall take up the
cause. We must not fear our enemies—especially those who will soon be friends.”

Royce continued
to walk his horse, only Mark, Altos, Rubin, Aspeth, Sol and Sovil joining him,
the rest of his force remaining behind.

The knights
raised their lances, and soon Royce was leading the small group through the
stone arch, under the portcullis, and into the mercy of the enemy.