Only the Worthy Page 6

  A bustling mob encircled him, some shouting and jeering, others protesting, seemingly on his behalf. It was as though these people had erupted in civil war, he in the center. He struggled to make sense of what he saw. Was this, he wondered, a dream?

  The pain was too intense for this to be a dream; the stabbing headache, the coarse ropes digging into his wrists. He struggled, to no avail, at the ropes binding his wrists and ankles and looked down to realize he was tied to a stake. His heart pounded to see a pile of wood beneath him, as if ready to be lit. Fear crept over him as he realized he was strung up in the castle courtyard.

  Royce looked out and saw hundreds of villagers swarming into the courtyard, saw dozens of knights and guards standing along the walls; he saw a makeshift wooden stage, perhaps fifty feet away, and on it, tribunal judges, all nobles. In the center sat a man he recognized: Lord Nors. The head of the nobles’ family. Manfor’s father. He was the presiding judge of the countryside. And he sat in the center and stared down at Royce with a hatred unlike any Royce had seen.

  It did not bode well.

  All of it came rushing back to Royce. Genevieve. Breaking into the fort. Rescuing her. Killing Manfor. Jumping. Fighting off those knights. And then…

  There came the slamming of a hammer on wood several times, and the crowd quieted. Lord Nors stood, glowering down at all, and he was even more fierce, more commanding, standing. He set his fury-filled eyes on Royce and Royce realized he was being put on trial. He had seen several trials before, and none had gone well for the prisoners.

  Royce scanned the faces, desperate to find any glimpse of Genevieve, praying she was safe, away from all this.

  Yet he found none. That was what worried him most of all. Had she been imprisoned? Killed?

  He tried to block out various nightmare scenarios from his mind.

  “You hereby stand accused of the murder of Manfor of the House of Nors, son of Lord Nors, ruler of the South and the Woods of Segall,” Lord Nors boomed out, and the crowd grew completely still. “What is your plea?”

  Royce opened his mouth, struggled to speak—but his lips and throat were parched. His voice fell short, and he tried again.

  “He stole my bride,” Royce finally managed to reply.

  There came a chorus of supportive cheers, and Royce looked out to see thousands of villagers, his countrymen, pouring in, wielding clubs and sickles and pitchforks. His heart leapt with hope and gratitude as he realized all his people had come to support him. They had all had enough.

  Royce looked up at Lord Nors and saw him lose his conviction, just a touch. A nervous look spread across his face as he turned and looked to his fellow judges and they looked to the knights. It seemed as if they were beginning to realize that they might, if they condemned Royce to death, have a revolution on their hands.

  Finally, Lord Nors slammed his hammer, and the crowd quieted.

  “And yet,” he boomed, “the law is clear: any peasant woman is the property of any noble until she is wed.”

  There came a loud chorus of boos and hisses from the crowd, and the mob surged forward. An anonymous person hurled a tomato toward the stage, and the crowd cheered, as it barely missed Lord Nors.

  There came a horrified gasp amongst the nobles, and as Lord Nors nodded, the knights began to push into the crowd, eager to find the offender. Yet they soon stopped and thought better of it as they were swarmed by hundreds more villagers bustling into the square, making passage impossible. One knight attempted to elbow his way forward, but he soon found himself completely engulfed by the masses, shoved every which way, and amidst angry shouts and cheers, he backed away.

  The crowd cheered. Finally, they were standing up for themselves.

  Royce felt a surge of optimism. A turning point had arrived. All the peasants, like he, had had enough. No one wanted their women taken anymore. No one wanted to be thought of as property. All of them realized that they could be in Royce’s position.

  Royce scanned the mob, still desperate to find Genevieve—and his heart suddenly leapt as he spotted her at the edge of the courtyard, she, bound in ropes. Nearby stood his three brothers, they, too, bound as well. He was relieved to see that at least they were alive, and uninjured. But upset to see them bound. He wondered what would become of them, and he wished more than anything that he could take their punishment for them.

  As the crowd swelled, the magistrates looked more nervous than before, and they looked to Lord Nors with uncertain glances.

  “It is your law!” Royce called out, finding his voice, emboldened. “Not ours!”

  The crowd let out an enormous roar of approval, as it surged forward dangerously, pitchforks and sickles raised high in the air.

  Lord Nors, scowling back down at Royce, held up his hands, and the crowd finally quieted.

  “My son is dead on this day,” he boomed, his voice heavy with grief. “And if I were to uphold the law, you would be killed, too.”

  The crowd booed and swarmed threateningly.

  “And yet,” Lord Nors boomed, raising his hands, “given the situation of our times, killing you would not be in the best interests of the crown. And thus,” he said, turning and looking to his fellow magistrates, “I have decided to grant you mercy!”

  There came a great cheer from the crowd, rippling through in waves, and Royce felt a surge of relief. Lord Nors raised his hands.

  “Your brothers killed none of our men in your raid, and thus they shall not be killed, either.”

  The crowd cheered.

  “They shall be imprisoned!” he boomed.

  The crowd booed.

  “Yet your bride-to-be,” Lord Nors boomed, “shall never be yours. She shall become the property of one of our nobles.”

  The crowd booed and hissed, but before they could get any louder, Lord Nors finished, pointing down at Royce with all his wrath:

  “And you, Royce, shall be sentenced to the Pits!”

  The crowd booed and rushed forward, and soon a brawl erupted in the streets.

  Royce did not have a chance to watch it unfold. Suddenly the ropes were severed from his wrists and ankles, and he fell to the ground, limp. He felt arms all around him, metal gauntlets grabbing him, dragging him away through the chaos.

  As he was dragged through the crowd, Lord Nors’ words echoed in his mind. The Pits. Royce felt a deepening sense of foreboding. It was the brutal bloodsport for the nobles’ entertainment, one no one survived. Lord Nors had shrewdly spared him a death sentence to appease the masses—and yet the Pits were a sentence worse than death. It was a crafty move. Lord Nors had spared a revolution, and yet had still managed to kill Royce.

  Royce was crestfallen. Better to have died here, nobly, before his people, than to be shipped off to die an even more horrible death.

  Yet as he was dragged through the rioting crowd, toward the towering arches to the city’s exit, Royce thought not of himself but of Genevieve. She was all that mattered to him now. She was all that had ever mattered to him. The idea of her being given to another noble was too much for him. It made all of this futile.

  Royce bucked and writhed, trying uselessly to get free. He glanced back as they dragged him, hoping for one last glimpse of her.

  “Genevieve!” he called.

  He spotted a glimpse of her between the swarming crowd.

  “Royce!” she called back, weeping.

  Yet there was nothing either of them could do.

  Royce was led through the arched gates, away from the city, away from his life, banished forever from everyone he’d ever known and loved and facing a journey before him that would be far worse than death.

  The Pits, Royce thought. Better to have died.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Royce stumbled, shoved from behind, and bumped roughly into the group of boys as they were all herded onto the ship’s long ramp. One eye still swollen shut, his head and body still killing him from all the lumps and bruises, Royce did not think he could feel any worse—until he fini
shed climbing the ramp and set foot on board the ship. It rocked violently in the choppy waters, and as it lurched and he bumped into boys to the left and right of him, he received sharp elbows in the ribs and kidneys in return. He did not know which was worse: the elbows, or the sudden feeling of nausea.

  Royce winced as the soldier grabbed him roughly from behind and threw him forward. He tried to turn and swing back, but he could not, his wrists still bound tightly behind him.

  Still reeling from the events of the last few hours, still trying to process how his life had changed so dramatically so quickly, Royce tried to snap out of it, to take in the scene around him as best he could. As much as he felt like dying after being separated from Genevieve, from everyone he loved, his survival instincts kicked in, and he knew that if he wasn’t on alert, he would get killed on this ship.

  He looked around and saw hundreds of boys being prodded aboard, some appearing innocent, as shocked and disoriented as he, while others looked like professional criminals. Many of them, he noticed, were taller, broader, older, with rough stubble, prominent scars, shaved heads, and a look that told him that they’d kill over nothing. Even the boys his age looked prematurely aged, as if life had had its way with them.

  It was a sea of desperate faces, of boys and men who knew they were being shipped off to their deaths and who had nothing left to lose.

  The plank was raised behind him, slammed shut, and Royce felt his apprehension deepen, a heavy knot forming at the base of his throat, as he was shoved forward, deeper into the ship. He turned and watched the soldiers sever the ropes keeping the ship at shore, and all of a sudden, the ship began to move.

  Royce lost his balance as the ship lurched forward. He looked out as the land began to get farther away and saw the docks were filled with bustling people—none of whom even looked their way to say goodbye. This ship, it seemed, was filled with people who were expendable. As they gained even more distance from shore, Royce knew that his life was about to change forever.

  The waters became rougher as they left the harbor, and Royce struggled to gain his balance with his hands still bound behind him. The crowd became even thicker as all the boys surged forward, so thick he could barely breathe, the stench of unbathed men overwhelming. The ship seemed to groan with all the weight; it seemed as if there were too many people on board to survive the ship ride. Maybe that was the point, Royce realized. Maybe they wanted to kill some of them off.

  Indeed, Royce looked around and noticed several boys lying on the deck, unmoving. They were being trampled over casually by the masses, as still more people moved forward on the ship. He marveled that these boys were so hardened that they did not care about stepping on others, and he wondered why the boys lying down on deck weren’t crying out in pain.

  And then he realized. He looked down and saw the eyes wide open, and he knew with a chill that they were dead. Whether they had died from being trampled or from something else, he could not tell. One of them, he noticed, had a small dagger lodged in his chest. Royce glanced around at the hardened faces all around him and wondered which one might be responsible. From the looks of them, it could have been any of them. And probably, sadly, over nothing at all.

  Royce felt more on guard than ever, realizing his troubles had not even begun. He was on a ship full of professional criminals, boys who were being sent to their deaths, who were desperate, who would kill over something small—or over nothing at all.

  “Forward!” yelled a rough voice.

  Royce felt a boot in the small of his back, and he stumbled forward as he was kicked. He slammed his head onto a wooden beam, the pain blinding, and he felt himself squeezed in from all sides. Suddenly the ship was hit by a wave, and icy spray rushed over the sides and across the ship, dousing Royce, shocking him fully awake. It was freezing, and the salt water stung his wounds. The water sloshed on the deck beneath his feet and he lost his footing and suddenly fell flat on his back, slamming his head on the wooden deck, unable to gain his balance with his hands bound behind his back.

  The next thing Royce knew he felt the pain of a heavy boot stepping on his stomach; panic flooded him as he realized he might be trampled to death. Someone stepped on his leg, another person on his arm, and Royce looked up and saw another boot coming for his face and braced himself for the pain to follow.

  Suddenly Royce felt hands on his back and was yanked back to his feet just before he was stepped on. He looked over to see a boy about his age, with sad, sunken green eyes and wavy black hair down to his chin. He did not look like the others here, Royce was surprised to see; his eyes were filled with kindness and intelligence, and he seemed to be of noble breeding.

  He smiled wide, showing perfect teeth.

  “Close call,” he remarked.

  Royce stared back, shocked, as he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You saved me,” Royce said, stunned. “Why?”

  He grinned.

  “Mark’s my name,” he replied, “and I hate to see them trample people. I figured it would be a shame to let you die before you even had a chance to make it down below.”

  Royce nodded back with gratitude and was about to thank him—when a moment later, Mark himself was shoved across the deck by several guards. Royce tried to follow, but quickly lost him in the thickening crowd.

  Royce felt guards grab him from behind, yank back his arms, and he wondered briefly if they were about to break them as the pain became more and more intense. His heart quickened as he saw a sharp knife. Were they going to stab him? What had he done?

  To his surprise and relief they instead sliced the ropes binding his wrists; all around him they sliced the ropes of all the boys. Royce immediately held his wrists out before him, rubbing them, purple from being restrained, so grateful to have them free. He wondered if things were going to turn for the better.

  But then he was kicked again, and a moment later he found himself flying down into the gaping hole leading below deck.

  Royce dropped several feet, flailing through the air, and finally landed in the darkness, hitting the ground hard.

  He slowly rose and looked around, as more and more boys were thrown in all around him. It was dim down here, this hold lit only by the light filtering down through the slats above. He saw the faces of the boys already amassed down here, hundreds of them on hammocks, hundreds standing, and hundreds more sleeping on the floor. He had never seen so many people packed into such a small space in his life. It was airless down here, and the stench was overwhelming.

  More and more boys were being thrown through the hold. Trying to get away from the flying bodies, Royce made his way deeper inside, stepping over people carefully. He suddenly heard a dark laugh behind him.

  “What are you avoiding them for, boy?” came a voice. “They been dead a long time.”

  Royce turned to see the menacing faces of a group of boys behind him, and watched as one of them, a tall boy with a big belly and dark, beady eyes, reached down, picked up one of the boys and held him to Royce’s face. Royce recoiled as he saw the boy’s face was covered in boils, his eyes wide open, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

  The boy gave a grim laugh.

  “Don’t think it’s not coming for you, too,” he warned. “They don’t send us down here to live—they send us down to die.”

  Royce felt his apprehension deepen as a fresh wave of boys were thrown down and the mob pushed him forward. He pushed his way as deep into the hold as he could, desperate to get free, hoping to find a way back up. He slipped as the ship rocked, and he heard shouts and saw a fight break out in a dark corner of the hold. Above his head in the cramped space came the sound of thousands of heavy footsteps, floorboards creaking, as if the weight of the world were above him. He broke out into a sweat from the claustrophobic feeling down here; he felt as if he had been plunged into a vision of hell.

  Royce rubbed his wrists again, thrilled to have them free of the binds, and wondering if he could somehow make it back above. Better to die up
above, he figured, than down here.

  He looked up ahead and saw one of the boys with the same idea, climbing, trying to get out of the hold and go above. Yet Royce watched in horror as he suddenly heard the thwack of a spear and saw the boy pierced in the chest. The boy fell back below with a thud, a spear in his chest, dead.

  A soldier’s face appeared above, glaring down at them, as if tempting anyone else to try.

  Royce gave up on his idea and instead retreated to the darkest corner he could find, knowing for now he just needed to survive. He finally found a hammock, deep in the darkest corner, in which a boy lay unnaturally. Royce looked closely and as he suspected, the boy was dead, eyes wide open, a confused expression across his face, as if wondering how he could die here.

  Royce tentatively reached up, pried the boy’s stiff fingers off the net, and rolled him off the hammock. Royce hated to do it, and he braced himself as the body fell and landed on the floor with a thud. He had no other choice. The boy was dead now, and this hammock would do him no good.

  But then a horrible thought crossed his mind: had the boy been killed in this hammock because someone else had wanted it?

  Royce had no choice. He needed to get up off the ground, off the river of vomit and blood and death.

  He pulled himself up, climbed into the hammock, and for the first time he felt a feeling of weightlessness. The aching in his feet and back momentarily subsided as he lay there, rocking with the ship.

  He breathed deep. He wrapped himself in a ball as he swayed, the groaning of death all around him, and he knew, despite all that he had seen, his hell had not even begun.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Genevieve, alone in a small cell at the top of the fort’s tower, leaned beside an open-aired window, looked down at the masses below, and wept. She was unable to hold back her tears any longer. She looked out and recalled how she had watched Royce disappear from view, dragged off by the knights, melting into the chaos of the mob as they had slowly wound their way toward the docks. Her heart had shatterede. Watching Royce bound at the stake was more than she could take; yet even worse was hearing him sentenced to the Pits. Before her eyes, the man she loved most in the world, the one she had been about to wed, was being carried away to a certain death.