Only the Worthy

by Morgan Rice

  He took a deep breath as he continued pacing.

  “The Black Isle, my isle, turns boys into men. It takes criminals and killers and turns them into warriors; it takes the living and turns them into a walking death. You will be haunted here, and the nightmares will plague you the rest of your life. If you are worthless, as most of you are, you will die. Those of you who are not ready to become men, will die. Those of you who are weak, those of you who are not killers, will die. This is the isle where weakness dies. Where the strong come to flourish.”

  He stopped in the center, leaned back, and gave a broad smile.

  “Welcome, my friends, my servants, my less than nothing scum, to the Black Isle.”

  Voyt turned abruptly and began to march for the mainland, his soldiers falling in behind him. There came a commotion and as Royce felt himself shoved, he fell in line with the others as they all began to follow.

  A horn was sounded from behind Royce, and he turned to see the ship’s plank rise, the ropes pulled in, the ship beginning to depart. He felt a pit in his stomach as it began to sail away, out to sea, farther and farther from shore.

  Royce turned back and faced the death before him, the black, barren isle, and he sensed that he would never reach home again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Genevieve stood beside the window in the torch-lit chamber and peered down at the castle’s courtyard below, no longer trying to stop the tears from running down her cheeks. The rustling continued behind her, and she felt a deepening dread as she knew it was Altfor, slowly getting undressed, removing his wedding finery, one piece at a time. The time had come for them to consummate their marriage.

  Genevieve had been led to this chamber earlier in the night, and as she’d walked in she’d been struck by the enormous four-poster bed dominating the room, draped in silks and furs the likes of which she had never dreamed. Luxurious tapestries hung from the walls, silk rugs adorned the stone, and in the corner, a fireplace burned.

  None of it held any sway for Genevieve. On the contrary, it felt like a tomb. Filled with dread, she looked up at the stars in the sky and she wished, she prayed with all her heart and soul, that she were anywhere else. She looked out and searched the horizon and wondered about Royce. He was somewhere out there, alive or dead, she did not know. She prayed he would sail back to her, and escape with her this time for good. What she wouldn’t give to have her simple life back again.

  Genevieve heard Altfor take a step toward her and she snapped out of it, remembering instead the awful image of the day’s wedding ceremony. She felt a knot in her stomach at the thought. It had been a formal, royal affair, Genevieve standing there, present in person but not in her soul. She stood numb throughout the entire event, even as Altfor had smiled and kissed her. He had taken her hand and turned and faced the crowd, and the nobles had all nodded back approvingly as the newlyweds walked back down the aisle.

  Genevieve closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to wipe it all from her mind. It was the ultimate betrayal to Royce, to the one man she loved in the world. How, she wondered, had she allowed it to come to this?

  Her new sister-in-law’s words rang in her head.

  Become the worm from within. Give them time. Allow them to think you love them. Allow their guard to lower. And then, when they are comfortable, strike.

  Moira had a point, of course. The nobles had not been attacked from the outside for centuries. But a foe from the inside, that could topple them. Her marriage, she knew, was the best way to ultimately avenge her people—and free Royce.

  She knew it would require patience and cunning, and Genevieve was not good at playing games. She was who she was, and had a hard time pretending to be anyone else.

  “My love?”

  Genevieve flinched at the sudden voice, shattering the silence, like a knife in her back. She heard Altfor approach a few feet behind, and her heart pounded as she felt his hands on her shoulders. They were gentle hands, yet they felt like icicles on her body.

  She did not move to turn, though, and he let out a long sigh.

  “I am not like the other lords here, who would take you forcefully,” he said softly in her ear. “I will only take you willingly. When you are ready. When you ask me to.”

  Genevieve was startled by his words. They were words she had never expected a noble to utter.

  She turned to face him, and she could see that his face was earnest. It held kindness and compassion, which also surprised her. It was a face starkly unlike his cruel brother’s.

  “I am not at all like my brother,” he continued, surprising her, as if reading her mind. “We share the same parents, but that is all. My brother was an immature, foolhardy man. A violent and willful man. I did not approve of him snatching women from the fields. It is not something I myself have ever done. I loved him in his way—we are brothers after all. But I am not him.”

  Genevieve took a deep breath, summing him up.

  “Yet you have taken me in marriage and away from my people,” Genevieve replied coldly. “In a way, that is worse.”

  “I have taken you not as a plaything, but to marry,” he replied. “There is a difference.”

  She shook her head.

  “You are wrong,” she replied. “You are the same as your brother. You take me with a ceremony and a smile; he did so with aggression. Either way, I do not wish to be taken.”

  He stared back, his face dropping, and she could see her words had reached him.

  “You are wrong,” he replied.

  She blinked back.

  “So then I am free to leave?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied, his voice hard. “You are not free to leave. You are mine now. You belong to me, to this family. You will bear me sons. Perhaps daughters, too. But I won’t force you. I will give you time. You will learn to love me.”

  Genevieve felt a sense of disgust welling within her, along with a stubborn determination to never love him. She frowned, feeling her anger, her hopelessness, course through her. She realized even in her anger how different Altfor was than the other nobles and perhaps it was his nobility, his lack of cruelty, that inflamed her. It would have been easier if he were violent and cruel like the others.

  “I shall never learn to love you,” she insisted. “My heart lies with another. And as long as I am alive, until I die with my last breath, I shall always love him. You may have me; yet you have but a shell of me. He has my entire heart, and he shall have it forever.”

  She expected Altfor to be angry; she wanted him to be angry.

  Yet to her great surprise and disappointment, he merely smiled back and caressed her cheek with the back of his gentle hand.

  “I will leave you now,” he replied. “We will sleep in separate chambers. But one day you shall seek me out.” He smiled, caressing her cheek. “Love,” he concluded, “you will find, can have many different meanings.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  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—unli
ke 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, dropp
ing 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.”