by Morgan Rice
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.
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.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
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 rea
lized 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
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
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.”