Only the Worthy by Morgan Rice Page A

Manfor’s arm around, using his force against him. Manfor kept
swinging, though, unwilling to stop, and this time, as Royce stepped aside, he
plunged the dagger into his own stomach.
    Manfor gasped.
He stood there, staring back, eyes wide, blood trickling from his mouth. He was
dying.
    Royce felt the
solemnity of the moment. He had killed a man. For the first time in his life,
he had killed a man. And no ordinary man—but a noble.
    Manfor’s last
gesture was a cruel smile, blood pouring from his mouth.
    “You have won
back your bride,” he gasped, “at the cost of your life. You’ll be joining me
soon enough.”
    With that,
Manfor collapsed and landed on the floor with a thump.
    Dead.
    Royce turned to
look at Genevieve, who sat on the bed, stunned. He could see the relief and
gratitude on her face. She jumped up from the bed, ran across the room, and
into his arms. He embraced her tightly, and it felt so good. All made sense in
the world again.
    “Oh, Royce,” she
said in his ear, and that was all she needed to say. He understood.
    “Come, we must
go,” Royce said. “Our time is short.”
    He took her hand
and the two of them burst out the open door of the chamber and into the
corridors.
    Royce ran down the
hall, Genevieve beside him, his heart pounding as he heard the royal horns
being sounded, again and again. He knew it was the sound of alarm—and he knew
it was meant for him.
    Hearing the
clanging of armor down below, Royce knew the fort was sealed off, and that he
was surrounded. His brothers had done a good job of holding them off, but
Royce’s raid had taken too long. As they ran he glanced down into the
courtyard, and his heart dropped to see dozens of knights already pouring
through the gates.
    Royce knew there
was no way out. Not only had he broken into their home, he had killed one of
their own, a noble, a member of the royal family. They would not, he knew, let
him live. Today would be the day his life changed forever. How ironic, he
thought; this morning he had awakened so filled with joy, so anticipating the
day. Now, before the sun had set on that same day, he would instead likely be
facing the gallows.
    Royce and Genevieve
ran and ran, nearing the end of the hall and the entrance to the spiral staircase—when
suddenly a half dozen knights appeared, emerging from the steps, blocking their
way.
    Royce and Genevieve
stopped short, turned, and ran the other way, as the knights pursued them.
Royce could hear their armor clanging behind him, and he knew his only
advantage was his lack of armor, giving him just enough speed to keep ahead of
them.
    They ran and
ran, twisting down corridors, Royce desperately hoping to find a rear
staircase, another way out—when suddenly they turned down another corridor and
found themselves facing a stone wall. Royce’s heart dropped as they slammed to
a stop.
    A dead end.
    Royce spun and
drew his sword while putting Genevieve behind him, prepared to make a stand
against the knights even though he knew it would be his last.
    Suddenly he felt
Genevieve clutch his arm frantically as she cried: “Royce!”
    He spun and saw
what she was looking at: a large, open-air window beside them. He looked down
and his stomach sank. It was a long drop, way too long to survive.
    And yet he saw
her pointing to a wagon full of hay ambling by beneath them.
    “We can jump!”
she cried.
    She took his
hand, and together, they stepped up toward the window. He turned and looked
back, saw the knights closing in, and suddenly, before he had time to think
through how crazy this was, he felt his hand yanked—and they were airborne.
    Genevieve was
even braver than he. She always had been, even as kids, he recalled.
    They jumped,
falling a good thirty feet through the air, Royce’s stomach in his throat, Genevieve
shrieking, as they aimed for the wagon. Royce braced himself to die, and was
grateful that he would not die, at least, at the hands of the nobles—and with
his love at his