The Unfortunate Read online

  Awiergan only smiled. “Remember what I told you about skill and luck.”

  Atelic chuckled. “I still believe you are wrong.”

  The champion ignored his friend’s pompous comment, as he usually did, and turned back to peer through the bars.

  The men slowly circled one another, but eventually the prodding from the crowd caused them to begin. From the way the taller man clumsily handled the chain mace, not being able to turn his wrist with the mesmerizing speed acquired from years of practice, Awiergan could tell the weapon was new to the man. It was not too great a disadvantage, however. He was still able to swing accurately, and on a few attempts, he had missed his opponent by inches only. The smaller man’s actions suggested he was having more difficulty, and it was not absurd to question if he had ever seen battle of any type, but Awiergan did not abandon his prediction. He had seen lesser men defy overwhelming odds on several prior occasions.

  Forth and back the men darted, and Awiergan noticed numerous opportunities that could have ended the fight, but that was why he was the champion. He had been trained to recognize the briefest of moments to achieve victory. With a heightened concentration, he continued to watch. If only the smaller fighter can wrap the chain around his blade and rip the handle from his opponent. All he must do is—

  The crowd erupted with deafening cheers when the spiked mace impacted the smaller man’s thigh. Within moments streams of blood raced down the man’s calf to his foot, but he, except for a deep grunt, appeared unaffected.

  Awiergan recognized the reaction as a show of strength and proof that appearances could deceive. With proper training the smaller man can become a formidable opponent not to be underestimated. He turned and offered Atelic a smile before quickly averting his vision back to the pit. The noise of clinking metal had been unmistakable. It had been like the sound of a rising drawbridge or gate as the chains were wrapped in a circular motion. The rapid clinking could mean only one thing! The smaller man had, by luck or skill or perhaps both, been able to wrap the chain around the longsword.

  PULL! Awiergan nearly screamed. PULL!

  As if the champion’s thoughts had been communicated, the smaller man quickly jerked, causing the chain mace to be flung across the pit.

  Had the rules of the match stipulated winner by first blood, Awiergan’s prediction would have been incorrect, but it appeared he had again judged correctly.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  “Murderer, thief, rapist, or perhaps even bastard. You have all been called many names, but despite the reasons you are here, you all share three common traits.”

  The next day along with Atelic and the other fighters of the academy, Awiergan stood to the side of the training yard as their owner lectured the newest group of recruits he had gathered from his recent trip to Yorcia and Armania.

  “Unknown,” Gildas continued. “You are all unknown to your families. Your crimes have shamed them, and they have disowned you. Unwanted. You are all unwanted by the people of your villages. If you believe you can gain sympathy from others, you are bloody fools! And unneeded. You are all unneeded by society in general. You have been cursed, and there is nowhere you can go to escape the shadow of disgrace. For these reasons you stand before me.”

  Unknown, unwanted, and unneeded. It had been nearly five years since Awiergan had been called those names. At the time he had not disputed the claims, and he had not despised Gildas for what had been implied. In Awiergan’s mind Gildas had rescued him and had provided him the opportunity to, to use the owner’s own words, prove his worth.

  As Gildas lectured his newest recruits, he paced forth and back across the training yard and continued to sharpen a sword.

  During Awiergan’s time at the academy, he had never seen the owner attack any of the men or even threaten them. The action was for intimidation purposes only.

  “I do not care about the crimes you have committed,” Gildas continued. “It is not my place to judge your sins. That is the duty of Fate to decide if your crimes are too foul to warrant forgiveness. While I cannot absolve your sins, I have acted with your best interests in mind.”

  When he had been brought to the academy, Awiergan had learned quickly that Gildas thoroughly enjoyed creating moments of suspense, and this part of the speech was one of the legendary examples. Having baited the recruits with the suggestion of forgiveness, the owner, in the same motion, had diminished those hopes and had replaced it with a mystery. All that remained for the recruits was to discover the unknown.

  “Rather than allow justice to be served with your death,” Gildas finally added, “I have provided you an opportunity to achieve a greater destiny. Although I cannot guarantee all of you will live to see another harvest, because most of you will not, I promise you will die with honor. In your past lives, you may have been branded as unknown, unwanted, and unneeded, but that ends today.”

  Yes, that ends today. Awiergan studied the men and began to form opinions because he knew he would eventually be asked by Atelic, or Gildas, or perhaps both, to share his thoughts.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Later as the men sat at tables in the meal hall eating their suppers, Awiergan, as he usually did, nibbled occasionally, for his attention was directed to thoughts of years past when it was he who had been considered a recruit.

  He and Atelic had both entered the academy the same year. They had developed a close friendship during that time, and they had realized many facts about the academy. Perhaps the most important concept, one which they would offer as advice to any recruit who inquired, was that a man’s will and ability were never truly known until his first fight. On many occasions they had advised, nothing, no amount of training, can prepare one for the Dorstor Arena or the lesser fighting pits, whichever comes first.

  But Awiergan’s thoughts were interrupted when Atelic inquired, “What is your opinion of the newest victims?”

  “Victims? I do not know if I would call them victims.”

  “No?” The other fight finished what remained of his sausage and followed with several gulps of wine before adding, “Can you offer a better term?”

  Awiergan pondered a moment before shaking his head. In recent months it had been more than noticeable that Gildas was having difficulty finding even half-decent fighters, and the champion eventually shook his head again before adding, “Not even five years ago, we were the victims.”

  “But we have proven our worth.”

  “For how long? We both have witnessed the downfall of those who were called legends.”

  “Do not speak of such!” Atelic reached across the table and punched his friend’s shoulder. “That has happened to only a few. I have also seen fighters who refuse to die. It is as if they exist to defy Fate.” Before shoving another bite into his mouth, Atelic pointed to the other side where a recruit sat alone. “What do you make of him?”

  Awiergan followed the direction of his friend’s finger toward an undersized man who reminded the champion of the fighter from the pit. The recruit in question, however, appeared to be even more disadvantaged. In addition to being underbuilt, he was a head, if not two, shorter than any of the smallest fighters the champion had ever seen. Even though Awiergan was not one to discount a man based on appearance, there were instances when it was difficult to imagine the possibility of success, but the champion eventually shrugged and offered, “One fight, maybe two.”

  “Not how long he will last. Why do you think he sits alone?”

  “Perhaps he has not accepted what Fate has chosen for him.”

  Rather than provide an answer, Atelic stood, retrieved his bowl, carried it to the far end of the table, and took a seat across from the lone newcomer.

  Awiergan expressed a deep sigh. He had not intended to make acquaintances, but he eventually followed. By the time he reached the men, they were already engaged in conversation.

  “I do not know why you are worried,” the newcomer finished his reply.

  “I worry because I have seen recruits lose
their wits before they are even given a real sword.”

  “I shall be fine. You do not have to worry about me!”

  “What is your name?” Awiergan inquired when he had a chance.

  “Derian.”

  “Why are you here, Derian? Murder? Rape? Theft?”

  “Theft,” the recruit answered and lowered his head. “I attempted to steal from King Beadurof of Armania.”

  Awiergan nodded. He finally understood why a, for lack of better word, pathetic-looking man had been chosen for the academy. It was likely the king of Armania had insisted Gildas take the man for no other reason than to rid himself of the hassle and to ensure a swift death. Despite the realization Awiergan offered an expression that suggested he was slightly impressed, and he replied, “A brave attempt, but it would be best if you did not share the truth with the others. To them thieves are viewed as weak.”

  “What should I tell them?” Derian inquired as if the advice had suggested he would not last another fortnight let along another harvest.

  The friends both smiled. After Gildas’ speech that had labeled the recruit as unknown, unwanted, and unneeded, only one more un-word remained, and it was Awiergan who answered.

  “Forget your past life and all you did. You are now one of the Unfortunate.”

  Derian remained quiet, but his brow wrinkled.

  The man’s confusion was more than apparent, but rather than explain that the newest classification was more than a descriptor, Awiergan and Atelic did nothing but smile. After nearly five years of being around Gildas, they, too, had developed an ability to create suspense.

  CHAPTER TWO

  GILDAS

  Because of his past judicial positions and more recently because of his fighting academy, he was well known throughout Winnix, Yorcia, Armania, and even Drunacht. Gildas was viewed as a distinguished individual throughout the four kingdoms, one whose reputation was unexpected for a man of his status. It was a level of popularity usually acquired by conquering entire territories. Only the monarchs were better known than he.

  His rise to power had not been gifted to him, however. Even though he had been born to a lesser noble, Gildas’ thoughts of the future had never included inheriting his father’s title and lands. He was the second son, and by tradition he had been expected to join those who had devoted themselves to serving the One True Religion.

  Whereas his brother had been instructed in the art of swordsmanship and other skills of combat, Gildas had been sent to one of the minor, religious houses governed by the Priory of Dorstor where the brothers had tutored him. Initially the education had done nothing more than build slightly upon his childhood lessons, but they had quickly advanced to introduce literature, and language, and what had been Gildas’ favorite, the history of the four kingdoms. With this knowledge the desire not only to read about the world but also to experience it for himself had also flourished. Gildas had realized his dream could never be fulfilled unless he abandoned the religious track. With only months until he was to take his initial vows and begin his spiritual education as a novice, Gildas had chosen to turn his back on what had been expected of him by society and to pursue his own dreams.

  The ordeal had occurred months shy of his fifteenth anniversary of birth. It had been both exciting and terrifying, and the emotions had been difficult to separate. The promise of a new life, of exploring the four kingdoms, had thrilled him, but also worried him. Even after Gildas had escaped, there had still been feelings of uncertainty, but he had been convinced about the need to distance himself from the religious house and his father’s lands. Having journeyed north with no stopping point in mind, Gildas had had plentiful time to consider his actions. Where will I go first? What will I do? Will I ever return? These and other similar concerns had cycled through his mind, and it had become difficult to ignore the subconscious concerns. He had known the issue could be delayed only so long. Sooner rather than later, the solution had been revealed. Near the outskirts of Winnix’s second largest city, Carlingford, Gildas had encountered a large gathering, and curious to discover the cause, he had hurried toward them. Upon joining the line, he had received off-putting stares, and some in the crowd had even pointed and snickered.

  “A bit young are you not?” a man had inquired.

  It was not until Gildas had nearly reached the front of the line, not until he saw two soldiers sitting behind a stand, that he had understood the stares and laughter. But the young man had seen it as an opportunity, an answer to the concerns that had plagued him several days. Having reached the makeshift table, Gildas had been greeted by the soldiers’ stern yet confused expressions.

  “May we help you?” one had finally inquired.

  “I wish to volunteer my service,” he had proudly answered.

  There had been a brief pause before the other soldier had inquired, “How old are you?”

  “I shall be fifteen before the next harvest.”

  “Are you currently a squire, or do you have any similar experience?”

  “No, but I wish to learn.”

  “We are not recruiting to teach combat skills,” the soldier had retorted with a hint of forced politeness and frustration. “We want seasoned fighters to help guard Winnix’s border with Yorcia.”

  “I still wish to volunteer,” he had persisted. “There must be a position.”

  There had been another momentary silence before one of the men sighed. “Name?”

  Initially Gildas had been a squire for the guards, but with time, as he had promised, his skill with a sword had become as keen as his mind. Over the next eighteen years, Gildas’ dedication and service had further been recognized with several promotions, the last being of the highest distinction. Despite having been born a second son and despite having to prove his worth, Gildas had obtained the noble rank of lordship, and it had been his duty to maintain justice in Carlingford and its surrounding regions. The position had allowed Gildas to develop powerful connections, not to mention having been able to gain the trust of Winnix’s king.

  For nearly ten years, Gildas had served as a warden, but the interests that had caused him to abandon the religious track had continued to fascinate him. Eventually he had deemed that maintaining justice, despite its noble benefits, was not exciting enough, and this had led to the development of his fighting academy. Initially the idea of a blood sport where men would be pitted another had attracted more criticism then anything, and Gildas had even been told, we already have events where blood is shed. Have you not been to the fighting pits?

  He had, and that is why Gildas had not perceived his suggestion as outlandish, but he had also understood the hesitation. In contrast to the current games of the time, Gildas’ proposition had been considered a by-gone event and even barbaric-like. Even when he had emphasized that the fighters would be composed of criminals only, Gildas had still received criticism. There had been only one individual who had seen potential, King Wyman. Even though the monarch had not questioned Gildas’ request to retire from the nobility, Wyman had still been hesitant about the fighting academy. One year was the time he had allowed, and he had stressed that if the idea proved to be a failure, Gildas would have to forgo the concept and return to his position as warden.

  As time would prove, however, the people of Winnix were thoroughly entertained by the new blood sport, and it had led to the development of similar events such as the random weapon drawings hosted by the fighting pits. The only issue had been being able to find worthy men to train, and with this Gildas had experience both fortune and ill luck.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  “I am cursed!” Gildas exclaimed to his wife. “I could have shat more talent than these recruits possess!” His outburst was due more in part to general frustration than to an actual belief that all the recruits were worthless.

  “It cannot be,” Engel soothed. “You have yet to see them fight.”

  “No. That will not be necessary. I have always been able to judge men, and these are not fighters.”
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  “Perhaps you are mistaken.”

  Gildas shook his head. “Sometimes I question why I still do this.”

  “Why do you not stop?” On many occasions she had inquired such, but Engle had never approved of the academy. She had been one of the first to criticize the idea, and even though she had eventually supported her husband’s newfound business, Gildas had always been aware that his wife’s backing was nothing more than show.

  “Because it guarantees us a life,” he reminded as he had many times prior. “It guarantees us coin, something we need!” Despite his response Gildas knew the loss of the academy would not be his ruin. He still retained a substantial amount from his eight years as a warden. He had also gained King Wyman’s favor more times than he could recall. He was certain the monarch would not hesitate to assist.

  “You could return to your former position,” Engle suggested. “I am certain King Wyman would welcome your return without hesitation.”

  He could, and Wyman would, but Gildas would rather not. For personal reasons he had retired from the active nobility sooner than what had been expected, but he had promised that his loyalty to Winnix would never cease. Several additional moments passed before he at last answered, “I have more honor than to beg, and it is not something I shall do unless necessary.” Since the quarreling had begun, Gildas’ frustration had calmed, and his tone became more soothing as he continued, “It is a mere phase that will pass. Until then I shall find a way to ensure a profit.”

  Engel was momentarily quiet before replying, “This fighting has corrupted you and all who take part.”

  “What sort of claim is that? How is it corrupted?”

  “By asserting you will find a way to ensure a profit.”

  “And I shall.” The frustration was again building.

  “By what means? On more than one occasion, you have ensured the outcome of a fight is to your benefit. Do you care not for those who are unable to provide for their families because they have lost substantial coin?”