The Unfortunate, стр. 30

CHAPTER TEN

GILDAS

During the early years of his academy, Gildas had sponsored the contests between his fighters at his own residence, and although it had not been easy, Gildas had eventually been able to convince those who had questioned the introduction of the new blood sport. Even then there had still been doubters, but the majority of those in power, especially King Wyman, had favored the new sport and the benefits that had resulted from it. Thereafter word had quickly spread to the lower classes, and it had not taken long before a larger venue had been required for the crowds that had rapidly increased in number from one competition to the next. The Dorstor Arena, or the Great Fighting Pit as it was sometimes called, was located on the south side of the River Treg, nearly half-a-league upstream from Dorstor Keep. When first constructed it had been used for archery contests, sword fights, and wrestling matches, games that offered shows of skill and strength. In time the more violent blood sports such as bearbaiting, dogfights, and even man-against-beast events were introduced to entertain the crowds who yearned for blood.

Whereas the other local venues had been built of timbers that would eventually succumb to time, the Dorstor Arena, having been constructed of stone that had been transported from several quarries both afar and local, would be recognizable for centuries. Measuring over fifty feet high and nearly four times in diameter, the circular venue was able to accommodate most of the capital’s population. Its three levels each increased in circumference slightly to create the distinctive tiers. Because of the sections having been built small to large, the second and third levels had to be supported by two rows of staggered, massive columns. To add to the grandeur, arched pillars aligned the outer walls of the top tier. The stone with its brilliant whitish-yellow hue intensified and appeared to glow when the sun reached a certain angle and cast its full radiance upon the Dorstor Arena. With all its pomp, the Great Fighting Pit was one of the most recognizable structures in the city. It never failed to impress and to create a lasting memory for those who had never previously seen it. Even Gildas could still distinctly recall the first time he had ever visited the venue and how he had been overwhelmed by its unique architectural design. Eventually his recollections faded, giving way to the present as he entered the inner chambers of the Dorstor Arena.

Despite the distance he could still hear the roar of the crowd as he continued to navigate the narrow corridor. With a final chuckle, Gildas concluded his thought as he entered the holding room where his men waited, and he was quick to order, “Cease and attend!” He paused until all were quiet before he continued, “Look at the man beside you. This may be the last time you see him alive.” He waited for his words to be translated to the Drunishman. “By day’s end more than half of you will have passed on to the Life After, but that is for Fate to decide.” He offered another pause, not only for his words to be translated but also for the idea of death to be fully absorbed. “I have determined today’s matches based on your performances during training. When I read your name, take position in the tunnel.”

It took only a few minutes for Gildas to go through the list, and as he had expected, several of the assignments were countered by spats and groans of discontent. It was more than apparent that some of the fighters were dissatisfied with the pairings. Most had expected different placement, but that was not the only argument presented. As the owner of the academy was preparing to depart, he heard approaching footsteps followed by an unmistakable voice.

“Master.”

He turned and saw the undersized Drunishman, the one who served as a translator. “Yes, Molan?”

“Why did you not call my name?”

“Because you are not to fight.”

Gildas hoped there would be no further inquiries. To explain any more would require fabrications, and he loathed dishonesty, even to exploit it against those who would possibly do him harm. In the casers when this could not be avoided, however, he had always found it easier to lie through omission or simply to remain quiet.

“But I am ready. I have skill.”

A statement. Only a statement. He believed he could offer one last assurance, turn, and leave, but no. It was not to be, for Molan continued to persist.

“Am I not ready?”

“You have done well, and you improve with each week, but you have much yet to learn.”

Gildas’ response, except the ending, had been a lie. The Drunishman was too small and even with a lifetime of training, stood little if any chance of becoming a true fighter, but Gildas did not want to discourage the man, even if it were the truth. He needed to keep the translator alive. Although he had no proof, despite having listened to their conversations, he still believed that the Drunishmen were hiding something, that they were a threat and that they were more than spies. The thoughts caused Gildas to ponder what he had once told Awiergan. Sometimes words can be more dangerous than steel.

The Drunishman nodded reluctantly, and he remained initially before inquiring, “Will I ever fight?”

The master of fighters did his best to smile and to