The Unfortunate, стр. 31
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Gildas returned to the private viewing box, but before he was able to sit, the leader of Winnix handed him a rolled parchment. “Here,” King Wyman explained. “This was intercepted several days ago.”
The owner of the academy retrieved the parchment he suspected was a letter and unrolled it, but he was immediately shocked by the contents. It was not what he had expected, and it had been written in the Drunish language. Considering the danger that could exist, but also Gildas’ ability to understand the language, the owner of the academy understood why the king had not delayed giving him the message.
“The poor bastard was preparing to board a ship for Drunacht when he was caught,” Wyman explained. “Although I do not believe him, he claims to be unaware of the contents.”
Gildas nodded to indicate he understood as he continued to study the parchment. Eventually he looked back to the king and inquired, “Did you even look at this?”
“Enough to know it is short, and I would need your help to read it.”
“Well you are mentioned by name on three occasions.”
Wyman expressed a heightened interest and motioned Gildas to continue.
“It is written in verse, and it appears to be a message to the people. It reads, ‘All hail Wyman of Winnix. / Long may his life and his reign be. / All praise Wyman of Winnix, / everyone across land and sea. / All thank Wyman of Winnix, / and accept what he offers thee.’”
The king smiled. “Well those do not sound like words of one who means me harm.”
“Perhaps that is what they want you to believe, Your Majesty.”
“What sort of claim is that?”
Before Gildas could reply, however, the crowd erupted in a fanfare of excitement.
“A-WIER-GAN!” they shouted. “A-WIER-GAN! A-WIER-GAN!”
The champion of the fighting academy walked to the center of the Dorstor Arena, drew his sword, and with a swift, downward thrust, forced the blade into the ground.
The crowd roared and continued to chant. Their voices echoed like thunder of an approaching storm.
“Are you ready?” Awiergan proclaimed.
The spectators again answered with cheers.
“Today justice will be served. Our king has expressed a need for the blood of those who have wronged.” He paused briefly before adding, “What response have you of this demand?”
“KILL! KILL! KILL! KILL! KILL!”
As the champion finished, Gildas stood, approached the waist-high barrier of the private viewing box, and waited for the crowd to quiet before speaking. “Citizens of Dorstor … today will be remembered and told for years to come!”
The owner of the academy did not believe the events to follow would be ingrained into memories. It would not be the first time prisoners had been assigned to fight. He simply needed words to energize the spectators.
“Years from now”—he continued—“your children and eventually their children will be recalling the events of today. We may be witnesses to those whose names will be remembered for centuries!”
Another cheer.
“Names that will be remembered for the remainder of this age and beyond.”
“And another.”
“For the first match … a man whose name will be at the forefront of immortality … your champion—”
“A-WIER-GAN! A-WIER-GAN! A-WIER-GAN!”
Gildas did not wait for the crowd to cease. He raised his voice, causing his throat to burn. “Your champion will face a man who was once a loyal guard in service to King Wyman but who betrayed that trust … Yrre!”
The approaching storm returned with a thunderous reply, but this time it came with showers of ridicule, and as the prisoner entered, Yrre had to dodge, or attempt to dodge, a bombardment of rotten vegetables.
The academy’s owner returned to his seat and continued to watch the titan-like man slowly pace across the Dorstor Arena’s sand, but he was not at all anxious. The master of fighters had not arranged the match for an easy profit. He was confident Awiergan would win, one way or another, and he glanced at King Wyman and inquired, “Was this not expected?”
“I thought you gathered those who were arranged to die, not men serving brief sentences.”
Gildas was reminded of the constable’s response concerning Yrre’s history. As punishment for rape, the stones to keep his sword sharp were taken. If you understand my meaning. Even the thought of it still caused him to wince, but Gildas dismissed the thought and countered, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I would not call castration a brief sentence.”
Wyman chuckled. “That was a kindness compared to what I was asked to do. Had it been the decision of my advisor, Pleoh—you know it was his daughter who was raped?—Yrre would have been dismembered and fed to a pack of dogs!”
“But you lessened the punishment.”
The king nodded. “Yrre was always a loyal guard and never betrayed me. Had I a daughter and had it been she, though, I would have not only mutilated him. I would have made his punishment a damn public spectacle. I would have made him suffer and die at such an excessively, slow pace, he would have begged for death.”
The academy’s owner was aware that the king’s mercy could be plentiful with some instances but limited with others and that the margin that divided was slim and ambiguous.
“Why did you not?”
Wyman turned and smiled. “For the same reason you selected him to fight. Even without certain assets, Yrre displays potential. The fire of a true warrior burns within him.”
Before Gildas could do any more than nod, the king quickly added, “What of the letter? You never finished explaining.”
“It is nothing that cannot wait, Your Majesty. Let us first enjoy the games.”
Wyman opened his mouth as if to reply, but rather than speak he instead exhaled deeply and sunk back into his throne.
For a second time, the owner of the academy stood and approached the balcony’s front.
The crowd of thousands had calmed, but their anticipation was still evident.
Gildas smiled as he intentionally