The Unfortunate, стр. 32
It was apparent the king’s concentration was elsewhere, that his thoughts were dedicated almost entirely to the strange message, but he nevertheless flicked his hand upward to indicate permission for the match to commence.
“Begin!” Gildas proclaimed and watched intently as Awiergan and Yrre circled one another.
It was the former guard who initiated the first blow, and the crowd roared as irregular clinks and clanks and thuds harmonized into a single cadence.
The stalemate finally ended when Yrre forced Awiergan to assume the defensive, and the champion quickly had to raise his shield to block repetitive blows.
Thud … thud … thud … thud … thud.
Each strike appeared more violent than the last.
Despite the initial lack of interest, King Wyman leaned over to Gildas and commented, “I thought Awiergan was your champion. If so this is a poor showing for such a renowned fighter.”
“He is waiting for his opponent to tire,” the academy’s owner quickly replied, his words serving as self-assurance more than anything. “He will not disappoint.”
“I do hope you are correct. I cannot fathom what the people would do if their champion were to fall.”
Gildas’ return gaze must have implied he was concerned because Wyman patted the owner’s arm and reassured, “Do not worry yourself. Yrre may still possess the warrior spirit, but he is still a ball-less brute.” The king chuckled. “Imagine how that knowledge would have affected the betting, yes?”
Gildas acknowledged the king’s crudeness with a smile and a nod before returning his attention to the pit.
As had been predicted, the champion waited to make a move. In one swift attack, Awiergan slashed his blade across the large man’s abdomen, drawing first blood. The injury did not seem to faze Yrre, however, and he retaliated by doubling his blows, once again forcing the champion to hide behind his shield.
When Awiergan again tried a counter attack, the former guard quickly dodged his opponent’s blade, and having pivoted out of the turn, Yrre raised his leg, kicked it forward, and knocked his challenger to the ground.
Silence encompassed the Dorstor Arena as the champion remained motionless. Everyone watched with disbelief as the former guard quickened his approach.
“Come on!” Wyman mumbled with a sudden show of interest and concern. “Come on!”
But Gildas was not worried. He had seen the act on prior occasions, and it had always been effective, sometimes more than others.
As his opponent was prepared to strike, Awiergan rolled back several paces, quickly stood, and sprung forward with unexpected agility. His attacks were swift and caused the former guard to be the one on the defense. Eventually after extensive bouts of having to quickly pivot and deflect blows, it became evident that Yrre was faltering.
The Dorstor Arena was engulfed with cheering and eventually chants of the champion’s name, but Awiergan did not heed the overwhelming praise. He instead remained concentrated on his opponent’s weakness. After having made several swipes with his sword, Awiergan eventually pushed his upper body into the former guard, forcing his opponent to lose his shield.
The champion had little time to reposition himself before his opponent retaliated with powerful yet futile attacks. Each was easily countered, and irregular clinks and clanks resumed as the swords impacted, but the deadlock did not linger.
Yrre’s strength continued to fade, and slowly he backed away and let his sword fall.
Rather than taking advantage of the situation, Awiergan lowered his weapon and looked to the viewing box.
Gildas approached the front wall as the crowd began to chant.
“KILL! KILL! KILL! KILL! KILL!”
The master of fighters looked back to Wyman and inquired, “What will it be, Your Majesty? Does Yrre still deserve clemency?”
✽ ✽ ✽
Even though Dorstor Keep was nearly four centuries old, it still maintained a lavish exterior. Having been constructed with stone from the Golden Ridges, it glowed with a stately hue. And with its high walls and multiple turrets, there were multiple, unrivaled views of the city. Despite this, however, most of the interior offered nothing more than rooms that were disappointing, plain, and uninteresting, especially the monarch’s private study.
As he waited for Wyman, Gildas evaluated the poorly-furnished room. There was not a hint of extravagance, not even trophies of war. No matter how many times he visited the king of Winnix, he always gathered the same observations, always reached the same conclusions. Disappointing, plain, and uninteresting. He was prepared to add to his thoughts when the door opened.
“A splendid show today, was it not?” exclaimed the king, appearing more interested then he had during the games. “No doubt the people are satisfied with those scums being sent to the Life After.”
“I am delighted to know you were pleased, Your Majesty,” the master of fighters answered with a stern nod. For him, however, the day’s entertainment had ended, and it was time to return attention to the never-ending diplomatic matters. “But I sense you requested this meeting for different reasons.”
“Yes, and I am certain you do not need to be reminded.” Wyman’s tone suddenly became sterner.
Gildas again nodded and retrieved the folded parchment before inquiring, “Was this all that was taken from the prisoner?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I suspect this poem is only a part of the whole.”
The king’s brow wrinkled.
“It is indeed a message,” Gildas explained. “But it is not intended for praise. I believe it is a code.”
“A code?”
“Yes. A message within a message, and if I am correct, this is the key.”
“This? The key?”
“Yes, the code itself would be comprised of a series of numbers which indicate lines, words, and letters.”
The king