The Unfortunate, стр. 45
By the age of fifteen, Awiergan had departed his native village to pursue his dream. For years he had trained to develop his weapon skills, and he had done whatever necessary to build his strength. He had known if he intended to approach King Beadurof, or any king, and request to serve, he would have to be strong. Weakness would never be accepted. But he had never had the chance, and it had been entirely his fault. More than swordsmanship and strength, Awiergan had needed to learn to control his temper. Eventually he had done so but it had occurred several years too late.
It had been a fight. He had known the man was drunk, but that had not been enough reason for Awiergan to not retaliate. Despite the drunk’s boasting, he had been unable to match his opponent in a fight. Both men had delivered blows, but it had been Awiergan who had emerged victorious. It had not been a moment for celebration, however. The drunk had been killed, and in turn Awiergan had been declared a murderer. Because of his crime, he had not been taken to one of the minor holding locations in Armania. He had instead been shackled, forced into the back of a wagon, transported to Caberton Keep, and imprisoned in the dungeons. For nearly a year—perhaps it had been more, but he had lost count—he had been a prisoner confined to his cell. The first months had been the worst. All he had had were time and his thoughts which were composed mostly of finding a way to escape. But they had been dreams of a fool. Awiergan’s future had been determined, but it had not been easy for him to accept. Escape! Escape! There must be a way! Escape! Escape! There must be a way! There must be a way. Escape! Escape! Hour after hour the thoughts had repeated. It had pushed Awiergan to the precipice of madness. Escape! Escape! There must be a way!
A precipice where one misstep could have led to his demise Escape! Escape! There must be a way!
One misstep could have caused him to plummet to the darkness of the abyss. But all he had been able to do was sit and glare at his cell door. Escape! Escape! There must be a way!
Eventually a way had presented itself, but it had been of the most unusual nature. “All of you are unknown, unwanted, and unneeded,” the man had announced. “You have been sentenced to death, but I can offer an alternative.”
An alternative? Awiergan had immediately been confused. What sort of alternative is there for death or, in the least, rotting in a cell?
“Rather than be hanged”—the man had continued—“rather than have your entrails slowly cut from your body before you are burned at the stake, rather than perish with shame to the cheers of a crowd, you can die with honor at the same tone. Join me, prove your worth, and you may find yourselves among a brotherhood of legends.”
“What is the meaning of this brotherhood of legends?” Awiergan had boldly asked and had been punched in his stomach for speaking out of turn.
“Hold your tongue you lumbering fool!” the constable had warned before looking at the man who had given the speech. “I am sorry for this lousy shit’s lack of respect, Gildas. He has yet to learn his place.”
Awiergan had received another, more brutal hit that had caused him to hunch over and gasp deeply as he had struggled to regain his breath. And as he did, the awkward position allowed for the strange marking on his shoulder to be revealed.
“What is that?” the man who had offered an alternative had inquired and had begun to approach. “On your shoulder, that … is it? I have never seen a slaver’s design of the like.”
“Because it is not,” Awiergan had groaned. “I was never a slave.”
Gildas had nodded, and his expression had offered hints of curiosity. “Then where did you obtain this … this … well it is not technically a brand. It appears as if it had been carved into the flesh. What does it symbolize?”
“I have had it as long as I can remember.” Awiergan had paused and had used his fingers to trace the scarred area below his shoulder blade. The symbol was a double swirl with an extended tail that curved upward and to the right, and beside it the symbol was duplicated as a reverse. “But I do not know its meaning.”
Gildas had moved even closer but stopped when the constable had warned, “I ask you stay back. These men may be chained, but that does not guarantee—”
“I appreciate your concern,” Gildas had interrupted. “But I understand people’s motives, and this man intends no harm.” He had continued to study the mark, but it had been several moments before he had looked at Awiergan and had smiled. “I think it is a sign! You are destined for greatness!”
✽ ✽ ✽
“What is that mark?” Derian inquired. “I never knew you had been a slave.”
Awiergan concluded his memories, quickly pulled his shirt of mail over his head, and looked at the recruit who had attempted to steal from King Beadurof. “I was never a slave.”
“Then where did you get it?”
Since Derian had entered the academy, he had significantly improved his skills and had displayed more potential on a regular basis. The young recruit, always anxious to learn more, had never hesitated to inquire about ways to improve in addition to other related and occasionally irrelevant matters. But while Awiergan embraced the role of mentor and did not mind the—at times, never-ending questions—he was not as willing to speak of his past. He nevertheless looked to Derian and smiled before answering, “I—”
“He will tell you he has had it all his life.” It was Atelic who had interrupted. “Maybe he