The Unfortunate, стр. 67
Again, and again, and again.
And with each attempt, the mercenaries cheered.
For Molan of course. But the one-sided enthusiasm did not annoy Gildas. Rather he was inspired by the atmosphere. In his mind he had returned to the fields of battle from his youth, and with it he also experienced a new rush of excitement, a type of thrill he had merely sensed as a spectator of his fighters. Now, however, he could savor it, and it invigorated him. On the next attempt, Gildas rolled away, retrieved his sword, and charged. As he had hoped, the action had been unexpected. Now he was on the offensive, and sensing his opponent’s weakness, he again charged, raised his shield, and rammed it against the Drunishman.
Molan had not been able to defend the blow, and he stumbled and fell.
Gildas recognized it was an opportunity to end the fight, and Pleoh’s offer echoed in his mind. Emerge victorious, and I shall relinquish my position. But so did another claim. King Wyman’s time will come. One day he will suffer for doing nothing to avenge my daughter’s misery. He had to decide, and now was the time. If he emerged victorious and were allowed to leave, he could return to the capital and warn King Wyman of the advisor’s treachery. But Gildas was not fooled. He would never be allowed to leave. He knew too much. His death was imminent, but there was a way it could have a purpose.
Rather than attacking the Drunishman, Gildas rushed across the pit and turned to the balcony where the advisor stood. Now was the time. He would have only one attempt. It would have to be perfect. Even if he missed, he would be killed, but Gildas dismissed the thoughts, determined not to fail. He heaved the sword and watched it twirl through the air directly toward Pleoh.
The advisor no doubt had sensed the approaching blade, had seen the sword pivoting through the air, twirling end-over-end and had heard its rhythmic swishing and had seen it reflecting glimmers of sunlight.
From the fighting pit, Gildas was unable to see the advisor’s expression, but he wanted to believe it was fear, a delayed realization. But even as the mercenaries became restless, the academy’s owner continued to watch. Gildas wanted to be certain—wanted to see the blade strike, wanted to see the spray of blood, wanted to see his enemy fall. Perhaps it was his inner warrior who had never surrendered to time. Perhaps it was the necessity of the situation. Whatever the reason he needed to know Pleoh’s vengeance was no more and King Wyman was saved.
At last the sword struck the advisor’s abdomen, lower than the intended location but just as favorable. It was no less than Pleoh deserved because, for it would invite a slower death.
Upon seeing this the former noble bound for the clergy, turned warrior, turned warden, turned commissioner of blood sports, turned prisoner, fell to his knees. And as the guards rushed into the pit with swords drawn, two words continued to echo in Gildas’ mind … loyalty and honor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
AWIERGAN
For three months the forces led by Prince Banan had marched at a strenuous pace from Armania’s capital to the midpoint of the Southern Inlet, through rural and urban areas alike. In addition to the extended journey, the army’s pace had been slowed by scores of wagons loaded with food, weapons, armor, and other supplies, but they were assured the journey had been worth it. The army was located between the southern regions of Yorcia that protruded into the Slender Sea, those that were more prone to attack. The location was strategic and would allow for the establishment of a timely counter offense. But until the moment arrived when battle horns sounded, they rested.
Former members of the fighting academy, in addition to the men who were also participating in their first campaign, sat around a fire talking and eating their rations of salted beef, hard bread, and cheese. But as the conversations were sustained with accounts of everything from battles to women, Awiergan kept to himself as he pondered the events of the last month.
It had felt as if they had been betrayed. As if they had been promised a better life—an improved future, only to have it ripped from their grasp. In a way they had been returned to the life of imprisonment, or better put as Gildas had always implied during his introductory speeches, they had all returned to being unknown, unwanted, and unneeded. It had been at least a week since the games. Since then no one had arrived to speak with the fighters, but in the early dawn one morning, as night’s chill had lingered along with the presence of light dew, King Beadurof and Prince Banan had arrived accompanied by half-a-dozen sworn shields.
In what may have been their first attempt to develop trust, the nobles had signaled their escorts to remain at a distance before they had approached the stables where the fighters had been housed. The king had remained silent as he studied the men briefly prior to announcing, “I would have come to speak sooner had it not been for … for recent matters of urgency.” He had paused as if deeply troubled. “My second in command has informed me you will be accompanying the army during the upcoming campaign. Initially I was hesitant to include you, but Banan has altered my opinion. He has told me all of you are men who have proven yourselves as fighters with the potential to be warriors. Whether this statement is true will be determined soon enough.” He had again paused before inquiring, “Who among you should I consider the leader?”
Having been the champion of the academy, Awiergan had stood, pulled his raggedy cloak