The Unfortunate, стр. 68

“And what is your name?” The monarch had inquired and had studied the fighter intently, almost as if he had recognized him.

But that would have been impossible. Awiergan had never met the king, not even when he had been detained in the dungeons of Caberton Keep. To the monarch the former champion was nothing more than a stranger, but the fighter had still welcomed the noble’s attention and had not hesitated to offer his name.

“Tell me, Awiergan,” King Beadurof answered. “Where were you born?”

“I cannot be certain, Your Majesty. My only memories are of Armania and the small village where I was raised. I cannot be certain otherwise.”

The king had considered the answer momentarily as if he had still been attempting to recognize something familiar before he had inquired, “Have you any military experience?”

“No, Your Majesty. My only combat experience is from the academy. It was owned by a former warden of Winnix, and it was he who taught us the basic skills of combat. There was never anything dealing with military strategy, however.”

“I am certain you will learn soon enough,” King Beadurof had answered sternly and had paused briefly before altering the topic. “And what crime did you commit? Because that is my understanding about this academy. That the owner—Gildas, was his name?—recruited criminals, yes?”

“Yes. And my crime was murder. As a careless youth, I was lured into a drunken brawl, and I killed the man.” It had been odd to discuss bygone years because during Awiergan’s time at the academy. He had been required to explain his past only once, when he had first been recruited. Afterward Gildas had not wanted to discuss bygones. But since then the situation had altered. Awiergan had known King Beadurof had had his reasons for asking about the past. The fighter had even anticipated to be interrogated about his crime, but the next question had been less expected.

“And did it come naturally?”

“Your Majesty?”

“Taking a man’s life?” the monarch clarified. “How did it make you feel?”

“I neither thought nor felt anything, Your Majesty,” the former champion answered. “I did what was necessary for the moment, and what is required, what one’s focus should be while in the midst of any conflict?”

Initially King Beadurof had remained silent as if pondering, but he had at last chuckled, placed a hand on Awiergan’s shoulder, and had offered, “Yes, that is the same answer I would have provided. It is the response of a true leader.” He had again studied Awiergan’s features intently before he had added, “Perhaps you could teach Banan some of your skills.” He had expressed another chuckle and had turned to look at his son before concluding, “I think he could greatly benefit from heeding your advice, or the words of anyone more experienced in combat, anyone more like myself.”

Having heard the prince sigh, Awiergan had done his best not to gloat, but he had still felt the corners of his mouth twitching, the result of a broadening smile. But why should I have not felt pride? It had been a moment about which he had always dreamt. He had received the opportunity to stand before the king of Armania and pledge his sword, but the moment had not been as brimming with pride as Awiergan had always expected. Yes, he had received a compliment, and it had been in comparison to an heir prince. But the former champion had not even been certain of how long the position would last or if he would be offered the choice to remain in service to Armania’s monarch. Whatever the case, though, it had not mattered. His life goal from years past, if only for a brief time, had finally been realized.

With a final nod, King Beadurof had directed his attention to the far side of the stable and had gone from one fighter to the next. He had asked the same questions, and for the inquiry about crime, he had received a variation of the same three answers—murder, rape, or theft from all the fighters except one. Derian was never questioned. The recruit who had attempted to steal from King Beadurof and who would have no doubt been recognized had managed to elude the visiting nobles and possibly had even escaped.

✽ ✽ ✽

That had been the last time Awiergan had seen Derian. After the king had gone, the recruit had been nowhere in or near the stable, and since then the champion had often pondered about the man he had helped train, wondering not why the recruit had taken leave but where he had gone and what his intentions were. Whatever the case Awiergan’s only hope was Derian was safe.

As the former champion continued to reminisce, he could hear numerous, muffled tones sometimes blending as one, and he could also hear the crackling of the fire, but his attention was not fully altered until he heard an inquiry.

“And what brought you to this army?”

Awiergan glanced and saw a young man looking at him with a smile.

The young soldier—rather, a near boy, hardly a man—had been placed in the same regiment as the fighters based on his limited experience as a warrior. As far as Awiergan could judge, the young man’s only experience with a sword had likely been mock campaigns, never any real threat or anything like the warfare they would eventually encounter.

“So?” The young man inquired again, and his voice cracked upon expressing a higher-pitched tone that accompanied a display of curiosity. “What is your story?”

Awiergan took another bite of food before answering, “Many hardships—more than some encounter in a lifetime and more than I would ever wish upon another, even an enemy.”

“Such as?”

He despised such meaningless games of questions. And not wanting to explain every little detail, the former champion thought it better to reveal all at once, memories about which he had not spoken for several years. “Like the men here,” Awiergan motioned to the other fighters, “I was once