The Unfortunate, стр. 72
Seeing the attack had failed, Atelic finally smiled, but Awiergan’s joy had ceased. His eyes were wide, and he appeared overwhelmed by terror. Not even ten paces away were several arrows. And they were on fire.
“RELEASE!”
Over a score of burning shafts filled the sky before eventually diving into the trees that had already filled with dense smoke.
“There is no … escape.” Awiergan coughed, and he touched the mark on his shoulder as if it would bring fortune. “They have … given us a choice, surrender … or burn.”
“Which way?”
From what the former champion could discern, the attack had been strategic. The arrows had not been aimed toward one area but rather in the shape of a wide arc. In every direction there was fire, and the only route for escape was back toward the guards.
Awiergan looked to his friend but nothing more. There had not been a need. A simple nod conveyed the understanding shared by both. The smoke continued to thicken as the men stumbled on logs and other obstacles, but they eventually reached the forest’s edge.
Atelic raised his hands and slowly advanced through the outer-most smoke screen, and as the other fighter was prepared to follow, he heard a squall then a guard’s order.
“HOLD!”
Awiergan doubled his pace, and once he had cleared the smoke, he saw his friend on the ground. An arrow had pierced his breast. “NO!” Awiergan cried. He ran and knelt beside Atelic.
His friend groaned as he tried to smile. It was apparent he was already within death’s reach, but he at last managed, “This is not the glorious demise I have always envisioned. It could at least have been by a sword. If not in the fighting pits or the Dorstor Arena, then on a field of battle.” He clutched his friend’s hand. “That would have been a glorious death.”
The former champion did not know what words would ease the situation. He knew destinies could be altered. Nothing could reverse Fate’s ultimate wrath. There was nothing he could do and nothing that seemed appropriate, but he eventually promised, “I shall avenge your death.”
“I know you want vengeance, but you will not … you will not be able to.” It was becoming harder for Atelic to speak. “I—I am sorry I cursed you, too.”
“No! You have not, and I swear you will not die in vain.” Before he could elaborate further, however, two guards rushed and seized Awiergan. The moments that followed were surreal. The former champion could not, did not, want to comprehend what had and was occurring. All he remembered was having his feet and wrists shackled and hearing a guard’s order.
“Take him to Armania. He is to be executed for treason.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BEADUROF
He had been standing on the balcony that overlooked the courtyard when the wagons arrived. The breeze atop the castle’s northern battlements was stiff, and even with the warmth of the midday sun, a chill of winter lingered, and the king pulled his fir cloak tighter as he continued to watch the guards. From the first vehicle, a man in chains was forcefully removed and escorted to the castle’s entrance. By the man’s appearance, Beadurof took him as one of Armania’s warriors, and to see him in chains was not surprising. War had no laws, and despite the efforts by the army’s superiors, disobedience was still common.
He had thought nothing of the shackled man, but then the second wagon, this one accompanied by sworn shields, was opened. A stretcher was removed, and on it lay a body. At first all Beadurof could see were the boots, but next the legs became visible, and eventually the bottom of the chainmail tunic. He then noticed the man wore a cloak of crimson and gold, a symbol of authority. It is likely nothing more than one of the commanding lords. It cannot be anymore, can it? Beadurof’s pulse quickened, he felt nauseous, and he watched intently, unable to alter his vision, as the soldiers who had accompanied the wagons gently pulled the stretcher, further revealing the deceased. Before it was fully removed, however, there was a knock at the door, and Beadurof glanced one last time to the wagon, turned, and walked away from the balcony. “Come,” he ordered.
The door was opened ever so gently as if the individual were reluctant, or perhaps even fearful, to deliver the news with which he had been charged, and before anyone could be seen, a meek voice offered, “Your Majesty?”
Even after the door had been completely opened, the leader of Armania did not look at his advisor, nor did he speak. He knew the answer would be known soon enough, and Beadurof motioned for the man to enter.
Raedan nodded and waited until the door had been shut before resuming. “There is news of the war’s progression.” He hesitated as if there existed something more which he did not want to explain.
Still the king waited. He again felt his pulse quicken, or perhaps it had never calmed, and he was again noticing it as his fears returned. It was likely nothing more than one of the commanding lords. It cannot be anymore, can it? Whereas part of him wanted to know what had occurred, he also wanted to delay what he dreaded most. He had to know. But he did not want to, and as he continued to ponder, he heard himself speak. “What is the location of the army?”
“They are camped in and around a rural village along the Southern Inlet, Your Majesty. Fallfield, I believe.”
The king nodded but nothing more.
In his mind he again saw the red cloak and the motionless body. As he had not been able to avert his eyes when he had stood on the balcony, Beadurof could dismiss neither the image nor his fears, and several moments elapsed before the tranquility finally ended.
“What is the reason for …?” Beadurof paused. His voice was neither harsh nor tender. It was, however, unnatural and not in accordance with his person. The sternness