The Unfortunate, стр. 73
“It is your son.” Raedan paused and looked at the king with the same reluctance, or perhaps even fear, to deliver the news with which he had been charged. “Banan is dead.”
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Banan is dead. The advisor’s voice continued to echo, but it did not seem possible. Yes. For years, even when Banan had still been a child, they had had their differences, and although Beadurof had wished many things, that Banan would have been more serious and that he would have been a better leader, the king had never wished for death. It had been Fate’s will, though. But why? Why has this occurred to me? Why am I not to have my legacy furthered?
Thoughts continued to echo in Beadurof’s mind as he slowly paced the corridors that led to the castle’s bowels. He was in no hurry, and his pace was deliberately slowed. The man he had seen with shackles, as Raedan had explained, had been responsible for the prince’s death. But it was not enough to know the man had been chained, not enough to know he had already been taken to the dungeons. No, not at all. Beadurof wanted more. He wanted the prisoner to suffer, but first, first he wanted the traitorous piece of filth to wait and to be forced to wonder what would occur. Beadurof’s thoughts continued, and they did not cease until he had passed the holding cells and had opened the door to the interrogation chamber. Upon entering he looked first to the man who had been shackled. Since then the warrior had been bound to a pole where he hung. His arms had been extended above his head, his feet barely touched the floor, and his face had been seriously bruised.
“We have been questioning him, Your Majesty,” a guard offered. “But he has not cooperated. He insists he is innocent.”
Beadurof nodded to acknowledge he had heard but he made no other reply. He had only half listened to the guard, for his attention was directed elsewhere. The king had noticed something familiar about the prisoner. Slowly he approached, and it was not until he was within arm’s reach that he stopped.
“What is your name?”
The man grimaced as he struggled to raise his head. “Awiergan, Your Majesty.”
He had heard the name before, but it took a moment to recall.The prisoner was one of the fighters from the academy, and Beadurof was appalled by the realization. Before him was the same man who he had honored with compliments and praise. The same man on whose shoulder he had rested his hand as if he had been conversing with a fellow comrade. The same man who he had once considered worthy to march beneath Armania’s banners. Yes, it was the same man, and there was no need for clarification. Beadurof was certain, but he still used an inquiry to further the conversation.
“You were recently recruited by my son, yes?”
“I was,” Awiergan managed, but before he could further explain, the king spat and retorted, “I gave you the opportunity to pledge your sword and serve in my name, and this is how you repay me? I should have known you are nothing more than a criminal unworthy of praise, trust, or honor!”
“That is why am unfortunate, Your Majesty.”
Having looked away the king quickly turned and growled, “What did you claim?”
“It is true. I am unworthy because I am unfortunate.”
The words had not yet faded before Beadurof slammed his fist against Awiergan’s abdomen. “You are unfortunate?” And then another punch to the fighter’s jaw. “What about me? I have lost my heir, the future of my legacy, and my men have lost their leader!”
“Your men?” The prisoner gasped and spat blood. “Your men killed my—”
“I DO NOT CARE WHO THEY KILLED OR WHO HE WAS TO YOU!” Beadurof exclaimed and punched the prisoner again, and again, and again, and in between punches he continued to chastise, “You and those other fighters are nothing but the foulest scum!”
Awiergan struggled to breathe as he gasped for air, and when he finally managed to speak, the words came as muffled groans. “Fate be merciful.”
“You ask for Fate’s mercy, yes?” The king moved closer and seized Awiergan’s throat, but he did nothing more than offer a firm grip. His intent was not to kill, not yet. He wanted to remind the fighter who was superior, and he increased his hold slightly and added, “Where was Fate when you killed Banan?”
“I did not kill the commander.” The words were barely audible, nothing more than a mere croak.
Beadurof relaxed his grip, and with the same, gruff tone, he ordered the fighter to repeat what he had claimed.
Awiergan did as instructed, but as quickly as he had finished, the king pulled his dagger and held its blade to the prisoner’s throat, but instead of performing the effortless motion to end the fighter’s life, he hesitated. Beadurof again wanted to create a heightened suspense to torment the man. He wanted Awiergan to wonder what would occur next. He wanted to witness the realization of numerous horrors that never ceased to multiply.
“May Fate damn you and your false words!” the king added and applied more pressure to the hilt until the blade had broken the skin, causing crimson beads to form and swell like morning dew on leaves. One slit was all it required. It would all be over. Justice would have been served, but before the king could finish, one of the guards offered, “He may speak true, Your Majesty.”
Beadurof lowered his dagger and turned. Although he did not offer a reply, his expression indicated a need for clarification.
“The prisoner and another man, I guess his friend, fled the camp and took refuge in a wooded area. We forced them out, and it was then the other man was killed.”
The king looked back at Awiergan and snarled, “You nevertheless played a role in Banan’s death.” Beadurof sheathed his dagger before