The Unfortunate

life.”
The response was startling. Beadurof would never have expected a local to be so foolish. The king would never have thought one, a native or not, would attempt to steal from a keep known for being more secure than most others, but Beadurof made sure his surprise was not revealed. He was the king. He held the upper hand. He was not going to let a lowlife scum best him even for a moment, and he was quick to add, “Then you are aware of the punishment for theft?”
The man nodded. “I am, but I beg your mercy. No one was harmed. My intent was not to murder.”
Beadurof again thought of his consideration of the man as a weakling, and he nearly laughed again, but he was in no mood for either merriment or sympathy. He simply retorted, “Then what was your intent?”
“I …” The man’s expression was one of absolute fear, and it became more pronounced as he fumbled with his words. “I—I do not kn—”
The king knew the man was his to control, and he smiled as he thought of words he had learned from years past. At times fear can be deadlier than steel. Fear can make a man helpless. Even if he is stronger and better armed, untamed fear can lead to his demise. “You must think me a fool!” the king exclaimed. “Would you have me believe you were enjoying a stroll, and you somehow failed to realize you were approaching Caberton Keep?”
The thief remained silent as the monarch continued to rant.
“But it does not end with that! Would you also expect me to believe that my guards welcomed you without question? Is that what you would have me believe?”
No response was provided.
“ANSWER ME, YOU FOOL!” Beadurof punctuated his outburst by slamming his fist into the man’s lower jaw. “ANSWER ME!”
“Please, Your Majesty,” the man finally responded and wiped blood from his lip. “I swear I intended no harm.”
There it was again, the plea of not intending harm, but by now the joke was no more. Beadurof was past wanting to deal with the man. He did not even want to think about a suitable punishment. For the sake of creating suspense, the king pondered extensively, and he waited several additional moments before answering, “You shall remain in the dungeons until I decide a fitting punishment.”

PART I
SPRING
One Month Later …


CHAPTER ONE
AWIERGAN
Although the major sporting events were reserved for the Dorstor Arena, that did not prevent the local fighting pits from hosting weekly affairs. In a way it was beneficial to those who lived for the thrill of gambling. They did not have to wait two or more fortnights between events, and with the existence of minor venues, there was rarely a shortage of excitement. Archery contests, sword fights, and wrestling matches were among the popular games sponsored for shows of skill and strength, but the most captivating events were the blood sports. Animal bouts, particularly bear-baiting, was a favorite, but dogfights were among the most common because there never was a shortage of strays. At least that was the reasoning offered by those who sponsored the games, that it helped to keep the city’s streets free of master-less mutts. Equally as popular but not sponsored as often were fights between two men, and they ranged from the winner being determined by whoever drew first blood to death matches. More often than not, the rules allowed only one man to live.
Along with several other fighters who he gladly considered his brothers, Awiergan stood and peered through the barred door of the holding area. The small, round pit was no more than twenty-five paces in diameter. The walls, while being roughly constructed of oblong timbers, were higher than two men grown. Above the fighting area, like thunder clouds lingering above a mountain, was the balcony full of cheering and likely-drunken spectators. As with the crowd, Awiergan’s focus was not the specifications of the fighting pit. All of them were concentrated on the two men in the center of the ring. Awiergan watched as the men patiently waited for the event’s master to bring forth a leather bag that contained folded pieces of parchment. Having been to such events in the past, Awiergan knew what to expect. Each piece of parchment had inscribed the name of a weapon, and one could only pray his opponent did not draw a battleax when he had only a knife.
“Who do you favor, Awiergan?” one of the other men inquired.
The fighter who had proven himself the champion of the academy a year prior offered the eventual combatants in the pit a final evaluation before replying, “It is difficult to tell with these types of fights. I shall have to know what weapons are assigned.”
“But you have always claimed to be able to judge men so well.” It was another man, Awiergan’s closest friend, Atelic, who had spoken.
“Yes, and I have always argued that skill, sometimes paired with a hint of luck for good measure, could overwhelm strength.” He paused briefly before adding, “But in this case, luck will have to outdo both.”
“Fate guide me. I hope I receive luck,” Atelic offered in a less-than-serious tone, but Awiergan’s concentration had been directed to the event’s leader who had received the scrap of parchment from the shorter of the two men.
“The weapon is … the longsword!”
Cheers erupted from the crowd.
“And for the second, the weapon is … the chain mace!”
“Do you have your pick yet?” Atelic inquired, and he had to yell to be heard over the crowd.
Awiergan nodded. “The smaller man.”
“I think you are wrong this time. I doubt he will even last a minute.”
Awiergan only smiled. “Remember what I told you about skill and luck.”
Atelic chuckled. “I still believe you are wrong.”
The champion ignored his friend’s pompous comment, as he usually did, and turned back to peer through the bars.
The men slowly circled one another, but eventually the prodding from the crowd caused them to begin. From the