The Unfortunate

several gulps of wine before adding, “Can you offer a better term?”
Awiergan pondered a moment before shaking his head. In recent months it had been more than noticeable that Gildas was having difficulty finding even half-decent fighters, and the champion eventually shook his head again before adding, “Not even five years ago, we were the victims.”
“But we have proven our worth.”
“For how long? We both have witnessed the downfall of those who were called legends.”
“Do not speak of such!” Atelic reached across the table and punched his friend’s shoulder. “That has happened to only a few. I have also seen fighters who refuse to die. It is as if they exist to defy Fate.” Before shoving another bite into his mouth, Atelic pointed to the other side where a recruit sat alone. “What do you make of him?”
Awiergan followed the direction of his friend’s finger toward an undersized man who reminded the champion of the fighter from the pit. The recruit in question, however, appeared to be even more disadvantaged. In addition to being underbuilt, he was a head, if not two, shorter than any of the smallest fighters the champion had ever seen. Even though Awiergan was not one to discount a man based on appearance, there were instances when it was difficult to imagine the possibility of success, but the champion eventually shrugged and offered, “One fight, maybe two.”
“Not how long he will last. Why do you think he sits alone?”
“Perhaps he has not accepted what Fate has chosen for him.”
Rather than provide an answer, Atelic stood, retrieved his bowl, carried it to the far end of the table, and took a seat across from the lone newcomer.
Awiergan expressed a deep sigh. He had not intended to make acquaintances, but he eventually followed. By the time he reached the men, they were already engaged in conversation.
“I do not know why you are worried,” the newcomer finished his reply.
“I worry because I have seen recruits lose their wits before they are even given a real sword.”
“I shall be fine. You do not have to worry about me!”
“What is your name?” Awiergan inquired when he had a chance.
“Derian.”
“Why are you here, Derian? Murder? Rape? Theft?”
“Theft,” the recruit answered and lowered his head. “I attempted to steal from King Beadurof of Armania.”
Awiergan nodded. He finally understood why a, for lack of better word, pathetic-looking man had been chosen for the academy. It was likely the king of Armania had insisted Gildas take the man for no other reason than to rid himself of the hassle and to ensure a swift death. Despite the realization Awiergan offered an expression that suggested he was slightly impressed, and he replied, “A brave attempt, but it would be best if you did not share the truth with the others. To them thieves are viewed as weak.”
“What should I tell them?” Derian inquired as if the advice had suggested he would not last another fortnight let along another harvest.
The friends both smiled. After Gildas’ speech that had labeled the recruit as unknown, unwanted, and unneeded, only one more un-word remained, and it was Awiergan who answered.
“Forget your past life and all you did. You are now one of the Unfortunate.”
Derian remained quiet, but his brow wrinkled.
The man’s confusion was more than apparent, but rather than explain that the newest classification was more than a descriptor, Awiergan and Atelic did nothing but smile. After nearly five years of being around Gildas, they, too, had developed an ability to create suspense.

CHAPTER TWO
GILDAS
Because of his past judicial positions and more recently because of his fighting academy, he was well known throughout Winnix, Yorcia, Armania, and even Drunacht. Gildas was viewed as a distinguished individual throughout the four kingdoms, one whose reputation was unexpected for a man of his status. It was a level of popularity usually acquired by conquering entire territories. Only the monarchs were better known than he.
His rise to power had not been gifted to him, however. Even though he had been born to a lesser noble, Gildas’ thoughts of the future had never included inheriting his father’s title and lands. He was the second son, and by tradition he had been expected to join those who had devoted themselves to serving the One True Religion.
Whereas his brother had been instructed in the art of swordsmanship and other skills of combat, Gildas had been sent to one of the minor, religious houses governed by the Priory of Dorstor where the brothers had tutored him. Initially the education had done nothing more than build slightly upon his childhood lessons, but they had quickly advanced to introduce literature, and language, and what had been Gildas’ favorite, the history of the four kingdoms. With this knowledge the desire not only to read about the world but also to experience it for himself had also flourished. Gildas had realized his dream could never be fulfilled unless he abandoned the religious track. With only months until he was to take his initial vows and begin his spiritual education as a novice, Gildas had chosen to turn his back on what had been expected of him by society and to pursue his own dreams.
The ordeal had occurred months shy of his fifteenth anniversary of birth. It had been both exciting and terrifying, and the emotions had been difficult to separate. The promise of a new life, of exploring the four kingdoms, had thrilled him, but also worried him. Even after Gildas had escaped, there had still been feelings of uncertainty, but he had been convinced about the need to distance himself from the religious house and his father’s lands. Having journeyed north with no stopping point in mind, Gildas had had plentiful time to consider his actions. Where will I go first? What will I do? Will I ever return? These and other similar concerns had cycled through his mind, and it had become difficult to ignore the subconscious concerns. He had known the issue could be delayed only so long.