The Unfortunate

Sooner rather than later, the solution had been revealed. Near the outskirts of Winnix’s second largest city, Carlingford, Gildas had encountered a large gathering, and curious to discover the cause, he had hurried toward them. Upon joining the line, he had received off-putting stares, and some in the crowd had even pointed and snickered.
“A bit young are you not?” a man had inquired.
It was not until Gildas had nearly reached the front of the line, not until he saw two soldiers sitting behind a stand, that he had understood the stares and laughter. But the young man had seen it as an opportunity, an answer to the concerns that had plagued him several days. Having reached the makeshift table, Gildas had been greeted by the soldiers’ stern yet confused expressions.
“May we help you?” one had finally inquired.
“I wish to volunteer my service,” he had proudly answered.
There had been a brief pause before the other soldier had inquired, “How old are you?”
“I shall be fifteen before the next harvest.”
“Are you currently a squire, or do you have any similar experience?”
“No, but I wish to learn.”
“We are not recruiting to teach combat skills,” the soldier had retorted with a hint of forced politeness and frustration. “We want seasoned fighters to help guard Winnix’s border with Yorcia.”
“I still wish to volunteer,” he had persisted. “There must be a position.”
There had been another momentary silence before one of the men sighed. “Name?”
Initially Gildas had been a squire for the guards, but with time, as he had promised, his skill with a sword had become as keen as his mind. Over the next eighteen years, Gildas’ dedication and service had further been recognized with several promotions, the last being of the highest distinction. Despite having been born a second son and despite having to prove his worth, Gildas had obtained the noble rank of lordship, and it had been his duty to maintain justice in Carlingford and its surrounding regions. The position had allowed Gildas to develop powerful connections, not to mention having been able to gain the trust of Winnix’s king.
For nearly ten years, Gildas had served as a warden, but the interests that had caused him to abandon the religious track had continued to fascinate him. Eventually he had deemed that maintaining justice, despite its noble benefits, was not exciting enough, and this had led to the development of his fighting academy. Initially the idea of a blood sport where men would be pitted another had attracted more criticism then anything, and Gildas had even been told, we already have events where blood is shed. Have you not been to the fighting pits?
He had, and that is why Gildas had not perceived his suggestion as outlandish, but he had also understood the hesitation. In contrast to the current games of the time, Gildas’ proposition had been considered a by-gone event and even barbaric-like. Even when he had emphasized that the fighters would be composed of criminals only, Gildas had still received criticism. There had been only one individual who had seen potential, King Wyman. Even though the monarch had not questioned Gildas’ request to retire from the nobility, Wyman had still been hesitant about the fighting academy. One year was the time he had allowed, and he had stressed that if the idea proved to be a failure, Gildas would have to forgo the concept and return to his position as warden.
As time would prove, however, the people of Winnix were thoroughly entertained by the new blood sport, and it had led to the development of similar events such as the random weapon drawings hosted by the fighting pits. The only issue had been being able to find worthy men to train, and with this Gildas had experience both fortune and ill luck.
✽ ✽ ✽
“I am cursed!” Gildas exclaimed to his wife. “I could have shat more talent than these recruits possess!” His outburst was due more in part to general frustration than to an actual belief that all the recruits were worthless.
“It cannot be,” Engel soothed. “You have yet to see them fight.”
“No. That will not be necessary. I have always been able to judge men, and these are not fighters.”
“Perhaps you are mistaken.”
Gildas shook his head. “Sometimes I question why I still do this.”
“Why do you not stop?” On many occasions she had inquired such, but Engle had never approved of the academy. She had been one of the first to criticize the idea, and even though she had eventually supported her husband’s newfound business, Gildas had always been aware that his wife’s backing was nothing more than show.
“Because it guarantees us a life,” he reminded as he had many times prior. “It guarantees us coin, something we need!” Despite his response Gildas knew the loss of the academy would not be his ruin. He still retained a substantial amount from his eight years as a warden. He had also gained King Wyman’s favor more times than he could recall. He was certain the monarch would not hesitate to assist.
“You could return to your former position,” Engle suggested. “I am certain King Wyman would welcome your return without hesitation.”
He could, and Wyman would, but Gildas would rather not. For personal reasons he had retired from the active nobility sooner than what had been expected, but he had promised that his loyalty to Winnix would never cease. Several additional moments passed before he at last answered, “I have more honor than to beg, and it is not something I shall do unless necessary.” Since the quarreling had begun, Gildas’ frustration had calmed, and his tone became more soothing as he continued, “It is a mere phase that will pass. Until then I shall find a way to ensure a profit.”
Engel was momentarily quiet before replying, “This fighting has corrupted you and all who take part.”
“What sort of claim is that? How is it corrupted?”
“By asserting you will find a way to ensure a profit.”
“And I shall.” The frustration was again building.
“By what