Blood Eagle

Force

Solday training was less rigid than on other days. With Mahan gone for the arena together with the chosen fighters, the remaining gladiators trained as they saw fit, taking as many breaks as they wanted. Arn assumed that the weapons master was aware of this; he seemed a shrewd fellow, and if he had been a gladiator himself, he would know how the mice acted with the cat absent. Given that they trained hard four days out of five, having a looser regimen during the fifth helped put everyone in a better mood and made ordeals easier to bear.

While Arn did not mind the change of pace either, his thoughts were on tonight. He had made his decision; he would not get anywhere without taking risks, and the reward seemed adequate. Restoring his rune of force would let him call upon supernatural strength at will, ensuring victory in all his fights. And as the other gladiators laughed and made jests at each other's expense, Arn steeled himself for tonight's task.

*

He had to wait until Mahan returned with the gladiators; two had been victorious, and fortunately for the third, the crowd had deemed him deserving of mercy. Arn waited while the other fighters cheered for the victors before pushing through them to approach Mahan, his tablet ready. Leave?

The weapons master glanced from the letters to Arn. "I don't blame you. Solday evening gets noisy, Stars know. Half the free men are out tonight as well. Sure, take off. You know the rules, back when last bell ends."

Arn nodded before he headed for the baths, eager to get ready and head out; tonight, time would be another obstacle on his path to rejuvenation.

*

As swiftly as he could, his hood covering his head, Arn made his way to the loremaster's abode. The man let him in and pulled out a sheathed sword from under his bed. "For you."

Arn pulled out the blade. A gladius, with the letters XII inscribed into the pommel. A soldier's sword from the Twelfth Legion; gods only knew how it ended up here. Shorter weapon than Arn favoured, but it would do.

"You have to go north, to the slums. Past the potters' lane and take a right before the apothecary. Down the street, you'll find the house. I marked the door with runes for you to find," he explained. "Three men inside, all must die. Come back when it's done, and you'll get your stone."

Arn assumed it was unnecessary to issue any threats, if the rune token was not presented to him upon his return, given he currently held a sword in his hand. He tied the sheath to his belt, far back on his side to easier hide it with his cloak. He gave the loremaster a passing glance as he left, setting a quick pace.

*

It took a long while for Arn to reach his destination; he had to cross from the southern district through the harbour to reach the slums in the north. Finding the location proved a chore as well, especially as he did not dare ask anyone; a mute Tyrian seen on the streets near three killings would be far too easy to recall.

Once in the right place, he found himself in an alleyway that gave him a view of the house, and he sat down on the ground, back against a wall, giving his best performance as a weary man half-asleep. Arn had never been to this district before, but every house seemed old and in need of repair, including his target. The children playing on the street, occasionally bothering him, wore rags rather than proper clothing, and plenty of drunkards stumbled around, which helped Arn seem less conspicuous.

A bell rang from a distant temple. Time was running out, especially since he had to return to the loremaster before he could go back to the ludus. Arn had to act.

He got up and went down the street, crossed it, and entered the back alley that ran past his destination. Keeping his hood up, he glanced up and down. Nobody in sight, though any moment, someone might walk past. Best to hurry.

Arn drew his sword and reached the backdoor of the ramshackle house. Steeling himself, he kicked it in and ran inside.

He saw a blur of movement inside and acted on instinct, striking out with his sword to cut down the nearest man, who fell with a scream. Another leapt to his feet from the other side of a table and had time to draw a long dagger. Arn jumped onto the table and parried the blade with his own before kicking his opponent on the chin. The fellow staggered backwards, and Arn fell upon him, striking his blade deep into his chest.

Catching his breath, Arn looked around. An easy fight against inexperienced warriors, except there were only two. He could not sit around, waiting for the third to appear, should he be out.

The haze of battle clouded his mind, and he only noticed the stairs behind him when a creaking sound alerted him. Turning around, Arn saw his third target leaping down from the staircase, wildly brandishing a short sword.

Ferocity proved inferior to experience; in addition to his upbringing, Arn currently spent every day practising swordplay for hours. He easily parried the first desperate flourish, leaned back to evade the next, and used the opening to slash his enemy across the chest.

The pain and wound caused enough distraction that Arn could slap the weapon from his opponent's hand, and he followed up with a kick to the knee. Disarmed, the man fell to the ground.

Knowing this was his moment, Arn prepared himself and grabbed the man's neck with his free hand before stabbing him deep in the chest. His life force, like a breeze that shook the leaves, fled from his body, but Arn caught it and stole it for himself. It nourished his tree, still just a sapling, and made a new branch grow. Finally, he would have an inkling of spellpower returned to him, fuelling his abilities; finally, he would be a spellblade again.

The same effect as last time overcame him. A pounding headache along with nausea washed over his body. He fell to his knees, releasing his hold on his sword, and the dead man collapsed onto the ground. Blinking, Arn saw only a haze, and stabs of pain pierced him, like a hundred arrows released to strike him at once.

But it subsided. The world returned before his eyes. His mouth entirely dry, Arn wiped spittle from his face and got up. His last victim lay on his back, sword still buried in his chest. Arn grabbed it and pulled it out. His task was done.

Looking at the dead, Arn wondered who they were and what they had done to deserve death. He glanced at the hands of the nearest corpse and saw the torn nails of a workman along with dirt ingrained into the skin. Serfs, apparently. Probably runaways from their lord's estate, hiding in the big city.

The front door opened. Arn turned his eyes to see a small figure – a boy, younger than ten, holding a jar in his hands. Seeing a warrior holding a blood-stained blade, the jar slipped from his hands and shattered, flinging water and clay shards in every direction.

Yet despite his fear, the boy did not do the sensible thing; he stood, frozen, staring at the incarnation of death before him.

Arn returned the gaze. A witness could be his undoing. His oath compelled him to take any action needed to fulfil it or stand before the gods as a niðing. Yet slaying a child would brand him the same.

Slowly kneeling, Arn wiped his blade clean in the clothes of the dead man. Rising again, he pressed one finger to his lips; the boy, wide eyes staring, could not mistake the gesture. Sheathing his sword, Arn stumbled away, out through the backdoor.

*

The journey to the southern district felt long in Arn's current state; he was weak, same way he had only felt on occasions when he had magically exhausted himself, drawing on more power than he possessed and incurring a price. Headache, nausea, weakness in his limbs; he would not be able to handle another fight in his current state.

Arn considered whether to toss the sword into the harbour and return to the ludus; he could rest and seek out the loremaster another evening for his reward. But asking for leave to enter the city twice in close succession would arouse suspicion, and Arn was loath to postpone.

If he did not return swiftly to report success, who knew how those slimy taskmasters of his would react? They might assume he had failed or something had gone wrong. Besides, Arn wanted his payment sooner rather than later. So he struggled onwards, down the streets of Aquila, accompanied by the occasional shout or curse aimed at drunkards stumbling around.

*

Reaching Helgi's home, Arn felt better, though he still disliked the idea of doing any fighting in this state. The magic inside him had yet to settle; he did not imagine it would respond to his demands if he wanted to begin casting spells.

Not bothering with a knock, Arn went directly in. The old loremaster, eating at his table, looked up confused. "You're back early."

Arn untied the sheath from his belt and placed it on the table before stretching out his open hand. Seeing no understanding on Helgi's face, Arn ran one finger across his own throat and held up three fingers.

"You killed them – already?" The loremaster looked up at the window in the ceiling, providing light. "It's not even nightfall! Why would you do it now?"

Arn tapped his open palm with the other hand, indicating his impatience to be paid.

"Gods, take your sails down. I got it right here. I just didn't expect you back already," Helgi mumbled. He opened a drawer and took out a rune token, inscribed with the symbol of force. "As agreed. I'll talk to Lucius. If everything is in order, he'll have more tasks for you, and you can get your other runes restored. Assuming this method works." He shrugged. "No guarantees, friend."

Arn's fingers closed around the stone. He felt the power within, soon to be his. It had to work. Giving an acknowledging nod to the loremaster, Arn left.

*

Outside the ludus, Arn had a final obstacle. He could not risk the rune stone being confiscated, but it was bigger than an egg and difficult to hide. Looking around, he grabbed a pebble on the ground, placed it inside his boot by the heel, and mirrored this with the rune token on the other foot. While unpleasant, it made his gait even, rather than one leg looking shorter than the other.

The guard quickly patted him down, including the ankles of his boots; a common place to hide a knife. "Weird. You seem taller," he grunted. "Alright. Let me lock the gate, and I'll take you back."

Soon after, Arn was alone in his cell. He pulled out the rune token, glad to have his boots off. His whole body felt sore, as if he had trained all day without interruption. Doing this now added to his discomfort, but he could not wait until tomorrow night to discover whether this worked or not.

Correcting his posture as he sat on his cot, Arn closed his eyes and gripped the rune token tight in his hand, focusing on the magic woven into it. One strand at a time, he began to pull it out, absorbing it.