Blood Eagle

Maleficus

Trying to make his fingers release the rune token, Arn discovered that they did not react. He had not moved at all for many hours now, and his body seemed to have accepted this posture permanently. It took effort just to open his eyes. Not that it made a difference; his cell lay in darkness.

Yet despite being numb, Arn could sense magic and the lack thereof in the stone clutched in his hand; he had drawn every thread into himself. With steeled focus, he managed to break the lock his body had adopted and stretch his limbs. Finally, the stone fell from his grasp. Arn stood up and let one hand slide over his arm. It felt no different; scars intermingled with what remained of undamaged skin and ink.

Spending a few frustrating moments fumbling in the dark, Arn picked up the stone again. He had no further use for it, but it might draw suspicion if anybody noticed it with its obvious markings; getting rid of it would also afford him the opportunity to know whether his travails had been rewarded.

He no longer felt ill from having leeched magic from the dying; instead, Arn felt the lack of sleep, and thus he still stumbled down the corridors much like he had done on the streets yesterday.

Finally, he made it outside. Dawn had yet to come, it seemed; hard to tell with the walls of the training yard surrounding him. But twilight had appeared, allowing Arn some semblance of vision.

The moment had come. Gripping the rune token in his hand, Arn commanded the rune of force inscribed on his skin to activate and lend him supernatural strength. Feeling sparks of magic, Arn pulled his arm back and threw the stone with all the power he could. It soared through the air, higher and faster than an arrow in flight, eventually disappearing from view. Hopefully nobody was out on the streets in that direction.

Arn smiled, but only for a moment. Terrible pain seized his arm, and the sign inked onto his skin burnt like fire. He fell to his knees, overtaken by the sudden pain, and clasped his runed arm with the other hand while gritting his teeth.

Everything at a price, it seemed. Arn had hoped for full restoration without consequences, letting him draw on magical strength at will. A naïve sentiment, maybe.

Still, it had worked. Getting back on his feet, Arn flexed his fingers. He would have to be careful and use it sparingly, striking with his regained superior strength in the opportune moments. Perhaps the negative reaction would lessen with use, as his body became reacquainted with the rune and its effect. Arn smiled again; it had worked. He no longer needed to fear losing any fights, whether in the arena or elsewhere.

*

Over the next days, Arn trained as usual. On occasion, when the opportunity presented itself to make use of an opening, he would activate his rune to lend his blow extra strength. Doing so hurt him, sending threads of pain from the symbol up and down his arm, but it worked. His strikes landed with enough force to push his opponent a step back, or if they were off balance, they tumbled to the ground. The challenge was no longer how to win, but how to mask his power and avoid arousing suspicion.

Manday morning, the inevitable consequence arrived. "Northman, you fight tomorrow," Mahan told him at breakfast. "I would deem you ready."

Given Arn had already won his first battle in the arena, he would argue he had been ready all along, but he got the impression that the weapons master discounted that; according to Mahan's training and schedule, only now had Arn been prepared sufficiently. Of course, given the skáld's newfound strength, Mahan was more than right without knowing it, and Arn gladly accepted the news.

Besides his minor rune of force, he also had his first drops of spellpower back, which fuelled his spellblade abilities or major temporary runes cast in combat – though the latter required speech, so still beyond his reach. And for the time being, he only had enough magic to use such a skill a single time before he needed to rest, but in the arena against an ordinary warrior, he would not require more than one opportunity to ensure victory.

Assuming it worked. Arn had yet to test it; unlike the rune on his arm, he could not easily do so. He needed a sword in hand and an enemy in front of him to measure whether his abilities as a spellblade still obeyed him. That left training the only viable opportunity, but it obviously carried too great a risk of revealing his magical powers to the other gladiators. He might also inadvertently hurt someone, and the thought bothered him, considering they had all in all treated him with decency.

Strangely, the best option would be the loremaster and the weasel, Lucius. If they had another such task involving knifework in exchange for the next rune token, Arn could test his spellpower during such a confrontation. Yes, Arn needed to return soon to old Helgi; he could get another rune restored, leech more magic, and measure the strength of his spellcraft. And in between, he would claim another victory in the arena, clawing back yet more of his powers. With a satisfied expression, the skáld finished his breakfast.

*

At the evening meal, Domitian sat next to him. "Northman, did you hear? About the slums and the monster."

Arn froze. He had assumed that murders among the poorest of the city would not draw much attention, but he might have underestimated the zealotry of the city guard. At least he was far removed from the dead men, literally and metaphorically. The only loose end was the boy – Arn clenched his jaw wondering if the little creature had ratted him out. Making his expression blank, he turned to look at who he supposed he might consider a friend, waiting for him to continue.

"I was out in the city last night, and it's all they're talking about. In the western districts, at least. No idea what the rich talk about in their palaces," Domitian grinned.

Arn gave him an impatient look, motioning for him to continue.

"Now, I know this sounds mad, but they all swore it to be true. Some nights ago, an actual undead creature stumbled through the streets! Tried to strangle some poor vendor caught in its path. Guards eventually chopped the monster to pieces, I'm told."

Arn exhaled; Domitian spoke of an actual monster, not a human killer. His relief lasted a few moments until he understood what had caused such a creature to appear. Leeching the essence of life from a person in their death throes had more consequences than the skáld had realised at first. This could not be a coincidence. The last man that Arn had slain; somehow, the process of leeching had reanimated his corpse. A dreadful thought followed, and Arn grabbed his tablet to scribble furiously.

"Never seen you write so much at once, Northman," Domitian remarked.

What happens to the dead in the arena?

The Aquilan laughed. "Frightened, are we? I don't blame you. Magic and monsters ain't for common folk like us. Don't worry. All the bodies are burned, as they should be. Only proper way to dispose of the dead."

Arn disagreed; his own people buried them. He knew that sometimes, those of particular strong will or destiny might return, resting in their burial mounds as draugar, but they caused no harm, nor did they leave their place of rest; not like the creature that Domitian had described. Regardless, knowing they burned the slain in the arena meant Arn had nothing to worry about in that regard. If he leeched from anyone elsewhere, he would have to take precautions that they could not return either.

"Still, troubling news. Almost makes you glad to be in here, behind walls. Leave others to deal with maleficus."

Maleficus – the Aquilan word for all the kinds of magic they disapproved of, which seemed crude to Arn. Tyrians did not care much for such simple distinctions; the nature of magic rested on how and why it was used.

"There's talk they'll send a spellbreaker from Archen, though they always make such claims. Never actually heard of any showing up," Domitian prattled on.

"The good sister is here for those who need prayer," Mahan announced through the room, and several of the gladiators got up.

Arn still had no use of her rituals, but he had committed to learning signs from her, even if his purpose was another; he had to keep up the ruse. So he nodded farewell to Domitian and went to the training yard, watching the Aquilans give their praise to Luna, who already approached the horizon.

When complete, he approached Sister Helena, who greeted him with a smile and several gestures. 'Ready to learn?'

'Yes.'

*

As a bell rang in the distance, Helena looked up at the horizon beyond the wall before returning her attention to her companion. 'I should leave soon. But you learn fast.'

'Thanks. You are a good teacher.' While not his usual form of communication, Arn was familiar with picking up languages and mastering words; a necessary trait for any skáld. If only he could anticipate this being useful other than keeping the nun within his orbit. He had not seen further sign of her possessing magic, but he assumed she had a lifetime's experience of hiding it. He imagined she did not wear the black veil before her face solely out of modesty, but also to keep others from noticing the same marks as he had.

'Do you feel ready to try a brief conversation?'

'Yes. I feel ready,' he replied, mirroring her gestures, and he believed he saw her smile beneath her veil.

'Tell me your name.'

'My name is a-r-n.'

'Where are you from?'

'I am from the North. Green islands,' he replied, trying to use as many words as he could recall from their lessons.

'Why are you here?' The moment Helena finished signing the question, he sensed as much as saw her distraught expression. "I'm sorry," she added, speaking quickly. "I didn't mean to ask such a question."

Arn shrugged. Avoiding any mention of his circumstances would not improve them. 'I was taken prisoner.' He hesitated; it struck him that for the first time, someone asked questions of him in earnest fashion without judgement or ulterior motives, but simply to get to know him, and he had the ability to reply without tediously writing on a little tablet. 'They took my tongue', he continued. 'My words. My song. I can't sing.'

There was more he wanted to relate, yet his vocabulary of gestures was exhausted, and perhaps for the best; complaining to this Aquilan nun would not improve his circumstances either, and this sudden need to explain himself, to be pitied for his loss – it was nothing but weakness.

'I'm sorry', she repeated, this time in their silent language. 'I wish I could hear you sing.'

Arn felt his emotions stuck in his throat, and he cursed himself for allowing this woman to get the better of him instead of the reverse. 'It doesn't matter. Thank you for teaching.'

"Yes, I better get going." She rose from the bench and picked up her staff, leaning against the wall of the training yard. With a nod, the priestess bid the skáld farewell and left.