Blood Eagle

For Want of a Nail

Hearing his fellow gladiators leave their cells, assembling for breakfast, Arn realised he could not hope to get through training. Lack of rest and blood loss made him sluggish; Mahan would immediately realise something was wrong, and he could not explain away a stab wound. He could only think of a single recourse, though that might be because his current state diminished his capacity for thinking.

Enacting his plan, he removed his bloody bandages and stuffed them into the hay of his cot. With uncertain steps, Arn made his way to the training yard. He had on previous occasions noticed a bent nail sticking out of the woodwork, which now had to serve as gruesome salvation.

Despite his weakened condition, magic still obeyed him, and Arn used his strength to pull the nail out. He hesitated briefly, gritting his teeth before finally plunging the sharp metal into his injury.

The pain threatened to overwhelm him, making his eyes darken; the blood loss did not help either. Leaving the training yard, he stumbled his way towards the workshop of the medicus.

*

"What happened?"

Arn lay with closed eyes. Pain and discomfort kept him from drifting off to sleep, though weariness made it difficult to pay heed to his surroundings. Still, he recognised the voice as belonging to Mahan.

"Fellow had a nail in his side." The answer came from the medicus.

"What? How is that possible?"

"Well, lots of old woodwork around here that could use replacement. Or maybe it was a hook hanging on a wall somewhere," the old man speculated.

"It should not cause an injury to fell a trained warrior."

“To be honest, it looked more like a stab wound. And the nail was deep in him, like someone had used it as a knife on him."

A moment of silence followed. "I'll have to investigate this," Mahan finally spoke. "And move him to the inner house. Continue your treatments."

"I cleaned the wound, applied the poultice, and bandaged it. Nothing more I can do. Should the dominus know of this?"

"He left yesterday on business. He won't return for two fivedays at least."

Retreating footsteps told Arn that Mahan had hurried away.

*

At some point, Arn fell asleep. When he woke up, unfamiliar surroundings added to the haze that had descended on his mind. He lay in a proper bed, and pain extended like rings from his waist when he moved or touched his left side. Despite being under heavy blankets, he felt cold, and he retreated further under their protection.

At some point, though Arn had no idea how long he had been awake by then, a man entered; it took him a moment to recognise the weapons master. "Northman. I need you to tell me what happened. Did someone attack you?"

Various memories surfaced. A dagger hurled at him, striking his side. Although feeling feeble, something told Arn to keep this to himself. Arn parted his lips to feign ignorance when he realised something horrid; he had no tongue, just a stump in his mouth. He could not speak even if he wanted to. Well, that made keeping secrets easier.

"You can use your signs," Mahan told him. "I'll understand."

Arn stared at him with glossy eyes and turned his head away.

*

The sound of voices woke him up, though Arn kept his eyes closed rather than reveal he was listening.

"Well?" Mahan asked.

"He has a fever. Strange. A wound suffered this morning should not be infected after half a day. It's not even dark outside yet," the medicus mumbled. "He's in a weakened state, unnaturally so."

"Nether take me," the weapons master muttered in turn. "The dominus is gone, and this happens. What does he need?"

"Perhaps his body will fight it off on its own," the old man considered. "If not, alchemy or a healer."

"I doubt the dominus could afford the latter if his own life was at stake. But an elixir of some sort might be possible to get."

"What do the other fighters say?"

"They all claim to have seen nothing. I asked him this morning, but he already seemed out of it and gave me no answer."

A scrambling sound of items being shuffled around, perhaps the tools of the medicus. "I'll come back tomorrow and change his bandages."

*

As the fever gripped him, Arn found his own grasp on his situation growing tenuous. People unknown to him entered his room and fed him or gave him water, quickly and efficiently, like one would do a tree in a garden threatened by drought. On occasion, his wound was disturbed, shooting pain through his body. Nobody spoke to him, and when he considered doing so himself, he could not find the words before they had already left again.

Eventually, he had a few lucid moments; looking out, he saw sunlight, but he could not tell which day it might be. He remembered that he had a secret. Nobody could know about his magic or how he was wounded. Despite feeling exhausted, he clung to that thought, recognising it to be paramount.

And he knew another secret. A nun hiding her magic as well. It was time to make use of that. Despite his condition making it hard to think, Arn realised he needed more help than a poor man's physician could offer; the fog on his mind only reinforced this belief.

Fortunately, someone clear-minded had brought his tablet to the room. Stretching out his hand, Arn managed to grab it and open its halves. Barely able to focus, his hand shook from the fever as he etched letters into the wax. Send for Helena.

*

The cool sensation of wet cloth against his face woke Arn up, and he was able to recognise a dark veil above him. He tried to speak, but only a croaking sound issued; he had forgotten again that he no longer had that ability.

"Arn? Do you hear me?"

Slowly, and with some difficulty from lying down, Arn nodded.

"They said that you asked for me. Though they weren't sure. You wrote in Tyrian letters, so they had to find someone who could read it."

Struggling, he recalled how to communicate with her. 'Help me.'

"I'll pray for you, of course! And I can help you feel better." She put the cloth back into the bowl of water and retrieved it to wring it.

'No. Help me. With magic.'

She arrested her movement briefly before placing the cool cloth on his brow. "You're doing worse than I thought."

'I know you have magic.' Arn exhaled, his breathing becoming laboured.

"I shall pray for you, Master Arn." She straightened herself up abruptly, threw the cloth back into the bowl, making the water splash, and left his room with hasty steps.

*

The window stood open to allow fresh air into a room heavy with sweat and sickness, but on a clouded night with a new moon, it offered no light. Lying in the dark, drifting between fever dreams and waking up, shivering from cold while buried under blankets, Arn's mind was in a labyrinth. He found himself stalking into a camp, evading guards, only to remember being in the arena with a lion tearing him to shreds before throwing his eyes open with a gasp, thinking himself back on his home island, wondering why his family's house looked so different.

He tried to call for his mother or father, but only unintelligible noises issued from his mouth. He wiped his brow of sweat and accidentally tasted the salt as he ran his hand across his lips afterwards. He moved his fingers to touch his rune of recovery on his left thigh, wondering why it did not activate to help him feel better; the scar tissue brushing against his fingertips provided an answer his mind could not comprehend in its current haze.

As morning came, his fever had only worsened.