Blood Eagle

Challenged

Arn stepped forward from the line, approaching a table that contained a selection of training weapons. He chose his buckler first, strapping it to his wrist, before picking up a suitable blade.

"Do remember, Northman, it's just sparring," his opponent told him, likewise choosing his weapons. It was the bald fellow who had conversed with him earlier. He gave Arn a grin. "Don't kill me."

They both stepped into the ring. Arn saw the expectant faces when he glanced towards the crowd, anticipating a spectacle. The Tyrian did not intend to indulge them more than necessary.

A woman, giggling with nervous energy, dropped a piece of cloth to signal they could start, and Arn advanced with his weapon raised. As his adversary mirrored to parry, Arn pulled strength from his rune. He slammed the swords together that the wooden blades splintered.

With the other gladiator taken aback, Arn dropped the hilt, stepped in close, and simply shoved him with such force, he fell to the ground. The fight was over; not bothering to conceal the disdain on his face, aimed at the Aquilans staring at him, Arn removed the buckler from his wrist and discarded it carelessly.

"Sol's Eye, I hope we never meet on the sands," the bald gladiator mumbled as he got on his feet.

"Master Ignius, what a specimen!" declared their host, and the tension was broken by cheering and applause. "Where did you dig up such a man?"

"Humbled by your praise, Master Flavus," the lanista replied. "A savage beast from the far North, caught raiding in our lands. Killed several legionaries, and another five had to work together to subdue him."

"I'm surprised they went to such risk, taking him alive," another voice chimed in, speaking with a drawl. "Any northern savage killing our legionaries deserves only death." The casual tone from his first words gave way to hostility, and Arn glanced at him. Unlike other guests dressed in many colours, he wore a black tunic with a silver eagle on it.

"Undoubtedly you are correct, Sir Salvius," remarked the host. "Yet think of the spectacle we would miss!"

Hearing the name, Arn summoned all his willpower to remain still and avoid his expression betraying his emotions.

"You've some experience with these barbarians," another spoke. "Haven't you spent time up north?"

"Yes. A time I hardly cherish." Salvius, standing with the posture of a warrior, glanced briefly at Arn. No sign of recognition in his eyes; with Arn's hair and beard cut short, not to mention the scar that adorned his face, he did not look his old self.

Arn knew Salvius to be a mageknight of the Aquilan legions; an officer with high rank and possessive of magical gifts that supported his martial prowess. A strong fighter in battle amidst ordinary soldiers, undoubtedly, though vulnerable to all the powers that a skáld could bring to bear. If only Arn had those in full, he might have taken his vengeance right then and there, but as it stood, victory seemed doubtful.

"Understandable, given the Tyrian tonight seems the strongest of all the gladiators!" declared a patrician woman.

"No wonder the emperor has been reluctant to expand northwards. If there's more like him, I wouldn't want to settle in Nordmark either!"

"He's just a man," Salvius proclaimed. "Any Aquilan mageknight can defeat a hundred like him."

And any skáld could destroy the strongest mageknight, Arn thought to himself. Galdr and runes would crush this prattling mageling in an even fight, which the Aquilan should know, given their last encounter.

"Show us!"

"Yes, let us see what an Aquilan can do!"

More voices joined the chorus. Salvius raised his hands in feigned reluctance before stepping forward to grab a blade from the table, causing cheers to erupt. He took another and stepped into the circle to face Arn, throwing the second sword to him. "Come on, pale eyes," he smirked. "Strike with all your strength!"

The Tyrian responded, though he knew to avoid using magic against a mage; he made his attack, fighting like any other gladiator. Salvius met his weapon with his own, but pure magic shimmered around the mageknight, including what he held, protecting it from physical damage; Arn's sword splintered striking the barrier.

Triumphant cries rose from the crowd, and Salvius smiled to them. Seeing the magical shield fade, Arn hurled his hilt into the mageknight's face, catching him unawares. It struck him on the chin, and now it was the Tyrian who smiled.

One hand cautiously touching his chin, Salvius looked at the gladiator. He advanced, swinging his blade with supernatural swiftness. Unarmed, Arn could not deflect, but the weapon was not steel, it did not hold an edge; bracing himself, he raised his arm and used that to parry. Ignoring the pain as the wooden sword struck him, Arn stepped in close and pushed the mageknight already off-balance with enough force to send him to the ground.

Some might have considered the fight at an end with one man down, but Salvius rolled away and got on his feet, clearly eager to continue. He had dropped his weapon in the motion, and instead, he approached Arn with raised fists. Happy to oblige, the Tyrian raised his own hands, and they exchanged punches, though not to even outcome. The mageknight allowed Arn to land a blow only to move close and retaliate. And since Salvius could summon his magic to protect him, Arn did not cause actual harm, but only received it.

Furthermore, Salvius knew to empower himself with magic, like Arn could with his runes; his punches came with supernatural strength, leaving the Tyrian bloody and bruised. Staring at the mageknight, the skáld thought about how easy this fight should have been. One chanting of galdr in the man's ears, and he would be on his knees, or the casting of a major rune could send him flying through the air. But either of that required speech.

Arn had his minor rune of force, allowing him strength to match the mageknight; but any use of magic, however covertly he tried to be, would mean Arn's execution if discovered, and so he took blow after blow.

"Had enough, savage?" Salvius shouted, more for the benefit of the spectators than his opponent.

Arn knew he should yield. He gained nothing from this fight, and he could not defeat a mage without using magic of his own. Of all Aquilans, he longed to strike down this mageknight in particular, but it would not be here or now.

Yet seeing this crowd, so assured of the might wielded by their Empire, their right to encroach on Tyrian lands, a feeling stirred in him. In this moment, he represented all nine tribes of Tyria, and they were being challenged; if it went without answer, it would only embolden them.

Wiping the blood from his mouth, Arn stood up. Another punch felled him, and he got back up. He swung, a feeble blow without the strength of his rune behind it, and the mageknight evaded with a smirk, striking back to send Arn down.

"Enough!" a woman's voice cried out from among the audience.

"Sir Salvius, I think your point has been made. We should not deprive the arena the pleasure of seeing this man fight on the sands," the host said with a disarming smile.

Breathing heavily, the mageknight looked at the Tyrian getting back on his feet. His expression turned, changing into a mask of civility. "Of course. I forgot we have gentler company than in the untamed woods of Tyria."

The Aquilans dispersed, the fighting at an end. Arn glanced at the gladiators, who shook their heads at him, for one reason or another. His eyes turned to the gathering of priestesses in the garden, but their veils did not allow him to measure their reactions. Wiping his face and looking down at the blood on his hands, his own blood, he could think of one positive consequence of this bout; his battered state and exhaustion made him too tired to feel the rage that the sight of Salvius should have awakened in him.

*

The Tower of the Arcane had, despite its great size, few inhabitants. A handful of apprentices occupied the lowest floors. A spiral staircase wound itself along the outer wall, granting access further up. The top three were reserved for the masters of the tower.

While Arn was fighting in the gardens of Flavus, Atreus made his way up until he reached a red door, two floors still above him. He took out a wardstone and touched the wood, making it swing open.

Inside, he saw the typical quarters of an Archean wizard who had risen to the rank of tower master. Bedchamber, study, workshop, all in one.

A woman dressed in red rose to greet her visitor with a smile, once the door had closed behind him. "Atreus."

"Cora."

They embraced and separated again. "I appreciate you took the time to bathe before accepting my invitation."

"I still have my manners." They sat down with the hostess pouring wine for her guest and herself, and Atreus accepted his cup. "Thank you. Now, why did you ask me to come? To Aquila, I mean."

"Yes, I've grown increasingly uneasy. Once, I and the other masters worked together freely. Now, we guard our secrets jealously and never visit each other's floors."

Atreus shrugged. "That is Archen for you. Everyone pursues their own ambitions, and alliances are temporary and practical."

"Perhaps, but something happened. Some fivedays ago. An undead creature walked the streets of Aquila."

Her guest put down his cup. "What kind?"

"The lowest form, from what I heard. Probably an accidental creation."

The spellbreaker relaxed his shoulders. "Unlikely to be an example of maleficus, then. More likely, an Aquilan mage releasing their magic without much control."

"Perhaps. But what if it is more? If either of my fellow masters are involved, we have a responsibility to intervene," Cora argued. She regarded him with dark eyes, scrutinising his face.

A slow sigh was released from him. "In truth, I intended to hasten my return to Archen. If you think matters have changed in this tower, it is little compared to our city."

"Surely you can delay your return a fiveday or two while investigating?"

"Only if I must. In some months' time, the constellation of the triumvirate coincides with a full moon – I should like to be in Archen by then."

"Any specific reason for your haste?" She frowned. "Such convergences happen once every other year or so."

Now it was his turn to regard her carefully. "I'm worried. Archen is full of secret groupings, cabals and factions, and I've had my eye on one in particular. Now, I find doors closed and ears deaf."

"Same as here," Cora considered. "Though why does that leave you worried? You just dismissed my concerns."

"This feels different. The secrecy in Archen borders on paranoia." Atreus' fingers fiddled with the stem of his cup, but he did not pick it up. "It doesn't resemble the fear that a rival will steal their work, but that a spellbreaker will discover them guilty of maleficus."

"Forbidden magic at work in the heart of Archen?" Her eyes turned wide. "Do you have proof?"

"None," he admitted. "Not the slightest sign of necromancy, leechcraft, mental enslavement, or any other kind of forbidden spellcraft. Either my concerns are unfounded – or some manner of magic is at work beyond my ken." He looked at her straight. "And if I intended some new, unproven ritual, I'd carry it out when the triumvirate met in the heavens under a full moon."

"Well, as said, it's months away. Could you not spare a few days to investigate what happened here? Just to alleviate my concerns that my fellow masters have gone astray," Cora pleaded.

The spellbreaker took a deep breath. "Very well. I shall look into it."