Blood Eagle

On the Sands

The gladiators used worn equipment for their training each morning, but after Arn had eaten breakfast, he was given a leather jerkin of good quality along with greaves, bracers, and a helmet, the latter items made of iron. The only thing missing were weapons; they were held at the arena rather than handed out in advance.

Likewise equipped, Domitian and Sigismund joined Arn before a guard led all three through the school, unlocking the gate to enter the other half of the building. They passed through it to reach a courtyard on the opposite side, where a cart waited for them along with a driver and Mahan. Domitian and Sigismund crawled up into the back, and the former smiled at Arn and patted the seat next to him, which the Tyrian took. "Why walk when you can get driven?" the Aquilan asked. An expressionless face was Arn's sole response.

The cart set into motion, and for the first time since his arrival, Arn left the gladiator school. Immediately, the city of Aquila assaulted his senses. A cacophony of sounds from the multitude of people on the streets reached his ears. People shouting, laughing, having arguments or loud conversations. They passed by stalls where vendors hawked their goods or haggled with customers, and taverns where patrons poured ale down the throat while frazzled barmaids ran in between them to comply with the demands for another round.

And on either side of the street, taller and taller buildings rose. Arn had visited Aquilan cities before, but never the capital itself. In this neighbourhood, the structures were simple in appearance, but still grandiose in size, rising several stories tall to house hundreds of people. All the inhabitants of Arn's hometown, itself the biggest settlement in his tribe, could probably fit within a few of the streets.

Eventually, the arena came into sight. Arn knew that he had seen it before, but he could not remember it in detail. The days between his capture and his near demise on the sands had faded into a blur in his mind. He recalled the smell of blood, the roar of the crowd, and the terrible sensation of claws tearing into his flesh, leaving the many scars that populated his body.

Despite these dreadful experiences, he could not help but feel impressed by the sheer size of the structure. Arn had thought his memory had exaggerated the building, with his senses and mind dulled by poison, yet it was the reverse; the arena was far grander than he recalled, a mountain made by the hands of men. Thousands upon thousands could find place within, from the looks of it.

And yet it was dead stone, built by mortal flesh for the sake of blood-soaked spectacle. If Arn still had his dominion over earth magic intact, he could only imagine the silence that these hewn rocks would possess; nothing like the singing that resounded in the hills of his island home, not to mention the Pillars of the World that stood across the northern horizon, illuminated in winter by the lantern of the gods. No, this man-made peak of hewn stone had no song in it, just the dying gasp of those who expired within its oppressive circles.

They jumped off the cart and walked through the entrance reserved for those taking part in the entertainment. Dozens of people ran around these corridors, which went underground to facilitate travel across the great arena and allow them to put on the different spectacles for an audience always demanding variety.

As the three gladiators accompanied by the weapons master progressed deeper into the complex, they passed through the cage holding the animals for another kind of show. Right as they walked past a lioness, she jumped against the bars with a snarl, claws out to strike at Arn, who had to jump aside.

Dreadful memories resurfaced from the rotten smell of meat on the breath of the animal along with her claws reflecting torchlight, and Arn felt flashes of panic threatening to overtake him, his heart pounding until it felt like it would burst.

"Friend, are you alright?" Domitian's hand on his arm helped Arn anchor himself in the present moment rather than his memory, and he took a few deep breaths before he nodded.

A guard with a whip rather than a blade by his side appeared, grinning. "Sorry about her. A Tyrian took out her eye not long ago, so now she goes after every straw head she sees. Nothing personal against you."

Except it was. Arn remembered what had happened, striking the tip of his dull blade into the eye of the lioness before claws had torn his flesh apart, granting him the scars he now bore. Enemies on the sands, now both of them once more in a cage, except that Arn had a path out of his imprisonment; he imagined that once the lioness no longer served any purpose to her cruel masters, they would dispose of her. The gladiators continued.

The small group reached their designated entrance into the inner arena, with nothing further to do but wait. A crate was brought over and opened, and Mahan finally distributed their weapons. He handed over a short spear and a round shield to Sigismund. "Remember to keep your steps small. Let the reach of the spear do the work." He gave a gladius along with a legionary's shield to Domitian. "Don't pull your arm back before you strike. The blade will go through the leather just fine. Speed matters more than strength." Finally, he placed a sword along with a buckler into Arn’s hands. "Since you don’t heed my instructions anyway, do whatever in Nether's name you want."

Arn accepted the weapons and the words with a slight bow of his head. He required only the former.

An official appeared. "Fifty breaths until it's time!"

Mahan nodded and turned back to face Arn. "Those with least experience fight first. Keep your wits about you, Northman."

"Indeed," Domitian chimed in. "The women of my city tell their husbands to come home carrying their shields or carried upon them, and yours is too small for the latter!" He laughed, looking at Arn's buckler.

Sigismund gave no parting words, only a bow of his head in salute.

The nearby portcullis opened up. Mahan gestured at it; steeling himself, Arn walked through.

*

The helmet felt heavy on his face, despite having trained with it for days. They had cut his hair short to make it better fit inside, which in itself was no loss, now that he no longer had the eagle's feather he used to wear braided into his hair. That had been taken from him after his capture, along with his sword and his tongue. Unlike those items, the feather carried no power; its only magic lay in a simple rune of preservation carved onto it, keeping it from decay.

But it had always made Arn feel better, serving as a reminder of his home no matter how far he travelled from his green islands. Instead, he carried a helmet of iron, mined from the depths of the earth despoiled by these Aquilans that even now sat by the thousands, watching him step onto the sands.

Bits of memories from his first visit returned. That same glare of the sun after being inside, the thundering noise of the multitudes on the stands. Anticipation in the air of violence and bloodletting. But this time, Arn's blade and mind were sharp.

"Citizens of Aquila!" The voice came like a storm across the arena; it had to be magically amplified. "For the first time, this fierce savage of the far North graces the sands! Taken in battle after slaying ten legionaries, two of them with his bare hands, the bloody eagle of Tyria!"

An annoyed expression ran across Arn's face. His capture had been an ambush; as far as he recalled, no legionaries had died. Unfortunately. Granted, if anyone discovered his true identity, they would wish to execute him again, and he doubted they would leave anything to chance a second time around; if the tale being spun about his capture helped protect his identity, so be it.

The voice fell silent. Arn realised he had not paid attention to his opponent being introduced. Not that it mattered either; in a matter of moments, he would be dead.

From the opposite end of the arena, another gladiator stalked towards him. He walked with precise steps, holding his weapons in a way that suggested familiarity. He might be new to the sands like Arn, but he was not a novice when it came to fighting. Arn had expected no less; an inexperienced fighter would provide only poor spectacle.

His opponent had a gladius and the large, square shields of the legions; same weapons as Domitian used, which played in Arn's favour, having practised against that fighting style more than any other during his brief time at the school.

The anticipation simmered in the air like the pressure before a thunderstorm, heralding lightning strike. Despite his misgivings about relying on divine intervention, Arn found himself praying without words. Thunraz, it in echoed his mind, grant me victory or a death worthy of your halls.

From on high came not a thunderbolt, nor the words of a god, but still a voice with the power to release the tension and allow the storm to break, as the official cried out, "Fight!"