Blood Eagle

Blood and Tears

More than twenty paces still separated the gladiators. They both approached each other carefully, perhaps neither feeling certain of what to expect. Arn knew he had an advantage in reach thanks to his longer blade, but his opponent's great shield left few openings for a strike. Attacking from a distance to use this advantage would give the Aquilan time to react and protect himself; going in close gave him the opportunity to use his short gladius.

With the gap between them finally closed, they both made a few blows in exploration, easily parried. Arn noticed that his adversary moved slowly; the shield was heavy, making him sluggish in comparison to the lithe Tyrian. If Arn approached him from his left side, away from his sword, he might make it within range to land a quick strike on his shoulder or leg without taking one in return.

His hesitation cost him, as the Aquilan took the initiative in an unexpected manner. He simply rushed forward like a bull, using his shield to ram into the Tyrian. Arn had the presence of mind to swing his sword as his enemy came within reach, and it cut into the man's shoulder, but nothing to stop his momentum, and he smashed into Arn.

The crowd jeered seeing one fighter fall to the ground, defenceless for a moment. If the Aquilan had followed up by slamming the edge of his shield against Arn, it might have won him the fight, but he chose to stab with his sword instead. The short blade and required extended movement gave the skáld enough time to roll away and leap back to his feet.

His right hand clenching only air, Arn realised he had lost his own sword. He only had his buckler left by virtue of it being strapped to his wrist. Seeing his adversary as good as unarmed, the Aquilan gave a hungry smile and advanced.

Desperate times. Arn fumbled with the leather until he managed to untie his small shield, all the while retreating to buy time. Just as the Aquilan roared to rush at him again, Arn threw his buckler like a disc spinning through the air. Slow to react, his enemy did not raise his shield fast enough. The ward turned missile struck him straight on his nose with a crunching sound, blood gushing out.

While the Aquilan yelled out in pain, Arn came rushing forward, leaping through the air. This time, the gladiator raised his great shield in time, but to no avail; Arn did not strike with any weapon, but both of his feet, heels hitting against the guard. They made impact to push his opponent to the ground, and while Arn also fell down, he was less encumbered and faster to get back up.

Before the Aquilan could react, one foot stepped on his sword hand, crushing the fingers until they dropped the weapon. He moved his shield in front of his body, but Arn kicked it away and stepped on his other arm. His enemy incapacitated, he bent down to pick up the gladius before kneeling, each of his legs pinning down the Aquilan.

Removing the man's helmet, Arn regretted he had not learned his name; it would have been more proper. He would have asked if he could, or offered some words of explanation, but such was not possible.

Placing his empty hand on the man's now bare head, Arn prepared himself. The sounds of the crowd faded away, and he closed his eyes before he plunged the sword down just above the collarbone. As the last breath left the Aquilan, so did his life force, and Arn felt it. It made his hand tremble, but he seized it with his own spirit, drinking it like a man parched for water.

The nefarious act, frowned upon even by the seiðr-wives of Tyria, made all of Arn's body shake. His stomach wanted to empty itself, and his throat burnt like he had swallowed fire.

Yet the stolen life force fell like rain in the desert, watering the seed of magic inside Arn, and ever so slowly, it began to sprout. Stumbling up to stand, oblivious to the crowd chanting his name, Arn staggered away from the corpse bleeding upon the sands. All around him, the banners with the Imperial eagle flew in the wind as its citizens called out to its bloodied namesake, victorious in the arena.

*

Arn had hoped that the restoration of his magic would feel better, even if it was only the first step. So far, it seemed more like he had been through a second mauling by the lions. His body ached and hurt in every way, his head pounded, and he tasted blood in his mouth despite the absence of any wounds.

"Northman! Your first victory!" Domitian slapped him on the shoulder as he returned to the corridor. Sigismund nodded in approval while Mahan simply stared at him.

"Thirty breaths!" an official announced before hurrying away.

"Domitian, keep your mind on your own fight," Mahan told him brusquely. "Don't let another's victory make you cocky."

"Yes, Master Mahan." The big Aquilan became serious, his smile disappearing.

"Remember to keep up your defences. And don't get any ideas from what you just saw. Rushing an enemy like that only works on the inexperienced." Mahan glanced briefly at Arn before speaking to Domitian again, continuing his advice. "Lure them in with a feint. But don't leave yourself so open they can actually exploit it."

"Yes, master."

"Time!" an official shouted from somewhere.

Domitian nodded to his comrades and walked out into the light, the sand crunching underneath his boots.

One fighter gone, Mahan looked at Arn again. "You had him at your mercy. You didn't wait for any judgement from officials or spectators before you took his life."

Arn could not care less about his indignation. He had accomplished his purpose, and he saw no need to explain himself.

"Take care, Northman. Your reputation will spread. If you show no mercy, none will be shown to you."

Bearing the scars of Aquilan mercy on his body, Arn had no need for it either.

*

While the vast majority of seats in the arena were simply stone benches, it also boasted various sections held separate for the elite with proper chairs, canopies to shield from the sun, and their own entrances from the street to avoid the commoners. In one of them, a woman sat wearing colourful robes with a brute of a man standing behind her. She wore a curious band around her upper arm, consisting of different metal rings forged together. It shone with a light unseen by ordinary eyes; the mage touched it with her hand and smiled before looking over her shoulder. "We can leave."

*

Both Domitian and Sigismund won their fights as well, and they made their departure from the arena. Once they returned to the school, the other fighters gave them a hero's welcome, slamming their weapons against their shields, and the three victors were given the rest of the day to relax and have any wounds tended to.

While the physician examined Arn, Mahan joined them. "Your winnings. One crown." He placed ten pieces of silver on the nearby table. "Now, it's fifty crowns for a prisoner of war to buy his freedom, but you'll earn more once you rise up the ranks. You get five crowns if you make champion at the solstice games."

Arn pretended to be interested, paying attention.

"While stealing is obviously strictly punished, if you lose a coin, it can be hard to find who took it. If you wish, I can leave your winnings with Master Gaius. In fact, I would encourage it, if nothing else to avoid any temptation for others."

Since Arn had pressing need for his coin, he saw no use in such an arrangement; nor did he wish to deal with the slimy weasel up in his study. Shaking his head, Arn made his reply.

"As you wish."

Grabbing his tablet, Arn scratched a few words. I want to go into the city.

"Eager to spend your coin, are we?"

Arn chose what he figured would be the most compelling argument. To pray.

"Ah, right." Mahan scratched the back of his head. "That would only be proper after your first victory. I don't suppose the good sister of Luna can handle that for you."

Arn shook his head vigorously.

"Very well. It wouldn't do to offend your gods, assuming they hear you from all the way up north. I'll speak to the dominus about granting you permission."

Arn bowed his head in gratitude, and with the physician's work done, he grabbed his money and returned to his room.

*

Seated on his cot, Arn let a coin play across his knuckles. He doubted ten silvers would suffice to buy what he desired, but one step at a time. First, get into the city and find a loremaster with the power to recreate the minor runes on his body. That would allow him to regain more of his magic in addition to what his fights in the arena provided. Once he knew such a thing was possible – he dearly hoped Aquila had attracted a Tyrian loremaster of sufficient skill – he would figure out the price demanded for such rune magic and how to pay it.

The door to his cell was pushed open, revealing a woman. Arn frowned; other than the old matron serving as cook, he had yet to see any women in the school, besides the nun. Being scantily clad, this woman – or girl, given she looked younger than twenty – was clearly not a member of any priesthood.

She stepped inside and with a lascivious smile began to slide down the left strap on her dress, and Arn finally understood. Another reward for a fight won in the arena. No doubt eagerly anticipated by his fellow gladiators, but given Arn had only just begun restoring his magic, he saw no reason to risk releasing any of it with such an act. He raised a hand to make her stop and pointed at the door.

"I don't think you understand," she protested. "I'm here for you. Already paid for, if that's your concern."

It was not. Arn crossed his hands back and forth in a clear signal of rejection.

"Is it you'd prefer a boy? We didn't bring any because they didn't tell us –"

Arn shook his head, sighing and repeating his gesture to make her leave.

"Alright, alright. I'm not going to force you, Stars, it's fine." Despite giving up, she did not leave, but stood with her feet tripping. "Look, do you mind if I stay a little while? If I leave now, I won't get paid, and it won't be fun for me to go back without coin in hand."

Arn exhaled. Well, it cost him nothing. He shrugged, indicating that she could do as she wanted, and lay down on his cot. As for the girl, she sat down on the floor, leaning her back against the wall.

"So, you're really mute? And a Tyrian? How did you end up here?"

He raised his head to give her a pointed look.

"Right, I guess you can't answer." She glanced around his cell while he lay his head back. "Did you get all those scars in the arena?"

Arn placed his finger on his lips to command silence. Besides being annoyed by her chatter, he disliked the question itself. He knew that scars filled his legs and arms, but he could also feel a line down across his face, yet lacking any reflective surface in his new home, he did not know how his own face looked anymore. He could only feel blessed that despite the scar that ran across his brow and cheek, his eye remained unhurt; being blind on one side could have gotten him killed in today’s fight against an opponent with the skill to exploit such a weakness.

A sound reached him, but not the inane questions of a girl; instead, she had begun to sing. A tame melody married to simple words of green hills and blue sea. Arn wanted to scoff with professional pride, but he found himself choking up. It reminded him of all the songs in his mind that could not find release. He wanted to lament his loss, to sing out his pain, but neither rhyme nor music could issue from his lips. He was only glad that lying on his back, staring up, while the girl sat on the floor, she could not see his face or the few tears escaping his eyes.

When she finished her song, she suddenly broke into a long moan. "Stars, you're a brute!" she exclaimed. Quickly wiping his cheek, Arn sat up to stare at her in confusion. She winked. "Best to give a little performance. I have to earn my silver, after all." She got up and left the skáld in his cell.