Blood Eagle

Just a Scratch

Despite his declaration that he would return to do the deed as demanded by this Lucius, Arn felt conflicted. It seemed a great risk to take on several levels. Entering a fight with scarcely any foreknowledge, avoiding witnesses that might notice him enter or leave the building, and trusting that his temporary employer would not betray him.

While Arn doubted that the Aquilan or the loremaster would reveal Arn as the culprit – that would only cast a light on their own involvement – they might choose to withhold payment, and given Arn's circumstances, forcing them to uphold their end of the bargain would be difficult. Having only a few hours in the evening available to him for sojourns into the city made everything complicated as well.

Yet he could not imagine that Aquila held another loremaster who could help him, and the lack of his runes frustrated him. And so he wavered, back and forth, swayed that the risk was too great before convinced that he had to do whatever it took to regain his powers. And in between, the days passed in the ludus.

*

"Master Mahan, what's the point in pairing me with the mute? We're both velites," Andrew complained. "I won't be facing another veles in the arena."

The weapons master stalked over. "By fighting your mirror, you should hopefully gain a better understanding of your own weaknesses. Are you done questioning me?" he barked.

"Yes, master," Andrew mumbled, raising his weapons, equipped the same as Arn. "Alright, straw head, let's have it."

They took positions and the measure of the other, judging movement and reactions. With a few quick strikes, meant only to gain knowledge, Arn learned what he recalled the weapons master had mentioned before; when he went to strike, Andrew inhaled sharply, giving a grunt as he made his blow. While the noise of weapons clanging around them made it hard to hear, Arn could nonetheless gain warning by paying strict attention. Hearing the sound and observing subtle movement in arm or leg gave Arn all the foreknowledge needed to not only block but also strike back.

Once Arn had sent his opponent to the ground more than once, Andrew struck his sword into the ground, bristling with frustration. "This is some dark sorcery! The straw head knows my movements before I do!"

Mahan appeared immediately. "I told you. All the noise you make. You've had luck that no opponent in the arena has discovered this, but when someone does, you'll lose."

Andrew gritted his teeth and picked up his sword. "Again, Northman!"

Arn smiled with a closed mouth and obliged.

*

"I don't get it." At the evening meal, Andrew let himself fall down onto the bench next to Arn. "I barely made a sound, I corrected myself, and you still knew when I'd strike."

Arn sighed. Not in the mood to listen to prolonged whining, he decided to simply inform the man. You breathe too loud.

"Well, excuse me for needing air!" came the indignant response with a huff. "You mean when I fight," he continued with a mumble. "Right. How can you even hear that?"

Arn shrugged.

"I tell you, Northman, that's maleficus. Dark magic."

In other instances, he would have been right; in this case, it was a decade of training swordsmanship.

“Alright. Lesson learned. Thanks for the sparring today,” Andrew told the Tyrian, clapping him on the shoulder with an absentminded expression before digging into his meal. A little taken aback at the display of camaraderie, Arn returned his attention on his own meal.

Their weapons master appeared in the room, yelling out the gladiators for tomorrow's battles. That might be an opportune time for Arn to handle his own fight out in the city; thanks to the games, Solday was a day of revelry for many. Easier to hide in crowds or go unnoticed, and any witnesses observing his comings and goings might be drunk.

The meal over, a handful of the gladiators returned to the training yard for the ritual, including those who were to fight. While Arn had no interest in their victory or defeat, having only interacted with them sporadically during sparring, he went along simply to satisfy his curiosity concerning the ritual. Not that he would participate, but the days were long and monotonous in the ludus, and he felt more of his old curiosity as a skáld awaken, now that he had the first inkling of his powers returned to him.

As before, the nun's staff rested against the wall of the yard. It must have a notch or something atop, allowing a silver chain to be safely embedded inside it, which itself held a disc in the shape of a crescent moon, as Arn had observed last time. The gladiators and the sister knelt before it, mumbling various prayers. When complete, she alone rose and turned to face them, pouring some kind of oil from a jar onto their heads before making a sign on their brows.

Not entirely different from how it might be in Tyria, except that rather than oil, they would have used blood. Idly making his observations, something caught Arn's eyes, blessed as they were by the seiðr-wives. Despite the black fabric that covered the sister's face as a veil, he noticed a change; specifically, that nothing was to be seen. Yet a fiveday ago, a fresh and deep bruise had coloured those features.

Arn had plenty of familiarity with injuries and how swiftly they healed, and his time in the gladiator school had only added to this. At present, he sported several blotches of miscolouring himself from various strikes with wooden weapons during training. And something felt awry.

*

Arn waited until the ritual was over and approached the sister. As she looked at him with a surprised smile, he held up his tablet. Teach me to sign?

"You changed your mind." Her smile widened. "I would be happy to! We can do it right here." She pointed at a bench in the yard, where the gladiators could catch their breath in between training. "I'll start by teaching you some basic words, and we can expand from there."

Arn nodded, not really paying attention. His mind was elsewhere. As they moved to sit on the bench, he overtook her; while passing, his hand swiftly scratched hers with his needle, hidden between his fingers.

A small outburst of pain came from her. "I think your nail scratched me!" she declared with a nervous laughter.

He took out his tablet, placing his needle back in the pouch with the same manoeuvre, and wrote, Sorry.

"No matter, just a scratch. But that can be the first word you learn. It's useful." She moved her hands in a specific pattern. "This means ‘Sorry’. You do the same."

Watching her make the sign again, Arn repeated it.

"Very good. Along that vein, this is how you say ‘Thanks’…"

*

Half an hour later, the sister signalled an end to the lesson. "That will have to do for now. I encourage you to practise these on your own, and we can see how well you remember them next fiveday on my return."

'Thanks', Arn gesticulated. In addition, he reached out to take the sister's hand with his own, placing the other on top of hers, ostensibly in a gesture of gratitude.

She slipped her hand out of his grasp. 'You're welcome', she replied and got up, grabbing her staff. As she headed inside – she would need a guard to unlock the doors and let her out of the ludus – Arn watched her walk away. His two little manoeuvres had worked. The second one, letting his fingers run over the back of her hand, had confirmed his suspicion. Her skin showed no sign of the rift made by his needle earlier; it had healed itself with a speed unrivalled by anything – except those born with the talent to heal, rarest of all.

Wrapped in long robes and cloth swaddled around her head, the good sister was perhaps the sole person in Aquila hiding a bigger secret than Arn. The only question was how to leverage this. With half a smile, the skáld left the yard for his own cell.