Blood Eagle

The Dominion of Earth

The other fighters saluted them as they left the shared areas, led by Mahan. The cart waited for them in the yard on the other side of the building; together with his fellow gladiators, Arn climbed aboard. Both of them were triarii, fighting with spears. Arn had trained against them several times; he knew their names, Cornelius and Hector, but nothing else.

Having been around the city on his own, Arn had a better understanding of its geography; he knew now that the ludus lay to the east, in what was considered the temple district, having the great lunar temple at its centre. As for the arena, it lay in the very middle of the city, with extensive marketplaces and forums on the other side, and the harbour further beyond, supplying the rest with goods, including from Tyria. Commerce and entertainment, silver and blood, both at the heart of Aquila.

Upon reaching their destination, they left the cart to follow Mahan through the tunnels to their designated gate. Weapons were brought and distributed; by now, the feeling of the buckler strapped to his wrist felt familiar, and Arn welcomed it.

"Cornelius, use your reach, or the spear is wasted on you. Goad your enemy to attack," Mahan told the fighter. "Hector, don't move your leg so far forward that your shield can't protect in time," he continued before looking at Arn. "Northman, remember that you'll be treated by how you treat others."

Arn knew it was meant as a warning, but he took it as encouragement if the weapons master had no real advice to offer. He considered his form to be good; any weakness caused by his injuries was gone, and he felt like his former self. At least in terms of swordplay.

An official appeared. "Any moment now!"

*

Arn went second rather than first this time and had to wait until the official returned, announcing his fight was next. As Arn passed under the portcullis, he imagined for a moment that it would slam down and impale him; of course, no such thing happened. The skáld stood on the sands once more, yet this time armed with magic.

From the other side, a triarius approached. That put Arn at disadvantage in terms of reach and meant he would have to be aggressive to close in; his small shield made that harder, offering limited protection, though it also helped, as it did not encumber or slow Arn down. And once he got past his enemy's spear, he held the advantage with his sword that could thrust or cut dependent on need, unlike the polearm.

"For the second time, the fearsome savage from the North appears! Last, he slew his opponent without hesitation, thirsty to deal out death! People of Aquila, bid the Blood Eagle welcome to our sands!"

The people roared and clapped, though some also gave shouts of disapproval at the merciless northerner. Arn paid them no heed. They were insects who by chance gazed upon an eagle soaring far above them; even in his diminished state, the skáld felt far superior. If they had to be present, seeking entertainment at his expense, so be it; Arn had come to claim a life and thereby claw back more of his magic.

"Fight!"

Distracted by his own disdain, Arn's attention returned to his surroundings hearing the announcement. As for his enemy, he did not favour the same tactics as Mahan had advocated with Cornelius; without hesitation, the triarius leapt forward and stabbed with his spear.

Perhaps he figured a lightly protected veles would be easy to strike; if so, Arn proved him wrong, intercepting the tip of the spear with his buckler to turn it aside. He swiftly stepped forward to retaliate, but his opponent had anticipated this, moving backwards the moment his own attack proved false.

Both gladiators accepting that this fight would last longer than their first blow, they retreated a step and began to circle around each other, watching for an opening. Tentative strikes with the spear were parried; Arn made no counterattack on those occasions, knowing his enemy expected this.

They could continue this awhile, each waiting to see who faltered first and provided the opening for the other, but Arn intended to use the hidden arrow in his quiver. He waited until yet another probing strike came, and he made his own attack. But instead of going after his enemy directly, he smashed his blade against the haft of the spear.

As it was made from hard wood, Arn’s sword would under normal circumstances glance off or get stuck. But activating the rune on his arm, Arn was gifted magical strength, and his weapon tore through the haft, splintering it.

The crowd roared at this unexpected development, and the triarius stared dumbfounded at his broken weapon. But before Arn could follow up, tremors seized his right arm with pain shooting through his body. He could barely hold on to his sword.

Noticing this, or simply realising his limited options, the other gladiator leapt forward, wielding his broken haft as a club. Arn deflected with his buckler, though the force of the blow hurt his wrist.

Arn tried to retaliate, but he could barely keep grasp of his sword, let alone strike a proper blow. Fate punished him for his arrogance, and he had only one recourse – use his drop of spellpower and hope it obeyed him rather than give fate a second reason to cast him down.

Stepping back repeatedly just to buy time, Arn tried to consider his options while the crowds cheered and jeered, seeing the Tyrian on the backfoot. He could not cast his major runes, lacking the ability to speak; he needed a quick and decisive strike, such as a spell delivered through his blade. While most of them would be conspicuous – not a road to take with thousands of eyes upon him – he had one option that he could get away with, using spellwork of his own making and how he had earned his epithet in northern lands.

As the Aquilan continued to swing his crude club, Arn evaded and threw his sword from right hand to left. His lips forming words that he could not speak out of habit – thankfully, this ability did not require speech – Arn drew upon spellpower and unleashed his magic. It travelled from his heart to his fingertips that grasped a sword hilt, and his bladesong began.

Taking on life of its own, the sword in his hand reacted with more speed than any ordinary man could muster, even a gladiator. It parried every blow from the club, no matter how strong or well struck, and slashed the leg just above the protection of the greave.

With a cry, the Aquilan fell to one knee, and Arn kicked his wrist, making him drop the broken haft. Preparing himself, the Tyrian grabbed his chin with one hand and stabbed him with the sword in the other. The sensation of the gladiator’s life abandoning him, only to be swept up by his executioner, made Arn feel euphoric. Power returned to him, feeding the ever-hungry soil within him where his magic grew. And all around him, the crowds shouted themselves hoarse.

*

The return journey to the ludus was made in silence. Hector and Cornelius had both lost their fights, taking injuries, and neither was in the mood for conversation. Clearly disappointed in them, Mahan seemed if possible more frustrated with Arn despite his victory.

As they returned to the ludus, a guard in the outer yard intercepted the Tyrian. "Once you've bathed, the dominus wishes to see you."

Arn had not met with Ignius since their first conversation in his study, nor had he given him much thought. The lanista was inconsequential to his plans; the skáld had assumed that as long as he won his fights, earning the man coin, he would be satisfied.

After cleaning himself up, Arn found one of the guards, who escorted him to the master of the house. He looked and seemed much as Arn remembered him; faded clothes and a slightly haggard look that suggested a lack of prosperity.

Given that the gladiators from his ludus won a good number of their fights, that could not be the reason; it had to be that the ludus was simply not granted enough participation in the games. From what Arn had overheard, the largest schools had as much as ten fighters competing on Soldays.

It made Arn wonder how he had ended up specifically here. The unimposing man sitting on the other side of the desk did not seem the sort who could have hatched a scheme like this, discovering Arn and bringing him from the arena for medical treatment. Though his lack of good fortunes explained why he was willing to run the risk of cheating in the games.

All these thoughts, Arn kept to himself. Ignius would not deign to answer any questions pertaining to this, nor did it matter to Arn. Let the lanista believe he took advantage of the skáld.

"I heard you won your second victory. Your winnings have been added to Gaius' lists. Fifteen pieces of silver this time."

An expression ran across Arn's face; he disliked that he would have to approach that toad to get his coin when he needed it, but it was not worth pressing the issue.

"Should I take this as a sign that you are recovering? Not just physically, but your – other abilities as well."

Arn glanced towards the door, where the guard waited outside. He gave a slow nod. At the same time, he reached out with his sense of magic. It told him two things. The ring on his arm was an artefact of arcane nature, which he already knew, though not its purpose; in addition, Ignius wore a golden necklace underneath his tunic, presumably to protect himself against magic. Not that it would help much; the gold was impure, and even if not, it still could only protect him in limited ways. If Arn wanted him dead, he would just grab the desk and throw it on top of the man.

Oblivious to Arn's line of thinking, the lanista gave a thin smile. "Excellent. We are still more than a month away from the solstice games, so I don't want you to fight too often. No reason to risk exposing yourself. I've told Mahan to keep you on a lighter schedule."

The skáld narrowed his eyes; that did not suit his plans, but he realised the futility of arguing with a man who only took his own counsel.

"That is all. You may return to your cell."

*

Arn still felt the aftermath of having leeched the energy from the gladiator in the arena, but it dissipated faster than before. He hoped the speed of his recovery would continue to improve; while he could choose carefully when to seize the life from someone, it was still uncomfortable to be left in such a weakened state afterwards.

He was also keen to test his new, regained power. The seed of seiðr in him was the root of all his magic, the tree on which the branches grew; he would have to strengthen it further, being the limit of how strong his other powers could become, such as his spellpower or elemental might. Still, the tree was strong enough that he could begin to awaken those latter powers, which was the intention Arn had chosen for his latest kill.

Sitting on his cot, Arn took out an ordinary pebble he had grabbed from the training yard. Before he could do anything, his door opened slowly. Clasping the rock tightly, he gave a menacing glance at the interloper, disturbing him.

With a lascivious smile, the harlot who had visited him on his previous victory appeared. "Hello, you savage brute. Heard you killed a man today," she said in a sultry voice. As she closed the door behind her, she added in a matter-of-factly manner, "So, do you want anything tonight, or just the same as last, yeah?"

Arn sighed. He could wait a little while, he supposed, his fingers playing with the pebble. He waved a hand around, indicating his indifference, and lay down on his cot.

"Great. Easiest job, this one." She sat down against the wall. "I'm Iris, by the way. Hope you'll ask for me every time you're in the mood not to have fun." She giggled.

He raised his head and gave her a sharp look.

"Fine, quiet time it is." She blew out her breath. "I'll be honest – as easy as this is, I'm glad other men aren’t like you. I'd be out of work then."

Arn closed his eyes.

*

Even after he was finally alone, the skáld waited. Once the lamps in the hallway were extinguished, plunging the area into darkness, Arn sat up on his cot and took out the pebble again. It did not matter that he could not see; he felt the small stone on the palm of his hand. More than that, he felt it with his magic.

To Tyrians, the land was sacred. Not these profane southern realms, but everything north of the river Frosten. They protected the land, and in return, it lent them power. And now, Arn had taken the first step back towards his dominion over earth. In the dark, the small pebble floated upwards, hanging in the air as it submitted to his magic and obeyed his mental commands.