Blood Eagle

Island Trouble

Next day was Solday. It meant an easy day of training, with Mahan gone to the arena. The absence of Domitian, one of today's fighters, provided Arn with uninterrupted peace to think about yesterday, now that he had been able to sleep and rest after the exertion.

Perhaps this Karl always adorned himself with gold; not the worst precaution to take, especially not after another lieutenant in his organisation had been killed. But the alarm cleverly placed across the threshold to his room seemed suspicious. Arn could understand taking such measures to guard any entries from the outside, but an inner door? It suggested an expectation of intruders and nightly assailants. Which, admittedly, had been true.

The question was whether it meant Arn had been betrayed and these thugs knew to expect a magical assassin in the night. Giving it due consideration, Arn did not think so. A trap against a spellcaster required far stronger methods, ideally other mages; rather, this felt like they had taken simple preparations to protect themselves, but underestimated the danger they faced.

Which was believable; those without magic generally had no understanding of what it could accomplish, along with the ways it might be countered. And even if they knew anything about Aquilan magic, it did not forewarn them against Tyrian spellblades.

Still, despite Arn completing his task and extricating himself without injuries, the situation had been unpleasant. He had underestimated them as well, including the foolishness of announcing his arrival through such a simple trap as a string across a door opening. Also fighting in tight quarters, hemmed in, was less than ideal, even if it had served his cause on this occasion, letting his enemies get in each other's way.

Arn figured it was no coincidence that his previous targets had been far more accessible; with his base cunning, Magnus had doled out the tasks in ascending difficulty, assessing the skáld's abilities. If that held true, Arn could expect even worse to acquire his fourth and final rune.

But he would not cry famine before harvest season; he had earned his third rune, which would get him his preternatural speed back.

A sword almost caught his elbow, promising unpleasant pain if it had landed. "Nearly got you, straw head!"

The mockery was spoken without malice, and Arn took no offence as he focused on his sparring again, giving a smile with a closed mouth. Titus grinned back at him, and they exchanged blows, though neither got through the other's defences. Arn had grown relaxed during training; he no longer needed to prove himself worthy of the arena, and his place in the hierarchy was well established, leading him to be treated with camaraderie rather than contempt.

"They're back!" A guard shouted this from a balcony of the inner house that overlooked the training yard before disappearing.

The usual excitement and anticipation spread through the fighters, who all ceased their work. Arn felt a tinge of it; the monotony of life in the ludus affected even him, and any diversion such as the return of their gladiators from the arena was welcome. Belatedly, the Tyrian recalled that his own friend had been among those chosen for today's entertainment.

As the moments passed, they all waited for Mahan and the gladiators to enter the yard, announcing their victories and triumphs. When this did not happen, those most experienced understood before the others. "It's gone wrong," Sigismund muttered.

"Someone dead?" asked Titus.

The champion of House Ignius shook his head. "Then the weapons master would come to tell us. No, a delay means they've gone to the medicus." Throwing his weapons aside, he strode inside. With rising concern, Arn followed.

*

Domitian lay on the slab that had once hosted Arn. He had various cuts across his body, but of a shallow nature; only one inspired dread. An injury deep in his gut; Arn could vividly imagine the blade that had pushed through the leather jerkin to wound him so.

The medicus applied his poultices while Mahan, Sigismund, and Arn watched. "Will he live?" asked the weapons master.

"Not really up to me. I'll keep infection away and make sure he doesn't lose more blood, but if the spear cut deep enough? Pray to the gods if you've got any faith they'll intervene," the old man suggested.

"We'll do that. Let's leave the medicus to his work," Mahan said, but as they turned away, Domitian opened his eyes.

"Wait," he spoke hoarsely. His eyes already looked glassy, and despite his impressive physique, he appeared frail, but his words came with clarity. "Northman, stay." Confused, the gladiators looked at each other and shrugged; Arn stayed while the others left. "Old man, give us a moment."

"Alright, alright, let me just finish up," the medicus grumbled. With the last of Domitian's wounds dealt with, he put his jars and poultices away. "I'll get something to eat," he mumbled to himself, shuffling away.

"Northman, where are you?"

Arn, who had been seated on a stool in the corner, came over to enter Domitian's field of vision.

"Listen, I need your help. Tonight, get leave, go to the docks." The wounded fighter added a string of instructions to help Arn find a particular house. "There's a girl inside, with a small boy. Islanders. I meant to go there with my winnings, but – the Stars had other plans."

Arn's tablet lay in his room, preventing him from asking questions; he turned to fetch it, but Domitian seized his wrist with surprising strength.

"Promise me! Go tonight, help her!"

With what, Arn wondered, but he nodded solemnly. This seemed to satisfy the Aquilan, who sank back onto the slab, releasing his grip on Arn while closing his eyes.

The Tyrian hurried away to get his tablet; when he returned, the medicus was back as well. "The lad's sleeping, and good that he is. Don't you disturb him now!"

Sighing, Arn went to find Mahan instead and request leave into the city.

*

Figuring that Domitian wanted this kept secret, Arn claimed that he went to pray for his friend's recovery, which Mahan accepted; soon after, the Tyrian found himself on the street. Domitian's instructions rang through his head, but they only told him where to find this girl or young woman, nothing more.

In addition, he did not understand what it meant that she was an islander; Arn's own people dwelt on numerous isles to the north, but if she was Tyrian, surely Domitian would have said that. Though it did explain why he would want Arn's help, and the area would be right as well; most Tyrians in Aquila lived by the docks.

Since he was going to the district anyway, Arn decided to stop by The Broken Mast and collect his payment. He made his way to the backrooms, locating Lucius. The bald fellow got up with a grin. "Give us the room, boys." The other thugs cleared out. "It's done? The big lout's dead?"

Arn nodded and held out his hand.

"All business with you, isn't it. Don't you worry." Lucius stuck a hand inside a pocket and withdrew the rune token. "Old Helgi delivered it just yesterday, and I figured I'd keep it close. You being all eager and that."

Arn accepted it, placing it inside one of his own pockets. He took out his tablet and quickly wrote, Next task? One more and he had all his runes back; Magnus might try to keep him on the hook, but Arn figured he could lead him by the nose around the field as long as needed.

"We'll need a bit of time," Lucius replied. "Waiting to hear back from – well, that's none of your concern. Come back in a fiveday or so, and we'll have the next step figured out."

Arn nodded briefly. He preferred to keep his visits to The Broken Mast as few as possible, but he had to accept that he worked on their schedule rather than his own. He considered if he should ask to borrow a sword, as he did not know what Domitian expected of him, but he decided against it; he did not want to feel indebted to these men if it could be avoided. Unwilling to spend more time in the place than necessary, he turned and quickly left.

The bald henchman watched him walk out with a smirk while his own minions returned, taking their places around the tables.

*

Arn continued, following Domitian's instructions. They led him to an insula, one of the big, horrendous buildings that the Aquilans built to house hundreds of people herded together like animals, each in their little cage. And this was among the smaller examples; he had seen larger, newer insulae in the northern districts.

Children and old people stared at him as he walked past before resuming their activities, the little ones playing in the hallways and the elderly exchanging gossip. Reaching the door that should be the right one, Arn knocked heavily.

A woman's voice came from within. "Who is it?"

Sighing, Arn knocked again.

"Look, if it's Marius, you'll have to come back later! Domitian hasn't been here yet."

Frustrated, Arn rapped his knuckles against the wood again.

"Leave us alone!"

An old woman, nearly toothless, came up to him. "What, don't you speak the civilised tongue?" She turned to the door. "It's a straw head, girl! He probably doesn't understand a word."

A few moments passed before he heard the door being unbolted. As it opened, it revealed a young woman of a tribe Arn had scarcely seen before. Her hair was black, but the features of her face denoted her as neither Aquilan, Tyrian, Khivan, or Sindhian; stretching his memory, the skáld recalled a ship with sailors from Cathai, though he could not imagine what a woman from such a distant land did here, or how she was involved with Domitian.

"You're his friend, Domitian's, right? The silent northerner."

Not the worst description Arn had been given; he nodded.

"Please, come inside." With anxious motions, she gestured him into the room. But before she could close the door behind him, a foot kicked it open.

Spinning around, ready for violence, Arn saw several men crowding the entrance. The girl immediately retreated into the other end of the room; he noticed a young boy, ten years or so, already sitting on the bed.

As for their new company, Arn counted five; one who looked to be in charge, judging by his clothing and jewellery, flanked by two thugs on either side.

"Nether's balls, I'll cut the ears off that boy!" said their leader. His words were not directed at the lad already in the room, however. "Any fool can see this is some Tyrian savage, not that big oaf! Where's Domitian? Where's my money?"

Despite the swift developments and his lack of foreknowledge, Arn could pick up enough to get the measure of the situation. Domitian – or the woman – owed this crook money, and Arn’s friend had intended to pay him with his winnings. That scheme a failure, he had sent Arn to resolve the situation, which could be done in two ways. Pay him or crack his skull open.

Thinking that both might be needed, Arn opted to do the former first. He picked out the two golden crowns from his belt and tossed them to the man in charge, this Marius.

The money struck his oversized belly and fell on the floor. "What am I, some harlot to be tossed a few coins and dismissed? Besides, that half-witted lout owes me five crowns! I warned him what would happen if he failed to pay!"

The men drew their swords, but Arn had already decided to accelerate negotiations. He grabbed the hand of the nearest henchman, to his left, and used his magical strength to force the man to his knees, who screamed in pain as the bones of his fingers broke.

Another swung his blade at Arn, who evaded without even needing magic; he was a trained gladiator, and these were thugs only used to scaring the weak. As soon as the swing missed him, the Tyrian gave a punch, this time packing magic into the blow; he broke the man's nose, making blood gush out.

Seeing two men immediately taken out of the fight, the others paused, despite having weapons against someone unarmed. Sensing they were ready to listen, Arn released the kneeling man and grabbed his tablet.

With incredulous looks, the thugs watched the skáld write a message. You get this now. Domitian pays rest later.

Two of his men whimpering with pain, the others hesitant to step forward, Marius swallowed. "Fine. But tell him my patience isn't infinite."

Arn held up a finger, signalling for them to wait, and he added some more scribbles. You hurt them, I kill you all. It was not an idle threat; Arn could use the energy he might leech from them, and he had no qualms about ending their lives, given how they currently spent them.

"Yeah, yeah, you gladiators are tough bastards." Marius tried to act indifferent, probably for the benefit of his men; Arn knew enough about performances to tell that the man was frightened. Despite this, he still had to bow down and pick up the coins he had let fall to the floor. "Alright, you cretins, get a hold of yourself," he mumbled at his two wounded minions. "Let's go."

As soon as they had left the room, the woman hurried over and closed the door, though she did not bolt it. She turned towards Arn with a grateful smile. "Thank you. Did Domitian send you?"

The Tyrian nodded. He hoped she could read; he was not in the mood for playing a game of draw and guess like he had to with Iris. He wrote on his tablet, Who are you?

"I'm Iolana, and this is my brother, Kaleo." She gestured at the boy, who had not moved nor made a sound throughout the entire affair. Even now, he stared mutely at Arn. "And you are Domitian's friend, the strong Northman."

Arn gave an acknowledging gesture, feeling even better about this description than so many others.

"You have been of great help to us." While Aquilan was not her native language, she spoke it well.

Who were they?

"I'll let Domitian tell you everything if he prefers. But that one, Marius, is a man we owe money for my brother's passage here. We are from the Western Isles."

Islanders. It fell into place for Arn. He knew a great archipelago lay far west of the continent, Cathai even further beyond, and the boldest of traders traversed the sea in between, though not the Tyrians, being content with trade and plunder from the Aquilan empire. It was rare to see any come from those places, however, and Arn imagined she had more of a story to tell.

Yet as she suggested, Domitian could relate it at length. Arn preferred to get back to the ludus, rune token in tow. Will you be fine?

She nodded. "I'm sure you've put a fright in them. They'll wait for Domitian to come and pay them, I think, rather than try something." Concern touched her face. "Why didn't he come, though? Is he hurt?"

Wounded. Recovering. Arn hoped as much, anyway.

"Please tell him we shall pray for his swift recovery."

Arn nodded. I'll go now.

"Very well, Master Northman. Thank you again." A charming smile, which Arn suspected had gotten Domitian involved in this in the first place, followed the Tyrian out of the room.

No sign of Marius or his brutes in the hallway. Two golden crowns lighter, but with the duty of friendship fulfilled, Arn walked back towards the ludus.