Blood Eagle

A Champion of Aquila

After a hearty breakfast, Arn joined his fellow gladiators for today's matches in the cart, which set into motion towards the arena. By now, the route felt familiar; he recognised the landmarks, when the driver was about to turn, and he no longer felt oppressed by the sheer size of the surrounding structures.

Reaching the arena, Arn extended one hand to touch the outer wall, now that he had regrown his affinity for earth. He let his sense of magic seep into the hewn stone. It told him little other than a distant sigh, a feeble gasp; too far removed from its place of origin, too shaped by tools to have a voice left. A slumbering giant, wounded and worn out.

"Northman, keep up!"

*

They stood in the tunnels, awaiting their turn. Each of them armed according to their custom. Titus, equipped as legionarius, and Cornelius as triarius. Neither of them had spoken to Arn on the journey, their minds on their own fights, undoubtedly. Mahan gave them final instructions, warning them of their weaknesses or providing suggestions.

Arn stood, his right leg trembling in restless manner. The blade felt right in his hand, both weight and length. Soon, he would have increased his magic another notch.

"Northman. Listen to me."

A moment too late, Arn realised it was his turn to receive instructions. Humouring the weapons master, the Tyrian turned towards him.

"Listen. Cassian only became a gladiator last year, yet he took the solstice games. He's never lost a fight. He hits harder and faster than anyone else you've ever faced," Mahan impressed on him.

If Arn were an ordinary warrior, that might have been true. Having fought berserkers, however, the skáld had definitely fought against those who could hit harder and faster than what any gladiator might accomplish. While his powers remained limited, and no match for any berserker, Arn knew he could best anyone in the arena. Still, he had a ruse to maintain, so he listened carefully to Mahan, pretending to be interested.

"I've watched him fight lots of times, and I've yet to find any weakness in him. He's triarius, same as Sigismund, which is why I paired you with him in training. Your buckler won't help much to tame his spear, so try to use your sword to parry and get in close," Mahan suggested. "Use it as an extended fist instead. If you force him to discard his spear, his short dagger will give you the advantage in reach."

Arn nodded vigorously, as if this mattered. His bladesong would get him past this Cassian's defences and close enough to land a killing blow; or if need be, with empowered strength from his rune, Arn could sever the spear haft with a single strike.

"Arn. Should you win, spare his life. He is beloved by the crowd," Mahan told him. "It'll do much to repair your own reputation."

The Tyrian simply looked away. He had come to strengthen his magic, not to show mercy.

The official appeared. "Last match of the day! You're up, barbarian!"

*

Arn stepped onto the sands, hearing the crowds roar. He could not tell whether their reaction was positive or negative towards him; perhaps a mixture of both. The voice of the magistrate thundered over the noise. "Making his third appearance, it's the savage of the North! Covered in red from slain enemies, Arn the Blood Eagle!"

Cheers and jeers from the spectators. Arn gave them no attention but turned his eyes to the shape that approached from the other side.

"Today, he faces the champion of Aquila, your champion! Cassian, undefeated in twenty fights and winner of last year's solstice games!"

The two gladiators reached each other, hefting their weapons. Cassian had a lean rather than muscular look, much like Arn; he might have been better suited armed with the buckler and long blade instead of the bulky round shield and short spear. But given his past victories, he presumably knew how to wield them.

"In Malac's name, fight!"

Remembering how he had raised Helena's suspicions after his fight in the gardens, Arn decided to draw it out a little. It would be telling if he defeated the champion of the city without difficulty.

Thus, Arn made a few testing strikes, swift to retreat. Cassian's spear came swiftly in retaliation each time, and he expertly defended himself with his shield, using only minimal effort. He was clearly skilled, but it would not avail him.

Ready to move the fight forward, Arn awaited his opportunity. His spellpower remained weak, barely enough for one or two abilities before he needed to recover it, so he did not wish to squander it; he would still have his runes, but Mahan's warnings resounded in his head not to underestimate this opponent.

The opportunity came. Cassian's spear made a cross attack against Arn's right side, close to his sword. Calling upon his bladesong, Arn moved with magical swiftness, and his blade struck of its own accord. One, two quick strikes sent the spear flying aside, and a third came straight at Cassian's chest with strength to pierce armour.

In the last moment, the Aquilan's shield came flying up to intercept, and he pushed Arn back.

Incredulous, the Tyrian tried to comprehend what had happened. No mortal hand could move with sufficient speed to intercept his bladesong – not without supernatural aid.

Finding himself under a furious assault, Arn defended while retreating, piecing it together. Cassian had done the same as him; held back at the start of the fight, playing to the audience, but now, he unleashed his full powers. Because just like Arn, he possessed magic.

Completely on the defensive, Arn could only parry and pull back. He was not the favourite to win this fight, far from it. His magic remained meagre, and some of it spent in vain; in comparison, Cassian probably had plenty of spellpower to release, and who knew what abilities he possessed?

Arn tried to think under the relentless attacks. His opponent appeared Aquilan, whose martial wizards became mageknights, and Arn was familiar with their spellcraft. But they served as officers in their legions with names well-known; it seemed impossible for a mageknight to lose all identity and reappear as a gladiator.

Not everyone with the gift received formal training in Aquila; while rare, Arn had once met such a hedge mage, whose spellcraft was purely self-taught, based on instinct. If Arn faced such a creature, it meant he had no idea what Cassian was capable of.

Think, think!

Cassian had a reputation for striking hard and fast; empowering magic, similar to Arn's runes. He might possess other spells, but not every kind of magic could be used in the arena. Any obvious sign of spellwork would be seen by thousands of spectators.

Still in retreat, Arn felt a burst of magic. It went below him, through the earth, and the skáld's own affinity to that element warned him as a small mound of sand rose behind his foot, ready to trip him up. Recovering in time, Arn stepped over it.

Clever trick – from a distance, it would have looked like Arn tripped over his own feet in his haste to get away. Cassian gave him a scornful smile.

When the spear came again, Arn caught the haft with his left hand and struck down to break it with his sword. Cassian pulled back with strength equal to the skáld, slicing Arn's hand open.

Fortunately, his buckler was strapped to his wrist, so the open wound on his left palm did not weaken Arn, but the pain was a premonition of where this fight was headed. At every turn, the spear frustrated him; Arn lacked his rune of swiftness that would allow him to parry or block the attacks with the same speed as they came. He had strength on his side, but that would not avail when he could not get close enough to deliver a blow. He had other abilities besides his bladesong, but using them would be conspicuous; he would get discovered as a mage.

Harassed without end, Arn grew desperate. He saw no opening, no path to victory. Mahan's warnings ran through his mind, which he in his arrogance had ignored. But perhaps his advice could still serve – get in close and use the buckler. Except it was on his left wrist, opposite Cassian's spear, hindering his movements.

Seeing only one possibility, Arn threw his sword into his left hand, wincing as his sliced palm seized the hilt; his right hand now free, he tore open the straps and grabbed the buckler, holding it like a normal shield rather than tied to his wrist. He saw a frown beneath Cassian's helmet, the man trying to discern his motive. Good. Keep his attention on that; keep him distracted. Feeling out of time, Arn attacked.

The Tyrians had legends of great swordsmen who used a weapon with equal ease in either hand. Arn possessed only basic skill with his left, but calling upon his bladesong, exhausting his spellpower, he did not need ambidexterity. The sword knew how to fight on its own, wielding the hand rather than being wielded. It struck Cassian's spear aside in a flurry of movements, allowing Arn to step close. With his buckler in the right hand, he feigned a blow from a high angle, and Cassian moved with superior nimbleness to raise his shield – letting Arn take advantage of the distraction to kick his knee out.

The gladiator lost his footing, and Arn followed through on his original threat, punching with his buckler against Cassian's chin. It took another blow to send the Aquilan flat on his back, and Arn leapt to sit on top of him. Wasting no further time, he drove his sword into his throat.

As life fled Cassian's body, Arn seized it to feed his power. He did not expect what followed. Previously, it had felt like drops of rain to water the seed of magic in him; leeching from another mage, Arn experienced a storm. And the dry land that was his spirit soaked it all up.

It all hit him. His seiðr blossomed, strengthening his sense of magic and resilience towards it. The second blessing of the seiðr-wives came back to him, recalling a dreadful journey through frozen wastelands to prove himself worthy of it. His spellpower, every drop spent in the fight, increased. As for water and earth, his trusty servants, both now served him further in ways that had been locked before.

Around him, constant cries and shouting issued; while the crowd had loved the spectacle, they were divided on the outcome. Arn got on his feet; their noise came to him in subdued fashion, like hearing yelling through a wall. He took two steps and promptly keeled over, landing in the sand.