《Blood Eagle》


 Chapter 1: The Bloodied Eagle

    The Bloodied Eagle


    The guards removed the golden chains from his wrists and gave him a push in the back, sending him through the open portcullis. Going from the dark tunnel into the daylight nearly blinded him, and deafening roars hurt his ears. Despite having only a stump left for a tongue, he could still taste the vile concoction they had forced down his throat; the effect left him dazed, and the sharp sunlight and clamour of the crowd did not help with his confusion.


    Something hit his lower leg, and he looked down to see a short blade had been tossed at him. With a loud noise, the portcullis slammed down, leaving him trapped outside. He had the wherewithal to bend down and pick up the sword, his fingers feeling the sand on the ground before clasping the hilt. He had no armour to match, just the rags of his tunic, through which his dyed skin could be seen; runes filled his limbs and torso, and a great eagle spread its wings across his back.


    Staring at the weapon in his hand, his burdened mind slowly made the connections. This was a gladius, the short sword used by Aquilan legionaries. He stood on sand. Around him, he heard the shouting of people, though he could not tell the words apart. He struggled his way to understanding through the fog induced by the potion fed to him; he was in the grand arena of Aquila. Judging by the state his jailers had left him in, he was not here to fight, but to die.


    He would not give them the satisfaction so easily. He was a sk¨¢ld, trained as a spellblade. These southern bastards might have stolen his tongue and much of his magic with it, but with a blade and the spells he could wield through the steel, he remained more dangerous than most.


    Through the haze that dulled his senses, he saw other people issuing from different tunnels into the arena. He wondered whether he was meant to fight them; if so, he favoured his own chances. They moved in a panic, some of them not even taking note of the weapons thrown at their feet.


    A roar, this time coming from an animal, cut through the noise of the crowd, and he realised that the other people in the arena were not his opponents, but fellow sacrifices. He swung around to face the outer edge of the arena while stepping backwards.


    A beast with yellow hide bared its fangs at him. He had never seen this creature before, but he remembered hearing descriptions. A lion. Judging by panicked screams from elsewhere in the arena, more than one.


    He kept his head cool and positioned his feet. The short blade in his hand put him at a disadvantage when it came to reach, but with magical speed, he could overcome that. He mentally prepared to activate his minor rune of swiftness, inked on his skin ¨C and felt nothing. No connection, no tingling sensation, no energy ready to be unleashed.


    It took him a moment to understand. The elixir they had force-fed him; not only did it blunt his senses and mind, but it also crushed his spellcraft. He had never heard of such alchemy that could in this manner cripple a man''s gift. It was not enough that they cut out his tongue, depriving him of his song, whether mundane or magic. They wanted him reduced to a shell, impotent in his last moments.


    He ran his thumb against the edge of the blade given to him, pressing his flesh against the metal. Nothing. The sword was duller than his senses. It had not been provided to him that he might defend himself, but only so that he would provide better sport for the spectators to watch.


    Looking up, he saw four hundred pounds of muscle barrelling straight for him. Seeing no better way, the Tyrian bard released a dissonant scream from his mutilated mouth and leapt forward, aiming to stab the tip of his sword into the eye of the beast. Around him, his fellow prisoners died accompanied by horrified sounds of flesh ripping and terrible agony.


    *


    One after the other, the bodies were carried from the bloodied sands back into the tunnels and piled up before a furnace. The crowd had long since gone; it was night, and nobody remained in the arena beside those working to prepare it for the next spectacle. With one exception.


    A woman with a dark cloak covering a colourful robe entered the room filled with corpses, resembling a butcher''s shop. The smell of blood and human filth overpowered any other odour in the air, but the visitor did not seem bothered. She pulled down her hood and began examining the bodies. The two workers hauling the dead did not interfere or speak with the robed woman, whose clothing proclaimed her a mage; on the contrary, while they continued their labour, they made sure to stay out of her way and stack the corpses elsewhere in the room.


    A soft groan caught the attention of the wizard, who whipped her head around. Stepping over a few bodies, she reached the sk¨¢ld and grabbed his chin in a strong grip, causing him to emit another pained moan. "This one is still alive," she remarked in a flat tone while looking up at the labourers.


    "Apologies, mistress!" exclaimed one of them, and he quickly looked around until he caught sight of a saw, which he picked up. "I''ll quickly handle that!"


    "Quiet." The short command was enough to arrest the worker''s movement while the mage continued her examination. "He must be hardy to have survived such a mauling." She looked down at his limbs, where claws had torn through both fabric and flesh. Her gaze turned from his hair, blond beneath the dirt, to the runes marked on his skin, now ruined by deep wounds, before forcing one of his eyelids open to see the blue colour beneath. Only one orb retained that hue, though; on the other half of his face, a bloody wound ran from his brow down his cheek, having cut the eye open as well. "A Tyrian. A berserker or sk¨¢ld."


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    "The latter, mistress," muttered one of the workers, the one not holding a saw.


    The mage raised her eyes to regard him coldly. "Knowledgeable about Tyrian magic, are you?"


    "They ¨C they cut out his tongue, mistress. So he couldn''t use his heathen songs on us."


    She forced his mouth open and stuck two fingers inside, digging around for a moment. Pulling out her hand, she placed the other on his forehead and closed her eyes briefly. "A pity. They have all but destroyed his magic. He could have been of great use to me." Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Perhaps wisely, neither of the workers replied to this; they stood entirely still, making not a sound.


    "But maybe that is still possible," she continued her musings. "If he can survive this, who knows what else his will might drive him to do? If he could be made whole, especially if I help him along a little¡­" Silence followed for a while until she finally stood up. She took a purse from a pocket and emptied it on the same table where the workers kept their tools for dismembering bodies, making the pieces small enough to fit into the furnace. "I will take him. Toss the rest of them."


    Both of them bowed their heads and muttered in agreement, eyeing the silver with greed. Swiftly, the mage strode out of the room; moments later, a brute of a man entered and picked up the Tyrian bard, still hanging onto life by a thin thread. As he left with the wizard''s prize, the labourers divided the coins between them.


    *


    With a gasp for breath, consciousness forced itself upon him, and he woke up. Looking around wildly without recognising his surroundings, he finally tried to move. The attempt alone sent tremors of pain through his body, and a groan escaped him.


    An old man with an unkempt, grey beard and no hair on his scalp entered his field of vision, bending over him. "Your fever is broken ¨C light of Luna, I didn''t believe it could happen. And here I thought the master was a fool for wasting silver on you, not to mention my time."


    The sk¨¢ld raised his right hand in front of his eyes, both unharmed, to see his arm bandaged up. He was lying on a slab in what looked like the room of a physician, using that term generously. Jars with medicine, presumably, lined the shelves on the wall ahead, and the tools of a surgeon for amputation lay on a small table.


    His memory returned, albeit in fragments. Visions of travelling through forests intermingled with recollections of terrible pain, and he realised that the former had happened long ago, while the latter was a recent event. The physician had spoken in the Aquilan tongue, which was another clue.


    The arena. The lion, tearing him to shreds. His magic, all but gone, just like his tongue. His heart felt the need for lamentation, but he could not remember the right words, nor could he utter them. He had no song, no magic, and no weapon. He was neither a sk¨¢ld nor a spellblade except in memory. He should have died.


    "I better fetch the master," the physician muttered and ambled away.


    *


    Left alone, the Tyrian wanted to jump up and run to make his escape, but it seemed optimistic to assume his legs could hold his weight. In addition, he would undoubtedly rip open all of his wounds; it felt like a miracle that he had not bled to death in the arena, and he should not spite the gods by forcing it to happen.


    In between the pain, he noticed something on his left arm. Raising it with some difficulty, he saw a metal band upon it, above the elbow. It looked to be made of different strips of metal, hammered together to a single, smooth surface with the colours remaining separate. He moved his right hand over in an attempt to remove it and found that it resisted his efforts.


    While he might be weakened, he should still be able to pull an arm ring off, but it remained as if glued to his skin. It was some kind of magical trinket, though he could not guess its purpose. At least it was not gold, suppressing his gift; he felt no burning sensation as he always did when touching that accursed metal. Unless of course his magic was permanently lost, and gold no longer had any effect on him.


    A horrifying thought. When he had been discovered to possess the gift as a small child, his parents had given him to the seier-wives, who had planted the seed of seier in the soil of his magic and awakened it. Had all his powers been destroyed, leaving him as feeble as any common man?


    Closing his eyes, focusing until the pain became a distant drumming, he entered a trance to sense his magic. Deep within him, at the core of his being, the seed remained. The tree was burnt down, the roots hacked over, but an acorn remained; it could be regrown.


    That seemed the extent of the good news. The damage done to his body had destroyed the permanent runes on his limbs. His reservoir of spellpower had been drained empty, silencing his bladesong ¨C he could not cast any major runes or proper spells, or even the smallest magical effect. Together with the loss of his tongue, he had not the slightest bit of true power available to him.


    But all of this could be healed, in time. He would see himself restored in full, physically and magically. The seed remained; the tree could be regrown.


    *


    The physician returned, along with a sinewy man, bald and cleanshaven, leaving no hair on his face except for his eyebrows. His clothing had at one time been expensive, but the colour looked faded. "You, Tyrian. Do you understand me?"


    The northerner looked at him and made a throat sound.


    "You are in a ludus, and I''m the lanista, Master Quintus Ignius." Seeing a lack of understanding, he added with a displeased expression, "I train gladiators."


    In a previous life, the sk¨¢ld would have laughed. He had survived the arena only to be sent back in. In this life, he kept a blank demeanour.


    Ignius held out a hand, and a servant placed a wax tablet and stylus in it, which he extended towards the Tyrian. "I need your name."


    The sk¨¢ld stared at the items. Names held power, in more ways than one, and he would be damned if he revealed anything to these Aquilan dogs. He thought about the eagle tattooed on his back, declaring him a member of that tribe. That would serve as a name. He grabbed the stylus and shakingly scratched three letters in the Aquilan alphabet.


    "Tell me when his condition is better," the master of the house commanded the physician, slamming the two halves of the tablet shut. He turned and left swiftly while the healer bowed and mumbled to himself.


    The newly named Arn leaned back on the slab. A smile spread across his face briefly before he extinguished it. He had been destined to die on the sands, and now he would stand upon them again. It might seem a cruel jest played by fate, except he knew better; the gods had intervened, keeping him alive and providing him a path forward.


    If he were to regain his magic the natural way, it would take years and years, if possible at all. But should he turn to darker methods, it could be accomplished far more swiftly. Knowing this, the sk¨¢ld looked forward to his return to the arena. With each battle, with each kill caused by a blade in his hand, he would reclaim his powers, using death to feed the seed of magic lying dormant in him. And once he was ready, he would have revenge.

 Chapter 2: Among the Ranks

    Among the Ranks


    Running through the woods. Snow covering the ground. It was winter, but the forest had pine trees with branches still clad in green to conceal him from unfriendly eyes. His sword was sheathed for now, but not much longer.


    *


    Arn woke up, blinking and trying to shake the dream from his mind. Discomfort from his injuries flooded him, but he welcomed it as a distraction from the dream, hoping it would fade from his thoughts swiftly. He looked around in his cell, located in the quarters where the fighters lived, including himself for the past few days, recuperating.


    It had a bed and some shelves for clothing. His old, ragged tunic had been taken away to be burned and new garments provided. He wore no chains, golden or iron, except for the arm ring he had yet to identify. The physician had seen to him a few times, and an Aquilan official had also paid him a visit without explaining his purpose.


    A guard appeared in the doorway. "You''re awake? The medicus says you''re ready for the master."


    Looking up, Arn made no attempt at hiding his disdain. The guard seemed indifferent and made an impatient motion, beckoning him to follow.


    The sk¨¢ld got up and left his room to walk down the hallway that ended in a closed gate. His guide unlocked it, and they continued up a staircase. From the change in surroundings, Arn surmised the house was divided in twain. An inner part for the gladiators, an outer for the master and his family.


    They reached a modest study, where the lanista sat behind a desk, rifling through pieces of parchment. Quintus Ignius looked up as they entered. "Leave us," he told the guard before wrinkling his nose. "Open the window on your way out." The armed servant raised an eyebrow but did as commanded. Once alone, the lanista leaned back in his chair to stare at the Tyrian. "What do you know of gladiators?"


    Arn shrugged in ignorance.


    "To be expected. I have three sorts of men in my ludus," Ignius explained. ¡°Volunteers, convicts, and prisoners of war." Ignius looked up and down at him. "You haven''t told anybody about your past, I presume."


    If that was meant as a jest, Arn was not amused.


    "You have been entered in the public records as a Tyrian prisoner of war released to me, which is true enough. Never tell any of your first visit to the arena. An official has examined you and declared you void of magic ¨C those with the talent can''t be gladiators." Ignius gave him a knowing look. "But once your strength returns, so could your magic."


    Looking at the man in his chair, Arn saw his meaning. A fighter with the gift would be invincible in the arena. Given the worn look of his clothing, the lanista had need of a few victories.


    "Now before you consider running away ¨C that piece of metal on your arm will let the inquisitors of Sol find you and hunt you down."


    Ignius nodded at the arm ring that currently adorned Arn. Strange magic, the sk¨¢ld thought to himself, but conceivable.


    "But I''m a man of business first and foremost," the lanista continued, "and I''ll offer you a fair barter. You fight for me, you get a place to sleep, food to eat. You make champion at the solstice games, I''ll even find a healer for you to restore that tongue. Refuse, or prove a waste of my silver, and I''ll return you to the Imperial administration." Ignius cocked his head, waiting for a reaction.


    Being returned meant Arn would either be chained to a galley or simply executed. He had no faith in the promise dangled before him; someone who dressed in worn clothing would not have access to a healer with the skill to restore the sk¨¢ld''s missing appendage. But given the arena would provide him the best opportunity to regain his magic without raising suspicion as to all the corpses left in his wake, Arn had no intention to refuse. He slowly nodded.


    "Good. I have prepared a contract. Once it is signed, you will be added to the official list as a gladiator of Ludus Ignia." From a drawer, the lanista pulled out a sheet of parchment, already filled with scribbles, and pushed it across the desk towards Arn. "Does a barbarian like you understand proper Aquilan?"


    Arn grabbed the parchment and ran his eyes across it. It stipulated the responsibilities of each party. Ignius would provide everything a gladiator needed, and Arn would fight for his house in the arena while obeying the rules of his ludus.


    It did not make an impression on him. These Aquilans placed so much faith in parchment, as if such could bind a man. An oath sworn by spoken words before the gods ¨C the Tyrian sk¨¢ld would respect that. But this was just ink.


    He placed the parchment on the desk, grabbed a quill, and shakily signed his chosen name.


    "Good." Ignius grabbed the contract and returned it to a drawer. ¡°Guard! Take him to the clerk." The lanista made a dismissive motion with his hand, his attention already on the papers in front of him.


    *


    Arn was brought through the locked doors that separated family home from gladiator school and shown into another study, much smaller and absent decoration of any kind. A writing desk and shelves with scrolls were all, along with a chair occupied by a small man. "You''re the Tyrian?"


    Given the colour of his hair and eyes, Arn found no reason to reply.


    "I''m Gaius, the clerk of the ludus. You''ll address me with the respect I am due ¨C well, I guess that''s not necessary."


    The sk¨¢ld worked hard to keep disdain from appearing on his face.


    "You train every morning and afternoon. Eventually, you may be allowed to leave the ludus some hours in the evening ¨C once you have proven yourself worthy of such privilege. But don''t even think about running. Our hunters are highly skilled and never lose the trail of any runaways." The scrawny man looked up and down at Arn''s deeply scarred body and his hair colour, making him stand out. "Especially one as easily identified as you." Sear?h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


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    An odd warning, given the band on his arm was meant to track Arn, but this fellow did not seem aware. It suggested the artefact was not commonly used in this house, which made sense; this was a valuable little trinket, far too costly for every gladiator to be equipped with. It begged the question of how this grubby lanista had acquired it in the first place.


    Gaius took out a small wax tablet ¨C two halves tied together with leather string ¨C along with a stylus and handed it over. "You can keep that. Can''t have you communicating purely through grunting. Guard! Take him to the training yard." He looked at Arn. "Get out, before your stench settles in the furniture."


    Arn stared at the scrawny man for a moment, feeling confident that he could leap across the desk and with one blow crush his windpipe. Restraining himself, the sk¨¢ld simply left with clenched fists.


    *


    While old and in need of repair, the home of Ignius had the size and everything else required for a gladiator school. A large yard stood filled with all the objects needed to train weaponry, including plenty of men currently thus occupied. Arn blinked, stepping into the sharp sun after being indoors for so many days; it reminded him of walking into the arena, and the unpleasant memory threatened to seize him until he pushed beyond it.


    The smell of sweat lay heavy in the air, as did the sounds of wooden weapons striking shields and men making noise with effort. Arn''s presence caused a brief disruption, which a few used to land a quick strike at their sparring partner, causing outbursts and consternations.


    "No distractions!" yelled a powerful voice that could only belong to the weapons master.


    The sk¨¢ld glanced him over. He stood taller than Arn, with the dark hair and eyes that most Aquilans had, but his seemed more intense; in addition, his skin was bronze in colour of a deeper shade than the locals. Given his strong physique and the scars on his arms and face, Arn suspected he had spent his years on the sands before taking up this position.


    The weapons master stalked over to him. "You''re the Tyrian. I''m Mahan, and my task will be to whip you into shape for the arena." Now it was his turn to give Arn an inspecting look. "Slender frame ¨C I hope that means you''re quick, since you''ll never be as strong as some of your opponents. Though we''ll add what muscle we can to those bird bones you call arms."


    Arn had never had to worry about physical strength ever since receiving his rune of force on his skin; nor speed, for that matter, after the rune of swiftness was bestowed to him. Absent both, he would have need of the weapons master''s instructions, though he intended to get his markings back eventually. And the faster he got back into the arena, the faster he could regain his magic.


    He felt blind without his supernatural senses. No blessing of eagle eyes to let him count the leaves on a tree against the horizon, no sensation of tremors that warned him of footsteps made by others. Not even the ability to sense what manner of accursed artefact adorned his arm, acting like a magical chain.


    Arn took out his tablet and wrote with shaky words,


    Mahan laughed, attracting attention again with the same result as before, though the weapons master did not notice or give reproach this time, himself distracted by his mirth. "When I think you got a chance to survive meeting a gladiator! Given you were at death''s door only a fiveday ago, I don''t expect that anytime soon!"


    Arn scratched another word.


    "Listen to me," Mahan sneered. "In this yard, I am emperor, and my word is law. You will not question me, my methods, or my judgement. Put aside your scribbler''s weapon and begin training if you ever want to wield a real weapon again! Now follow!" he barked.


    Arn stuck his tablet into his belt and walked behind Mahan to various strange contraptions. They looked like tools or simple machinery, yet with no purpose that the Tyrian could deduce. One was simply a pulley, through which a rope held a large bag. Another seemed like a yoke, which made little sense, so far from fields. A third device looked to be a large rock, polished to be smooth.


    "Pull it." Mahan pointed at the rope going through the pulley.


    Failing to see the purpose, but knowing he could hardly refuse, Arn grabbed the rope and pulled. The bag at the other end was heavy, maybe a hundred pounds or more. After just a few moments, his arms ached, and he felt a burning sensation in his muscles. He felt compelled to keep holding the weight, as the weapons master had given no command to release, yet after a few more moments, reality proved stronger than will, and Arn had to let go of the rope. The bag fell to the ground with a loud thud, causing laughter from those nearby.


    "As expected. I don''t know if it''s injuries or natural weakness, but you''ve a far way to go." Mahan spat on the ground. "All of these tools will build your strength. Work with each of them for a while and then move on to the next. Have the medicus massage your arms tonight ¨C you''ll need it."


    Objections seemed useless; Arn would have to do as commanded, though this only further incentivised him to seek a return to the arena as soon as possible. With a clenched jaw, he grabbed hold of the rope again and once more pulled up the sack.


    *


    At the evening meal, Arn felt ready to collapse. Despite harsh words, the weapons master had allowed him plenty of breaks rather than risk overexerting his still healing body, but even with this small kindness, the exercises had run Arn ragged. He was no stranger to physical hardship, but mostly of the sort that demanded endurance, whether travelling swiftly on foot for many hours or fighting a prolonged battle. For pure strength, the minor rune on his skin had lent him what he needed, and now his muscles protested at being abused to such a degree. The injuries he had sustained in the arena did not help either.


    Another exercise awaited him at the evening meal, this time dealing with frustration. The gladiators ate together in a simple room with no furniture other than benches, where they lined up to receive a plate of the same fare. Arn noticed the hierarchy; some walked straight up to grab their food, ignoring the men waiting to get theirs, who in turn made no objection. As a newcomer, Arn figured he would be the last, which proved true.


    When he finally had his plate, he found it full of vegetables and barley bread with only a few slices of meat. That seemed an odd choice, given they all worked hard and needed to build up their strength, but he was in no position to complain.


    As Arn began eating, seated on a bench, his patience was further tested by one of the other fighters. Setting his own plate aside, the gladiator walked over to stare down at the Tyrian. "Enjoying the food, straw head?" He laughed at his own witticism, which further demonstrated to Arn that he was dealing with a simpleton. The man had only been a few spots ahead in the line, suggesting he was also lowly placed in the hierarchy. "What''s the matter, cat got your tongue?" He prodded Arn on the shoulder, where a large scar ran through one of his tattooed runes.


    Glancing at the finger touching him and moving his eyes up to the arm connected to it, Arn saw the word branded into the flesh. A convict, which explained both his crude behaviour and low status in the ludus. With the eyes of everyone else turned on them, Arn figured they were waiting for his reaction. There could only be one way to respond.


    Making a fist, Arn struck the man right below where his ribcage ended, making him buckle over in pain. This put his chin within easy reach of Arn''s knee, which shot up to strike him and make him stagger backwards. Taking care not to spill anything from his bowl, Arn leapt to his own feet and pushed the man with a flat hand on his chest, which proved sufficient to make him fall on his back.


    Arn gave a challenging stare around the room; everyone else shrugged and returned to their own meal, except for the fighter on the ground, who pushed himself up and stumbled away. Taking a deep breath, the Tyrian sat down and finished his meal.

 Chapter 3: Sword in Hand

    Sword in Hand


    One advantage of being completely worn out from his exertions during the day proved to be dreamless sleep at night. And any lingering discomfort that Arn might feel from his injuries was drowned out by how sore his body felt, despite the best attempts of the medicus to alleviate it.


    None bothered him at breakfast; as he got into line, the convict from yesterday''s confrontation flinched, though Arn made no attempt to engage him. He did not care about hierarchy or getting his food a few moments sooner. He aimed for his days in this place to be as brief as possible; the time would come when he would be restored and on his way back home to Tyria, while they would still be here, toiling away to die for the amusement of others.


    Out in the training yard, Mahan barked orders at them, including for Arn to resume his exercise. Instead, the Tyrian approached him with a word written on his tablet.


    Mahan laughed in his face and pointed at the equipment. "Don''t test my patience, or my next answer won''t be a smile."


    Grumbling to himself, Arn resumed training without a weapon in hand.


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    The bell rang in the distance from the tower of the nearest temple ¨C the preferred method of these Aquilans for telling time. Noon and the next meal would be a while away, and Arn was expected to keep at it using the odd contraptions. With a yoke over his shoulders, heavy sacks of sand hanging on either end, Arn lowered and raised himself repeatedly.


    ¡°You should stop,¡± a gladiator remarked. His sparring partner was fetching water, leaving him free to observe Arn, who briefly returned the favour; the fellow looked like any other Aquilan in the place with dark hair and eyes, a square jaw, and a well-built body.


    As for his advice, Arn simply ignored it. He did not understand what the fellow meant, and he could not ask. So he continued his exercises as demonstrated to him yesterday.


    ¡°Look, mate, you¡¯re doing it too much. Didn¡¯t Mahan tell you to take frequent breaks and move through the equipment?¡±


    The words did ring familiar; with all the instructions Arn had received, it was possible he had forgotten some of them already. He lowered himself down that he could remove the yoke and gave the gladiator a discerning glance, wondering if this was another display of hierarchy or an attempt to cause trouble for him.


    ¡°Hah, no need to look so suspicious! We might have our arguments in here, but out there,¡± the fighter said, gesturing vaguely at what lay beyond the wall of the training yard, ¡°you¡¯re a gladiator of House Ignius. Your performance reflects on us all. When we all do better, we all get more fights,¡± he explained. ¡°Not even the biggest fool in here would give bad advice ¨C Mahan would tan our hides if we did.¡±


    Seeing the reason in this, Arn nodded in acceptance and moved on to the next contraption, the rope lifting the sack.


    ¡°There¡¯s a good man. These first fivedays are the worst, but it¡¯ll be worth it,¡± the gladiator promised and returned to his own training. ¡°You¡¯ll see, we¡¯ll make a fighter of you yet!¡± he shouted over his shoulder before looking back at his sparring partner.


    *


    Arn released the rope in his hands, giving himself a break. As he wiped the sweat from his brow and caught his breath, he glanced at the other fighters nearby, sparring against each other.


    One of them performed a good manoeuvre, preparing his shield to block an incoming strike yet changing at the last moment to evade it entirely, allowing him to turn the edge of his shield against his attacker''s hand and knock the sword from his grasp.


    The wooden blade landed in the dirt in front of Arn, and he realised he had an opportunity. Quickly, he picked it up before its owner could and raised this in challenge aimed at the still armed warrior. It was the same fellow who had advised him on the equipment; Arn recognised him as among those eating early at the meal, marking him among the better half of the fighters at the school.


    Seeing the scarred Tyrian threaten him, the gladiator threw his head back in roaring laughter. "Come then!" He took position opposite Arn, who spent a moment studying him again. Plenty of scars from cuts could be seen on his body, marking him as an experienced fighter. Certainly not to be underestimated, especially by a sk¨¢ld who no longer had his magic.


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    But even without it, Arn remained a swordsman. He had trained since childhood when the seier-wives had cast the bones and read the runes, determining his future as a spellblade. And he got the feeling that the Aquilan underestimated him, judging by the smile on his face. Armed with a shield in his left hand compared to Arn''s being empty, he had the advantage. But if done right, Arn could turn it in his favour.


    The Aquilan moved in to strike, and Arn parried while being pressed backwards. He was nearly against the wall; he would soon run out of space to retreat, where the lack of manoeuvring would spell his defeat. Arn had to go on the offensive.


    He made a series of swift assaults, none of which posed a serious threat, but they forced the Aquilan to defend himself. Remembering what had happened just prior, Arn made a final blow lunging forward in a deep position. Rather than block with his shield, the Aquilan advanced and slammed it down.


    Acting faster, Arn dropped his sword from his right hand and caught with the left before striking forward again to hit his opponent on the knee, pushing him off balance. With a swift kick, Arn sent him to the ground.


    The seasoned fighter looked up in shock for a moment before his boisterous laughter resounded. "The left hand is as dangerous as the right one! I''ve never seen that in a gladiator before."


    With the fight over, Arn relaxed his stance and reached out a hand. While he did not anticipate a need to make friends in this place, the Aquilan had taken his defeat in good cheer, which the Tyrian could respect.


    The man on the ground clasped the outstretched hand and pulled himself up to stand. "The first time you do that in the arena, the crowd will be screaming your name," he declared with a smile. "Speaking of, I''m Domitian."


    Arn could not reciprocate the introduction, so he simply bowed his head in recognition.


    "Back to training, you worthless dregs!" Mahan shouted, and the fighters complied. "You," he added, directed at Arn. "Follow me."


    *


    They left the yard, entering the nearby building that held the armoury, though all the weapons were wooden; only the guards carried steel. Glancing around, Mahan turned back to face Arn. "That was a studied move. You''re not some savage who got too bold raiding the Empire. You''ve had proper instruction."


    If only he knew. Arn had been five winters old when they gave him to the seier-wives, and he began his education soon after. While much of his training had been with galdr and runes, they had not neglected his swordsmanship. Even without magic, Arn wagered that he was the equal of any gladiator in the school and probably the city.


    Mahan pointed at the racks holding swords of varying size and length. "Choose the one you''re most familiar with."


    Arn walked over and picked up one after the other, swinging them around. Even if simply meant for training, they were well-crafted, possessing the same balance as a blade of metal would. Most of them looked to be a gladius, the sword made famous by Aquilan legionaries; however, they could afford a short weapon, as they would be armed with a spear as well.


    Arn preferred something with more reach, which was also the type he was most accustomed to. After a few tries, he found a sword with a blade longer than his arm and a heft that felt right in his hand. He turned to Mahan, raising it up to indicate his choice.


    The weapons master nodded. "Very well. Now something for the other hand." He turned towards the selection of shields either stacked against the wall or hanging upon it.


    Arn often fought simply with only one weapon, keeping the other hand free to cast his major, temporary runes in battle. But he needed spellpower for that, and that well was dry for now, so he saw the wisdom in using his left hand for something more useful.


    "A big shield would be too cumbersome for someone of your build," Mahan considered, frowning in thought. "You rely more on speed than size." He reached out to grab a buckler. "This is appropriate for the type of gladiator we call veles." The shield was smaller than Arn''s lower arm in size, and the weapons master tied it to his wrist. "There. You''ll be as light on your feet as needed, and it leaves your hand free to switch how you hold your weapon."


    Arn moved his arm around as if parrying attacks, feeling the weight of the buckler and how it shifted around. He threw his sword from his right to his left hand, catching it with ease despite the shield strapped to his wrist. As he finished, he became aware of Mahan giving him a scrutinising look.


    "Why this hurry? Given your wounds, nobody would question if you took a while to recuperate before being sent to the arena."


    Because it was the only way to get his magic back, and every day without it, Arn felt vulnerable and weak. Beyond that, he also needed to prove himself and get permission to leave the school in the evening hours; the minor runes on his body needed another¡¯s help to be restored, and he would not find such expertise within these walls. But he could not explain any of this, even if he still had the power of speech, so he simply placed his hand over his heart, letting the weapons master infer whatever he wanted from that.


    "Alright. If you prove yourself in training, you''ll get your chance on the sands."


    Arn bowed his head in acceptance, which also helped to hide the smile on his face.


    "Now back to training. Spar with Domitian and teach him to keep his shield close to his body after his little manoeuvre."


    Arn quickly left to comply, having accomplished what he could for today, and he sought out the grinning Aquilan. "Here for me, Tyrian? You won''t catch me unawares twice!"


    As he took position opposite Domitian, Arn reciprocated the expression, though in a manner reminiscent of a predator, and the sparring began.

 Chapter 4: Prayers Answered

    Prayers Answered


    Breakfast was tasteless porridge, though whether that was the fault of the kitchen or the mutilation in his mouth, Arn could not be sure. Water and oats, judging by the look of it, which Arn had eaten plenty of times as a child, though usually with sprinkles of salt or fresh berries for flavour. For a moment, sitting at the table, he thought about the last time he remembered tasting anything; a minuscule loss compared to everything else they had robbed him of, yet it stung nonetheless.


    The hierarchy of who ate first was replicated in terms of seating, with those at the top sitting on the benches in one end, and everyone filing down the row accordingly. While Arn cared little, he knew that openly flaunting this system might cause trouble for him with the others, so he moved up one spot past the convict that he had knocked on his back the other day. The fellow grumbled but kept his eyes low.


    "Listen up, you band of degenerates," Mahan called out, appearing in the doorway. The sporadic laughter that greeted his words suggested the gladiators were accustomed to such speech. "I''ve picked fighters for next Solday. It''s going to be Sigismund, Domitian, and Marcus. So none of you bastards injure them, or you''ll take their place but with one arm tied behind your back."


    "Some of us could still win under such conditions, Master Mahan!" a fighter jeered.


    "Some could, but not you, Andrew, as long as you announce every swing you make with a grunt like the lazy pig you are," the weapons master sneered, and the men laughed with approval at the insight into Andrew''s weakness.


    As the men began to disperse after breakfast, Arn saw his opportunity to glean some useful knowledge. Before Domitian left as well, the Tyrian sat down next to him and held up his tablet.


    "Uh, for the fights?" Domitian asked, blinking a few times. "Well, everyone gets a fight a month, two if you''re good. Master Mahan rotates between us, so we all get the chance to earn coin. Don''t worry." He patted Arn on the shoulder, and the friendly touch almost made the sk¨¢ld flinch. "As soon as Master Mahan thinks you''re ready, he''ll put you up for the next fight."


    Arn was not inclined to wait months or leave it in the hands of fate. He needed his first kill in the arena, and he needed coin and the ability to leave the school. Another fear had also entered his mind; if too much time passed, perhaps he could never re-awaken the magic inside of him. No, he needed to impress this weapons master.


    Glancing up, Arn''s eyes fell upon a man walking past him, who was first to eat at every meal. The champion of this house, he surmised. Clenching his jaw, Arn knew what to do.


    *


    As the men filed into the yard to begin training, having collected their weapons from the armoury, Arn made his way towards the fighter at the top of the pecking order and raised his sword in challenge.


    In response, the gladiator turned towards Mahan. "Master of arms, may I?"


    A nod came in reply. "Don''t hold back, Sigismund."


    The warrior¡¯s expression did not change as he burst into action with a swift succession of attacks. Arn knew from his own training and the experience of a hundred fights that he was outmatched. Every strike came with exact accuracy, leading into the next without a moment''s hesitation or wasting momentum. Nor did the warrior leave any opening as many others did, so focused on their attack that they stepped too far forward or failed to keep their shield up. Every move was precise. All Arn could do was parry with blade and buckler, being pushed on the defensive.


    He had hoped his opponent might underestimate him, but there seemed no chance of that. If he was to land even a single blow, he would have to do something unexpected. Embracing this, Arn lunged forward rather than defend, allowing his opponent''s blade to strike against his shoulder. Had Sigismund wielded steel, it would have sliced the leather open and cut through the tendons of the limb; instead, Arn simply received what would undoubtedly be a nasty bruise. And it brought him past the defences of his adversary that he could use the buckler as a wooden fist against Sigismund''s face.


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    Reacting with speed, the warrior turned his head and allowed his helmet to take the brunt of the blow. He grunted, momentarily disrupted in his attacks, but he recovered faster than Arn to smash the pommel of his sword against the Tyrian''s chest with sufficient force to make him stagger backwards. Before he could regain his balance, Sigismund followed up with another blow against his temple. A helmet proved useful to Arn as well, but it still made his ears ring, and a final strike sent him to the ground.


    The fighters laughed and cheered; Sigismund offered his hand, which Arn accepted along with the quiet realisation that he had overshot. "In the arena, a move like that will get your arm sliced open," the warrior warned the Tyrian, nodding at his shoulder where a bruise would be taking shape underneath the leather. Arn simply shrugged; they were not in the arena, and it had served its purpose of allowing him to land a blow.


    "With me." Mahan gave the command with a stern look at the sk¨¢ld, who followed him into the armoury, away from the others. "I wondered how you would react when I allowed you to train with weapons. I see that offering you a morsel only made you hungry for the whole meal."


    Arn met his gaze, trying to deduce what the weapons master was thinking.


    "I''ve met lots of men like you. Always the prisoners of war, who didn''t choose to be here. You all think this place is beneath you, and your only concern is to quickly win the fights in the arena to buy your freedom."


    Arn suppressed a sigh; he had no use for lectures, especially not from somebody who lacked the full understanding of his situation.


    "You''ll get your wish." The declaration made the Tyrian look at Mahan in surprise. "It''s the only way to cure your impatience. Perhaps once you''ve suffered defeat, you''ll return here with a bowed head and those defiant eyes turned towards the ground."


    A smile tugged at the corner of Arn''s mouth.


    "Be warned, Northman. The audience expects a spectacle. If you give a poor performance, they''ll only be satisfied when they see your blood gushing across the sands."


    Victory or death. Arn would have had no other way.


    *


    Training continued, day after day, until Manday evening arrived; tomorrow, Arn would have his first fight in the arena. He felt confident; his injuries had healed at astonishing speed, making him wonder what they had done to him during those days he was unconscious. Regardless, he felt his old familiarity with a blade had returned to him, even without his magic.


    "You sly fiend." This time, Domitian sat down next to Arn, breaking the protocol of the hierarchy, but since he took a lower position, nobody argued. "I still can''t believe Mahan gave you a fight. You''ve been here, what, less than two fivedays!"


    Arn gave him a knowing look before resuming his meal. While he had not intended to befriend anybody in the school, he did not mind the company of the boisterous Aquilan, considering he carried on the conversation by himself, and Arn was not required to make replies, for obvious reasons. S~ea??h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Arn had just scraped the last of his bowl when one of the guards entered. "The sister is here," he declared and quickly left again while Arn turned to Domitian with a questioning look.


    "Oh, you must have missed her last visit. Sister Helena comes every fiveday, on the night before a fight," Domitian explained.


    Arn frowned and shaped the word ''sister'' with his mouth as another question.


    "She''s a nun ¨C like a priestess of sorts. You must have those up north, don''t you?"


    Arn nodded. He was aware that the Aquilans had religious orders, but he had never had any dealings with them, and he knew little of monks or nuns.


    "She''s here to pray with anyone who needs it, but especially those with a fight tomorrow. Like me and you." Domitian grinned and got up. "Not that I imagine Luna cares much who wins, but just in case, I better do the rites. What about you? I suppose it''s not your faith."


    Arn shook his head. If it came to it, he would pray to his own gods. But he had always been of the opinion that only fools relied on divine help. A man''s fate was in his own hands. If the gods were just, they would aid a just cause of their own accord; if they were not, they did not deserve prayer or worship in the first place.


    As the warriors left the room, the meal done, Arn followed. The path to his room did not require him to leave the building, yet idle curiosity drew him with the others to the training yard, where he saw a woman swaddled in thick clothing and with a veil covering her face. She leaned a staff with a silvery disc shaped like a crescent moon against the wall and knelt before it, as did the men gathered with her.


    For a moment, the old curiosity of the sk¨¢ld was awakened, being afforded a glimpse into the beliefs and rituals of this place; while trained as a spellblade rather than a loremaster, Arn shared the affinity for knowledge with all of his brethren. Before a song could be composed, a bard must first know the subject, as Arn''s teacher had told him.


    The moment ended. Until he was healed, such thinking was nothing but a distraction. Tomorrow, he had to fight, kill, and take the first step towards restoring his magic. Returning to his cell, Arn lay down and cleared his head of all thoughts except what awaited him on the morrow.

 Chapter 5: On the Sands

    On the Sands


    The gladiators used worn equipment for their training each morning, but after Arn had eaten breakfast, he was given a leather jerkin of good quality along with greaves, bracers, and a helmet, the latter items made of iron. The only thing missing were weapons; they were held at the arena rather than handed out in advance.


    Likewise equipped, Domitian and Sigismund joined Arn before a guard led all three through the school, unlocking the gate to enter the other half of the building. They passed through it to reach a courtyard on the opposite side, where a cart waited for them along with a driver and Mahan. Domitian and Sigismund crawled up into the back, and the former smiled at Arn and patted the seat next to him, which the Tyrian took. "Why walk when you can get driven?" the Aquilan asked. An expressionless face was Arn''s sole response.


    The cart set into motion, and for the first time since his arrival, Arn left the gladiator school. Immediately, the city of Aquila assaulted his senses. A cacophony of sounds from the multitude of people on the streets reached his ears. People shouting, laughing, having arguments or loud conversations. They passed by stalls where vendors hawked their goods or haggled with customers, and taverns where patrons poured ale down the throat while frazzled barmaids ran in between them to comply with the demands for another round.


    And on either side of the street, taller and taller buildings rose. Arn had visited Aquilan cities before, but never the capital itself. In this neighbourhood, the structures were simple in appearance, but still grandiose in size, rising several stories tall to house hundreds of people. All the inhabitants of Arn''s hometown, itself the biggest settlement in his tribe, could probably fit within a few of the streets.


    Eventually, the arena came into sight. Arn knew that he had seen it before, but he could not remember it in detail. The days between his capture and his near demise on the sands had faded into a blur in his mind. He recalled the smell of blood, the roar of the crowd, and the terrible sensation of claws tearing into his flesh, leaving the many scars that populated his body.


    Despite these dreadful experiences, he could not help but feel impressed by the sheer size of the structure. Arn had thought his memory had exaggerated the building, with his senses and mind dulled by poison, yet it was the reverse; the arena was far grander than he recalled, a mountain made by the hands of men. Thousands upon thousands could find place within, from the looks of it.


    And yet it was dead stone, built by mortal flesh for the sake of blood-soaked spectacle. If Arn still had his dominion over earth magic intact, he could only imagine the silence that these hewn rocks would possess; nothing like the singing that resounded in the hills of his island home, not to mention the Pillars of the World that stood across the northern horizon, illuminated in winter by the lantern of the gods. No, this man-made peak of hewn stone had no song in it, just the dying gasp of those who expired within its oppressive circles.


    They jumped off the cart and walked through the entrance reserved for those taking part in the entertainment. Dozens of people ran around these corridors, which went underground to facilitate travel across the great arena and allow them to put on the different spectacles for an audience always demanding variety.


    As the three gladiators accompanied by the weapons master progressed deeper into the complex, they passed through the cage holding the animals for another kind of show. Right as they walked past a lioness, she jumped against the bars with a snarl, claws out to strike at Arn, who had to jump aside.


    Dreadful memories resurfaced from the rotten smell of meat on the breath of the animal along with her claws reflecting torchlight, and Arn felt flashes of panic threatening to overtake him, his heart pounding until it felt like it would burst.


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    "Friend, are you alright?" Domitian''s hand on his arm helped Arn anchor himself in the present moment rather than his memory, and he took a few deep breaths before he nodded.


    A guard with a whip rather than a blade by his side appeared, grinning. "Sorry about her. A Tyrian took out her eye not long ago, so now she goes after every straw head she sees. Nothing personal against you."


    Except it was. Arn remembered what had happened, striking the tip of his dull blade into the eye of the lioness before claws had torn his flesh apart, granting him the scars he now bore. Enemies on the sands, now both of them once more in a cage, except that Arn had a path out of his imprisonment; he imagined that once the lioness no longer served any purpose to her cruel masters, they would dispose of her. The gladiators continued.


    The small group reached their designated entrance into the inner arena, with nothing further to do but wait. A crate was brought over and opened, and Mahan finally distributed their weapons. He handed over a short spear and a round shield to Sigismund. "Remember to keep your steps small. Let the reach of the spear do the work." He gave a gladius along with a legionary''s shield to Domitian. "Don''t pull your arm back before you strike. The blade will go through the leather just fine. Speed matters more than strength." Finally, he placed a sword along with a buckler into Arn¡¯s hands. "Since you don¡¯t heed my instructions anyway, do whatever in Nether''s name you want."


    Arn accepted the weapons and the words with a slight bow of his head. He required only the former.


    An official appeared. "Fifty breaths until it''s time!"


    Mahan nodded and turned back to face Arn. "Those with least experience fight first. Keep your wits about you, Northman."


    "Indeed," Domitian chimed in. "The women of my city tell their husbands to come home carrying their shields or carried upon them, and yours is too small for the latter!" He laughed, looking at Arn''s buckler.


    Sigismund gave no parting words, only a bow of his head in salute.


    The nearby portcullis opened up. Mahan gestured at it; steeling himself, Arn walked through.


    *


    The helmet felt heavy on his face, despite having trained with it for days. They had cut his hair short to make it better fit inside, which in itself was no loss, now that he no longer had the eagle''s feather he used to wear braided into his hair. That had been taken from him after his capture, along with his sword and his tongue. Unlike those items, the feather carried no power; its only magic lay in a simple rune of preservation carved onto it, keeping it from decay.


    But it had always made Arn feel better, serving as a reminder of his home no matter how far he travelled from his green islands. Instead, he carried a helmet of iron, mined from the depths of the earth despoiled by these Aquilans that even now sat by the thousands, watching him step onto the sands.


    Bits of memories from his first visit returned. That same glare of the sun after being inside, the thundering noise of the multitudes on the stands. Anticipation in the air of violence and bloodletting. But this time, Arn''s blade and mind were sharp.


    "Citizens of Aquila!" The voice came like a storm across the arena; it had to be magically amplified. "For the first time, this fierce savage of the far North graces the sands! Taken in battle after slaying ten legionaries, two of them with his bare hands, the bloody eagle of Tyria!"


    An annoyed expression ran across Arn''s face. His capture had been an ambush; as far as he recalled, no legionaries had died. Unfortunately. Granted, if anyone discovered his true identity, they would wish to execute him again, and he doubted they would leave anything to chance a second time around; if the tale being spun about his capture helped protect his identity, so be it.


    The voice fell silent. Arn realised he had not paid attention to his opponent being introduced. Not that it mattered either; in a matter of moments, he would be dead.


    From the opposite end of the arena, another gladiator stalked towards him. He walked with precise steps, holding his weapons in a way that suggested familiarity. He might be new to the sands like Arn, but he was not a novice when it came to fighting. Arn had expected no less; an inexperienced fighter would provide only poor spectacle.


    His opponent had a gladius and the large, square shields of the legions; same weapons as Domitian used, which played in Arn''s favour, having practised against that fighting style more than any other during his brief time at the school.


    The anticipation simmered in the air like the pressure before a thunderstorm, heralding lightning strike. Despite his misgivings about relying on divine intervention, Arn found himself praying without words. Thunraz, it in echoed his mind, grant me victory or a death worthy of your halls.


    From on high came not a thunderbolt, nor the words of a god, but still a voice with the power to release the tension and allow the storm to break, as the official cried out, "Fight!"


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 Chapter 6: Blood and Tears

    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 sk¨¢ld 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 seier-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."


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    "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.


    "Eager to spend your coin, are we?"


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


    "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 ¨C he dearly hoped Aquila had attracted a Tyrian loremaster of sufficient skill ¨C 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 ¨C or girl, given she looked younger than twenty ¨C 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 ¨C"


    Arn shook his head, sighing and repeating his gesture to make her leave. S§×arch* The N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "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 sk¨¢ld in his cell.

 Chapter 7: The Loremaster

    The Loremaster


    Smoke rising from campfires. A dozen tents or more. A standard that Arn did not recognise, nor the surcoats worn by the Aquilans. Not that it mattered. He sensed no magic; no sign of mages or spellcasters among their number. Along with the darkness, that gave him the advantage. He looked over his shoulder at his oath-sworn brother, who gave him an encouraging nod.


    *


    Waking up granted Arn not only a reprieve from his dreams, but also a blissful realisation. The life force he had leeched yesterday from the slain gladiator had been fully absorbed. His sense of magic had returned, like the regeneration of a lost limb. While it would not avail him much yet, not until he strengthened the seier inside him further, it was proof that the process worked. He still lacked the spellpower that would fuel his abilities as a spellblade, but he was once more a man of magic; if he could have the minor runes on his skin restored, their power would be accessible to him.


    And while his skill as a swordsman remained mundane for now, reawakening the seed inside him had yielded fruit in another manner. He walked outside and turned his gaze on the slender tower of a temple in the far distance, visible atop the wall that surrounded the training yard. Yesterday, it had been nothing more than a grey mass rising up against the horizon. But as the first drop of magic was returned to him, it had unlocked one of the blessings bestowed upon him by the crones that served as matriarchs of Tyria.


    Arn remembered it well; it had been his first major trip on his own, still young and unproven. He had climbed the highest peak that graced the Pillars of the World and taken a feather from the nest of an eagle, bringing it back to the seier-wives as evidence of his ascent. They had enchanted it for him that it would not decay, allowing him to keep it as a memento and a reminder of his tribe; more importantly, they had bestowed the blessing of eagle eyes upon him. Looking at the tower in the distance, this boon returned to him, Arn could make out each individual stone hewn and placed together to build the structure.


    Without thinking, Arn ran a hand through his short hair where the token of his journey had once rested, tied to a braid. A pity, but if he did not have the feather of an eagle, at least he had its eyes. While it might be of limited use in the trials ahead, compared to the wealth of other spells and abilities still denied to him, it made the sk¨¢ld feel just a little bit more like himself.


    *


    After breakfast, Arn approached Mahan again with his written request to be given leave. The weapons master gave only a grunt in response before training commenced, though in the afternoon, he returned to the Tyrian.


    "I spoke with the dominus. He accepted your request," Mahan declared.


    Arn smiled and nodded.


    "In fact, he said you were to be given leave anytime you asked. Strange. I''ve never known him to show such leniency to a newcomer." The weapons master gave Arn a scrutinising look as if expecting to read the answer to an unspoken question on his face.


    Keeping his features blank while silently expressing his gratitude to the gods for their continued favour, the sk¨¢ld simply repeated his gesture and resumed his training. S~ea??h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    *


    After exercises, bathing, and eating, Arn was led by a guard through the building to the courtyard with its gate that led outside. "First time out, yeah?"


    Arn nodded with an absent mind.


    "Alright, here''s the rules. When last bell rings, you got two hours to be back before the gate is locked. You''re not in your cell by headcount, we release the dogs. They''ll have no trouble finding your scent, the way you lot sweat all day," he grinned.


    Arn made an acknowledging grunt, hoping to speed up the process.


    "Spend your coin how you want on drink, women, but stay out of trouble. No fighting, no stealing, nothing that''ll get you picked up by the city guard. Expect the lash if you get arrested or don''t make it back in time before curfew," he rambled on. "Oh, and don''t think about buying weapons. It''ll just be confiscated when you get back here."


    Arn gave him an impatient look, wondering when the admonitions would be over.


    "Alright, enjoy your freedom." The guard opened the gate for him, and Arn strode through.


    *


    Stepping onto the street, finding himself alone and outside four walls for the first time since his arrival, Arn felt the urge to run. But if the guard''s warning had not sufficed, the strange armband he wore reminded him of the futility of flight. Another thing he needed to inquire about if he found a trustworthy loremaster. But in due time. His runes came first.


    Knowing his own people, Arn set a course west towards the harbour. People gave him the occasional look, but nobody seemed particularly interested in him. Scarred men wearing leather tunics were plentiful in Aquila, and as that would often be the markings of a thug, Arn walked unharmed.


    He made a detour to reach one of the markets that lay sprawling across the city, where he spent most of his coin buying a pouch to tie onto his belt, giving him a place for his wax tablet and other small items. He followed up with buying a needle and thread before continuing on his way.


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    Approaching the docks, Arn moved slowly while examining the buildings around him. At length, he found what he searched for. To any Aquilan, it would look like random scratches, made by accident rather than design; to a Tyrian, they were runes used as letters, and while they lacked the magic that sk¨¢lds could imbue them with, they still held the power of knowledge, as they told Arn where to find his people.


    Following the directions etched into the walls, Arn proceeded away from the larger streets to enter smaller alleyways and closely built houses, old and wooden rather than the great insulae that dominated much of Aquila. Finally, he saw his destination; red leaves upon branches, rising like a crown to adorn the trunk of a great tree.


    It lay inside a small yard, surrounded by grass and tall buildings. In Tyria, it would have been left to grow freely, far from any structures or fields that would choke its growth. Here, this small ring of land was all that could be afforded it.


    A copper beech, the Aquilans named such a tree, though in Tyrian, its name was blood beech. Holy to the northerners, it was nourished by the very liquid that coloured its leaves and provided its name. It did not matter if the blood came from enemies or the faithful spilling their own; the tree drank it all, its leaves growing darker the more satiated it became. Judging by the deep red colour upon this tree, it was well sated; Arn would add to that.


    He took his newly purchased needle and pricked the tip of his finger, allowing three drops to fall. And as the blood sank into the soil, he repeated his vow; silently, yet loud enough for the gods to hear. He would have restoration. He would have freedom. He would have vengeance.


    This complete, he wiped the needle clean between his lips and returned it to his pouch. After that, he waited.


    *


    It took a while before another Tyrian entered. An old woman with hard lines in her face, which suited Arn; she would not be troubled by his visage, and if she had lived a while in Aquila, she ought to know the answer to his question.


    He approached her while holding up his tablet, now adorned with Tyrian rather than Aquilan letters.


    The crone gave him a quick look. "Strange fellow. Not seen you before. I''d ask what you''d need a loremaster for, but I take it there''s a reason you write your questions rather than say them."


    Of course, some old women had a love for talking more than was needed. Arn tapped the word on his tablet impatiently.


    "Alright, stow your sails. Aye, there''s a loremaster in Aquila. Back on the street, you go left. Keep going and turn left again right before the pottery. Down that alley, you''ll find his place. Just look on the doors."


    Arn gave a bow in response and left the tiny grove.


    *


    Following the instructions given, Arn found the alley and went down, checking each door, until he saw one marked by mundane runes. As with other descriptions placed around the city, they held no power except declaring to keen eyes that a loremaster resided within. With a heavy fist, Arn knocked repeatedly.


    Eventually, the door was pulled open. "What''s with all this pounding? It won''t wake the dead, nor can I do that, and I wonder if any lesser need could demand such haste!" The speaker was an old man; while his hair was brown and grey, his eyes had the blue colour of most Tyrians.


    In response to the flow of words sent his way, Arn simply raised his tablet that still bore the same word.


    "Aye, that''s me. You''re the silent type, then? That''s fine. I can talk for two." He laughed at his own jest and beckoned for Arn to follow him inside the small house. It had only one floor, taken up by a single room. A fireplace in the middle allowed for cooking and heating up the space, though currently only occupied by ashes. A variety of jars stood on shelves, containing what Arn presumed to be different ingredients. All the furniture was simple and old, including the bed in one end, a worktable in the middle, and three stools. The loremaster took one and motioned for Arn to take another. "So, what brings you?"


    The sk¨¢ld rolled up his right sleeve to reveal the remnants of a rune, torn to shreds by his scars.


    In response, the loremaster gave a whistle and bent forward to examine it. "Someone went to work on you! No magic left in that, I take it."


    Arn shook his head.


    "Well, if you''re expecting me to repair it, I''m not sure what to say. Your skin is more scar than ink at this point."


    The sk¨¢ld frowned and scribbled furiously on his tablet.


    "Look, it''s not that simple. Sure, I know the spell. But to recreate it with all this damage and expect the magic to hold? It would take hours and hours of enchantment, and I can''t promise results."


    That was not the wind Arn had hoped would fill his sail. When the seier-wife gave him this rune, the process had been quick if painful. He could not afford to spend hours down here; he would be expected back at the gladiator school soon.


    The loremaster scratched the top of his head. "Not really."


    He frowned. "That wouldn''t work either. You can''t interrupt the enchanting process."


    Arn clenched his jaw. He had no knowledge of this magical craft, but he refused to leave without a solution.


    "Look, I don''t even know if it would work. If the magic would stick." He nodded at Arn''s scarred arm. "It would be a roll of the die."


    That was immaterial to Arn; he had no other option, so he had to pursue this. He tapped on his tablet again.


    "Well, the longer I take, the better, probably. Give the magic as much time as possible to sink in, settle in."


    The loremaster raised a curious look from the letters to Arn. "Why not?" With no answer forthcoming, he scratched his head again. "I suppose I could¡­ well, maybe there''s a way."


    Arn moved his hand in a circular motion, beckoning for the man to continue.


    "I could create it as a rune token. That would let me spend all the time needed. But that means you have to absorb the magic and get it to settle. That''s not easy."


    Arn had some newfound experience with leeching magic; he would not object to this.


    "Alright, steady your boat. I''ll need the right stone that can hold this kind of enchantment. Can''t just pick up any old pebble from the street, now, can I?" The loremaster licked his lips. "Come back Manday evening, same bell as now. I''ll know more. Including price."


    Not as swift a solution as Arn had hoped, but better than none. Taking his leave, Arn got up and walked out.


    *


    Upon his return, the guard at the entrance patted him down and checked his pouch by his belt. Once satisfied, he waved Arn inside and closed the gate behind him, and the Tyrian hurried to his cell. Once alone with the door shut, Arn ran a finger inside his belt. He had sewn a thread to create little straps that held his remaining coins and the needle itself, the equipment responsible for the craftsmanship. An old trick for hiding valuables where pickpockets would not think to look; nor did guards at the door, thankfully, when checking for weapons.


    No matter how small, a needle could still kill in the right hands, such as those of a skilled gladiator, and Arn felt better knowing he had it within close reach at all times. His hoard and forbidden tool safely hidden, Arn went to sleep.

 Chapter 8: A Deal Struck

    A Deal Struck


    While Arn''s victory had given him more prestige in the hierarchy of the gladiator school, Domitian had willingly demoted himself, allowing them to meet in the middle and eat their meals next to each other. Arn still did not care about how the gladiators ranked themselves or having company when eating; conducting a conversation even with his wax tablet was too cumbersome. Yet he saw no reason to spite a man that showed him friendship.


    "That''s a neat little pouch," Domitian remarked in between gulps of gruel, nodding at the new item attached to Arn''s belt. "I can''t imagine if I lost my tongue and had to write down everything I wanted to say."


    Given the flow of words that spilled from the burly fighter''s lips each day, Arn could not rightly imagine such silence either.


    "You''re lucky they let you out so fast. Maybe they thought a prisoner of war had more honour. It took months before I was given such privilege."


    For once, Arn took note of what he was being told, and he turned his head to give Domitian a questioning look. He had assumed the Aquilan was a freeman who had joined willingly.


    "Ah, I never told you." Domitian pulled up his sleeve to reveal the word branded into his flesh. "I suppose you''ll be curious to know what I did."


    For once, Arn was curious.


    "Halfway through my time as a legionary. Got into a drunken fight and killed another. I was not on duty or in camp at the time, or I''d have been executed for sure. Still, it could easily have gone that way. But my prefect had a soft spot for me and convinced the legate to let me repay my debt in the arena."


    Arn would never have guessed such a tale, but there was no drink in the ludus, and he had never seen Domitian intoxicated.


    "At one fight a month, I''m still a couple of years away from freedom. Unless I make champion at the solstice games, of course." Domitian''s eyes acquired a dreaming look before he blinked. "Something for you to aim for as well! You got the skill. I''m surprised you haven''t battered down Master Mahan''s door yet to get another turn on the sands. You were more eager for your first time than a sailor in a brothel."


    Except Arn hoped to have one of his minor runes restored before that, which would ensure victory in any fight; no need to risk another close struggle against an even opponent if he could have magical strength on his side the next time. Looking at Domitian, Arn gave a thin smile.


    *


    Days passed until Arn had waited long enough, and it was time to return to the loremaster. After obtaining permission to leave, Arn washed after training, ate his evening meal, and prepared to do just that. He went to his cell quickly to collect his tablet and change into other clothes appropriate for the city when he heard a knock on his door.


    The sound made him frown; nobody had done that before. Pulling a clean tunic down over his body, he walked over and opened the door. Outside stood the nun who came each Manday to pray with those fighting the day after, though Arn assumed she was lost; he was not scheduled to fight, nor did he need or want her prayers.


    As the last time he had seen her, she wore the uniform of her order, with cloth covering her head and hair, including a veil before her face. Her right hand held the staff used in her rituals. "You''re the Tyrian, I take it. I''m Sister Helena."


    He stared at her without any expression, waiting for her to continue.


    "I''m told you''re mute. I might be able to help you."


    Arn could not imagine how.


    "All the sisters at my convent learn to speak with signs. It helps preserve silence during rituals or prayer, and it helps with the older sisters hard of hearing." She laughed a little. "I could teach you the same."


    He grabbed his tablet.


    "Ah, not to my knowledge, no. But if you have learned, others could as well."


    So she offered means for him to communicate with nuns. If writing was not such a chore, Arn would have delighted in scribbling a sarcastic reply. Instead, he resigned himself to a simple answer.


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    "Oh. Of course. I won''t trouble you further."


    Looking at the black veil of thin fabric separating her visage from his, Arn believed he saw disappointment on her face, though the cloth made it hard for him to make out her features. Yet the blessing of eagle eyes told him something else, despite it being hidden. On her cheek, she had a bruise of a deep red colour, a sign of heavy impact, and still fresh. Plenty of men in the ludus had such after being struck by a wooden weapon; seeing it on a woman, Arn might have suspected her husband of having an ill temper, but he doubted that would explain what had happened to a nun. He wondered with an inwards smile if the good sisters also trained as gladiators. Pointing first to his own cheek, he turned his finger towards hers.


    "What? Oh, that." She lowered her face while her hand went up to cover her bruise through the veil. "We sisters train to fight with staves." Her other hand held the aforementioned item, and she stamped it against the floor, raising her eyes again. "You can be kind without being weak."


    That was the first thing Arn had learned about this woman that he respected. Still, he had no use for her offer, and time was dwindling; he had somewhere to be. He pointed over her shoulder.


    "Right, sorry. I shouldn''t take more of your time. Luna watch over you."


    A blessing that Arn had no use for nor imagined would come to pass; he waited as the nun hurried away before making his own departure.


    *


    In case anybody followed him, Arn went to the grove first and knelt before the blood tree. He placed one hand against the bark and prayed, offering his gratitude for his survival and success so far. He did not think the gods capricious or that they would disfavour him if he failed to show such appreciation, but it seemed good manners to do so.


    Afterwards, occasionally glancing over his shoulder, Arn made his way to the loremaster. He knocked, a voice bade him enter, and he did so, only to realise a third party was present. A short man, entirely bald without beard either, but wielding a smug expression and wearing sharp ears like the trolls of Tyria. Arn looked from him to the loremaster, wondering what he had interrupted.


    "My quiet friend, this is Lucius," the loremaster said, speaking Aquilan. He squinted at Arn. "You understand Aquilan, right? If not necessarily speak it."


    Arn nodded with a frown; he had business to discuss with the other Tyrian, which did not involve this smirking fellow.


    "Now, as to your demand. I believe I can create your rune token. The real question is the price."


    The sk¨¢ld''s expression turned to a scowl, and he pointed at the Aquilan in their midst, whom he had no wish to involve in any of this.


    "If you''re wondering about my presence, it''s because I''m part of this little deal," Lucius explained, still wearing the same demeanour that made Arn want to punch him. "You see, our mutual friend here, he works for me. So anything you need from him, you''ll have to pay me."


    Arn raised a hand, gesturing for him to get on with it.


    "And I''m not interested in money. Old Helgi here tells me that you''ve got a touch of magic yourself. And unlike him, you''re trained for battle. What did you call him?" Lucius looked briefly at the loremaster. "Ah, yes, a spellblade. That means nothing to me, but Helgi reassures me that you''re handy with a sword."


    So the old Tyrian had deduced Arn''s profession; he was wilier than he looked. And somehow enthralled to this slimy Aquilan, which complicated matters. But Arn needed his runes restored; he had to deal with them. He took out his tablet.


    "Very well, to the matter. Not far from here, there''s a small group of malcontents causing trouble. Three of them, which shouldn''t make a ¨C spellblade like you have any difficulty clearing them out."


    Arn looked from one man to the other. This was a price he could pay much faster than silver, but it was also far riskier. He would have to do it in the evening, as he could not leave the ludus at night. Being Tyrian, he was easy to describe should any witnesses notice him. He had no knowledge of his opponents, how skilled they were, whether there might be more than three, or the interiors of the location where he would fight them.


    But it would be difficult to trace the deed back to him; he had no connection to these men, and there was no reason anyone would search for their killer in a gladiator school. In addition, if Arn did it right, he could leech magic from one of them, speeding up his restoration. Assuming he proved the victor. After a moment''s hesitation, Arn wrote,


    Lucius smiled. "We got one or two spare lying around. Come back here when you''re ready, and you''ll find a blade waiting for you. Helgi knows the details you''ll need."


    "I''ll get to work on your rune token," the loremaster added. He looked at Arn''s body. "Which one do you want?"


    The sk¨¢ld had already considered this. His chief concern was winning fights in the arena; both strength and speed helped with that, and either would serve him well in that regard. But now he had another concern; if getting all four minor runes restored required more of such acts like the one currently proposed, he needed to be able to leave the ludus at will. Strength would help him scale the wall of the training yard at night. His decision made, Arn pointed at his rune of force on his right arm.


    "Alright, you want your strength back. I''ll do that one."


    Arn quickly wrote,


    Seeing the Tyrian letters, Lucius looked at Helgi, who cracked a sardonic smile. "Fellow wants the stone first, so he can use its power to deal with your problem."


    The Aquilan donned the same expression as the loremaster. "Work first, payment after. You''ll have to rely on what other magic you got. From what Helgi tells me, you should have all sorts of spells you can do with your blade. Would be odd to call you a spellblade otherwise."


    In theory, except Arn''s fount of spellpower was dry, and he could not cast any spells. But revealing this weakness would be folly; this fellow, Lucius, seemed the sort of man who only respected power. Admitting that Arn had none of note as of yet invited treachery.


    The bald Aquilan smirked. "Excellent. A deal well struck." sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    On his way home, Arn spent his last coins buying a cloak with a hood.

 Chapter 9: Just a Scratch

    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 ¨C that would only cast a light on their own involvement ¨C 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.


    "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?" Sear?h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


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    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 sk¨¢ld 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 seier-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.


    "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,


    "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 ¨C she would need a guard to unlock the doors and let her out of the ludus ¨C 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 ¨C 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 sk¨¢ld left the yard for his own cell.

 Chapter 10: Force

    Force


    Solday training was less rigid than on other days. With Mahan gone for the arena together with the chosen fighters, the remaining gladiators trained as they saw fit, taking as many breaks as they wanted. Arn assumed that the weapons master was aware of this; he seemed a shrewd fellow, and if he had been a gladiator himself, he would know how the mice acted with the cat absent. Given that they trained hard four days out of five, having a looser regimen during the fifth helped put everyone in a better mood and made ordeals easier to bear.


    While Arn did not mind the change of pace either, his thoughts were on tonight. He had made his decision; he would not get anywhere without taking risks, and the reward seemed adequate. Restoring his rune of force would let him call upon supernatural strength at will, ensuring victory in all his fights. And as the other gladiators laughed and made jests at each other''s expense, Arn steeled himself for tonight''s task.


    *


    He had to wait until Mahan returned with the gladiators; two had been victorious, and fortunately for the third, the crowd had deemed him deserving of mercy. Arn waited while the other fighters cheered for the victors before pushing through them to approach Mahan, his tablet ready.


    The weapons master glanced from the letters to Arn. "I don''t blame you. Solday evening gets noisy, Stars know. Half the free men are out tonight as well. Sure, take off. You know the rules, back when last bell ends."


    Arn nodded before he headed for the baths, eager to get ready and head out; tonight, time would be another obstacle on his path to rejuvenation.


    *


    As swiftly as he could, his hood covering his head, Arn made his way to the loremaster''s abode. The man let him in and pulled out a sheathed sword from under his bed. "For you."


    Arn pulled out the blade. A gladius, with the letters XII inscribed into the pommel. A soldier''s sword from the Twelfth Legion; gods only knew how it ended up here. Shorter weapon than Arn favoured, but it would do.


    "You have to go north, to the slums. Past the potters'' lane and take a right before the apothecary. Down the street, you''ll find the house. I marked the door with runes for you to find," he explained. "Three men inside, all must die. Come back when it''s done, and you''ll get your stone."


    Arn assumed it was unnecessary to issue any threats, if the rune token was not presented to him upon his return, given he currently held a sword in his hand. He tied the sheath to his belt, far back on his side to easier hide it with his cloak. He gave the loremaster a passing glance as he left, setting a quick pace.


    *


    It took a long while for Arn to reach his destination; he had to cross from the southern district through the harbour to reach the slums in the north. Finding the location proved a chore as well, especially as he did not dare ask anyone; a mute Tyrian seen on the streets near three killings would be far too easy to recall. sea??h th§× n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Once in the right place, he found himself in an alleyway that gave him a view of the house, and he sat down on the ground, back against a wall, giving his best performance as a weary man half-asleep. Arn had never been to this district before, but every house seemed old and in need of repair, including his target. The children playing on the street, occasionally bothering him, wore rags rather than proper clothing, and plenty of drunkards stumbled around, which helped Arn seem less conspicuous.


    A bell rang from a distant temple. Time was running out, especially since he had to return to the loremaster before he could go back to the ludus. Arn had to act.


    He got up and went down the street, crossed it, and entered the back alley that ran past his destination. Keeping his hood up, he glanced up and down. Nobody in sight, though any moment, someone might walk past. Best to hurry.


    Arn drew his sword and reached the backdoor of the ramshackle house. Steeling himself, he kicked it in and ran inside.


    He saw a blur of movement inside and acted on instinct, striking out with his sword to cut down the nearest man, who fell with a scream. Another leapt to his feet from the other side of a table and had time to draw a long dagger. Arn jumped onto the table and parried the blade with his own before kicking his opponent on the chin. The fellow staggered backwards, and Arn fell upon him, striking his blade deep into his chest.


    Catching his breath, Arn looked around. An easy fight against inexperienced warriors, except there were only two. He could not sit around, waiting for the third to appear, should he be out.


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    The haze of battle clouded his mind, and he only noticed the stairs behind him when a creaking sound alerted him. Turning around, Arn saw his third target leaping down from the staircase, wildly brandishing a short sword.


    Ferocity proved inferior to experience; in addition to his upbringing, Arn currently spent every day practising swordplay for hours. He easily parried the first desperate flourish, leaned back to evade the next, and used the opening to slash his enemy across the chest.


    The pain and wound caused enough distraction that Arn could slap the weapon from his opponent''s hand, and he followed up with a kick to the knee. Disarmed, the man fell to the ground.


    Knowing this was his moment, Arn prepared himself and grabbed the man''s neck with his free hand before stabbing him deep in the chest. His life force, like a breeze that shook the leaves, fled from his body, but Arn caught it and stole it for himself. It nourished his tree, still just a sapling, and made a new branch grow. Finally, he would have an inkling of spellpower returned to him, fuelling his abilities; finally, he would be a spellblade again.


    The same effect as last time overcame him. A pounding headache along with nausea washed over his body. He fell to his knees, releasing his hold on his sword, and the dead man collapsed onto the ground. Blinking, Arn saw only a haze, and stabs of pain pierced him, like a hundred arrows released to strike him at once.


    But it subsided. The world returned before his eyes. His mouth entirely dry, Arn wiped spittle from his face and got up. His last victim lay on his back, sword still buried in his chest. Arn grabbed it and pulled it out. His task was done.


    Looking at the dead, Arn wondered who they were and what they had done to deserve death. He glanced at the hands of the nearest corpse and saw the torn nails of a workman along with dirt ingrained into the skin. Serfs, apparently. Probably runaways from their lord''s estate, hiding in the big city.


    The front door opened. Arn turned his eyes to see a small figure ¨C a boy, younger than ten, holding a jar in his hands. Seeing a warrior holding a blood-stained blade, the jar slipped from his hands and shattered, flinging water and clay shards in every direction.


    Yet despite his fear, the boy did not do the sensible thing; he stood, frozen, staring at the incarnation of death before him.


    Arn returned the gaze. A witness could be his undoing. His oath compelled him to take any action needed to fulfil it or stand before the gods as a nieing. Yet slaying a child would brand him the same.


    Slowly kneeling, Arn wiped his blade clean in the clothes of the dead man. Rising again, he pressed one finger to his lips; the boy, wide eyes staring, could not mistake the gesture. Sheathing his sword, Arn stumbled away, out through the backdoor.


    *


    The journey to the southern district felt long in Arn''s current state; he was weak, same way he had only felt on occasions when he had magically exhausted himself, drawing on more power than he possessed and incurring a price. Headache, nausea, weakness in his limbs; he would not be able to handle another fight in his current state.


    Arn considered whether to toss the sword into the harbour and return to the ludus; he could rest and seek out the loremaster another evening for his reward. But asking for leave to enter the city twice in close succession would arouse suspicion, and Arn was loath to postpone.


    If he did not return swiftly to report success, who knew how those slimy taskmasters of his would react? They might assume he had failed or something had gone wrong. Besides, Arn wanted his payment sooner rather than later. So he struggled onwards, down the streets of Aquila, accompanied by the occasional shout or curse aimed at drunkards stumbling around.


    *


    Reaching Helgi''s home, Arn felt better, though he still disliked the idea of doing any fighting in this state. The magic inside him had yet to settle; he did not imagine it would respond to his demands if he wanted to begin casting spells.


    Not bothering with a knock, Arn went directly in. The old loremaster, eating at his table, looked up confused. "You''re back early."


    Arn untied the sheath from his belt and placed it on the table before stretching out his open hand. Seeing no understanding on Helgi''s face, Arn ran one finger across his own throat and held up three fingers.


    "You killed them ¨C already?" The loremaster looked up at the window in the ceiling, providing light. "It''s not even nightfall! Why would you do it now?"


    Arn tapped his open palm with the other hand, indicating his impatience to be paid.


    "Gods, take your sails down. I got it right here. I just didn''t expect you back already," Helgi mumbled. He opened a drawer and took out a rune token, inscribed with the symbol of force. "As agreed. I''ll talk to Lucius. If everything is in order, he''ll have more tasks for you, and you can get your other runes restored. Assuming this method works." He shrugged. "No guarantees, friend."


    Arn''s fingers closed around the stone. He felt the power within, soon to be his. It had to work. Giving an acknowledging nod to the loremaster, Arn left.


    *


    Outside the ludus, Arn had a final obstacle. He could not risk the rune stone being confiscated, but it was bigger than an egg and difficult to hide. Looking around, he grabbed a pebble on the ground, placed it inside his boot by the heel, and mirrored this with the rune token on the other foot. While unpleasant, it made his gait even, rather than one leg looking shorter than the other.


    The guard quickly patted him down, including the ankles of his boots; a common place to hide a knife. "Weird. You seem taller," he grunted. "Alright. Let me lock the gate, and I''ll take you back."


    Soon after, Arn was alone in his cell. He pulled out the rune token, glad to have his boots off. His whole body felt sore, as if he had trained all day without interruption. Doing this now added to his discomfort, but he could not wait until tomorrow night to discover whether this worked or not.


    Correcting his posture as he sat on his cot, Arn closed his eyes and gripped the rune token tight in his hand, focusing on the magic woven into it. One strand at a time, he began to pull it out, absorbing it.

 Chapter 11: Maleficus

    Maleficus


    Trying to make his fingers release the rune token, Arn discovered that they did not react. He had not moved at all for many hours now, and his body seemed to have accepted this posture permanently. It took effort just to open his eyes. Not that it made a difference; his cell lay in darkness.


    Yet despite being numb, Arn could sense magic and the lack thereof in the stone clutched in his hand; he had drawn every thread into himself. With steeled focus, he managed to break the lock his body had adopted and stretch his limbs. Finally, the stone fell from his grasp. Arn stood up and let one hand slide over his arm. It felt no different; scars intermingled with what remained of undamaged skin and ink.


    Spending a few frustrating moments fumbling in the dark, Arn picked up the stone again. He had no further use for it, but it might draw suspicion if anybody noticed it with its obvious markings; getting rid of it would also afford him the opportunity to know whether his travails had been rewarded.


    He no longer felt ill from having leeched magic from the dying; instead, Arn felt the lack of sleep, and thus he still stumbled down the corridors much like he had done on the streets yesterday.


    Finally, he made it outside. Dawn had yet to come, it seemed; hard to tell with the walls of the training yard surrounding him. But twilight had appeared, allowing Arn some semblance of vision.


    The moment had come. Gripping the rune token in his hand, Arn commanded the rune of force inscribed on his skin to activate and lend him supernatural strength. Feeling sparks of magic, Arn pulled his arm back and threw the stone with all the power he could. It soared through the air, higher and faster than an arrow in flight, eventually disappearing from view. Hopefully nobody was out on the streets in that direction.


    Arn smiled, but only for a moment. Terrible pain seized his arm, and the sign inked onto his skin burnt like fire. He fell to his knees, overtaken by the sudden pain, and clasped his runed arm with the other hand while gritting his teeth.


    Everything at a price, it seemed. Arn had hoped for full restoration without consequences, letting him draw on magical strength at will. A na?ve sentiment, maybe.


    Still, it had worked. Getting back on his feet, Arn flexed his fingers. He would have to be careful and use it sparingly, striking with his regained superior strength in the opportune moments. Perhaps the negative reaction would lessen with use, as his body became reacquainted with the rune and its effect. Arn smiled again; it had worked. He no longer needed to fear losing any fights, whether in the arena or elsewhere.


    *


    Over the next days, Arn trained as usual. On occasion, when the opportunity presented itself to make use of an opening, he would activate his rune to lend his blow extra strength. Doing so hurt him, sending threads of pain from the symbol up and down his arm, but it worked. His strikes landed with enough force to push his opponent a step back, or if they were off balance, they tumbled to the ground. The challenge was no longer how to win, but how to mask his power and avoid arousing suspicion.


    Manday morning, the inevitable consequence arrived. "Northman, you fight tomorrow," Mahan told him at breakfast. "I would deem you ready."


    Given Arn had already won his first battle in the arena, he would argue he had been ready all along, but he got the impression that the weapons master discounted that; according to Mahan''s training and schedule, only now had Arn been prepared sufficiently. Of course, given the sk¨¢ld''s newfound strength, Mahan was more than right without knowing it, and Arn gladly accepted the news.


    Besides his minor rune of force, he also had his first drops of spellpower back, which fuelled his spellblade abilities or major temporary runes cast in combat ¨C though the latter required speech, so still beyond his reach. And for the time being, he only had enough magic to use such a skill a single time before he needed to rest, but in the arena against an ordinary warrior, he would not require more than one opportunity to ensure victory.


    Assuming it worked. Arn had yet to test it; unlike the rune on his arm, he could not easily do so. He needed a sword in hand and an enemy in front of him to measure whether his abilities as a spellblade still obeyed him. That left training the only viable opportunity, but it obviously carried too great a risk of revealing his magical powers to the other gladiators. He might also inadvertently hurt someone, and the thought bothered him, considering they had all in all treated him with decency.


    Strangely, the best option would be the loremaster and the weasel, Lucius. If they had another such task involving knifework in exchange for the next rune token, Arn could test his spellpower during such a confrontation. Yes, Arn needed to return soon to old Helgi; he could get another rune restored, leech more magic, and measure the strength of his spellcraft. And in between, he would claim another victory in the arena, clawing back yet more of his powers. With a satisfied expression, the sk¨¢ld finished his breakfast.


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    *


    At the evening meal, Domitian sat next to him. "Northman, did you hear? About the slums and the monster."


    Arn froze. He had assumed that murders among the poorest of the city would not draw much attention, but he might have underestimated the zealotry of the city guard. At least he was far removed from the dead men, literally and metaphorically. The only loose end was the boy ¨C Arn clenched his jaw wondering if the little creature had ratted him out. Making his expression blank, he turned to look at who he supposed he might consider a friend, waiting for him to continue.


    "I was out in the city last night, and it''s all they''re talking about. In the western districts, at least. No idea what the rich talk about in their palaces," Domitian grinned.


    Arn gave him an impatient look, motioning for him to continue.


    "Now, I know this sounds mad, but they all swore it to be true. Some nights ago, an actual undead creature stumbled through the streets! Tried to strangle some poor vendor caught in its path. Guards eventually chopped the monster to pieces, I''m told."


    Arn exhaled; Domitian spoke of an actual monster, not a human killer. His relief lasted a few moments until he understood what had caused such a creature to appear. Leeching the essence of life from a person in their death throes had more consequences than the sk¨¢ld had realised at first. This could not be a coincidence. The last man that Arn had slain; somehow, the process of leeching had reanimated his corpse. A dreadful thought followed, and Arn grabbed his tablet to scribble furiously.


    "Never seen you write so much at once, Northman," Domitian remarked.


    The Aquilan laughed. "Frightened, are we? I don''t blame you. Magic and monsters ain''t for common folk like us. Don''t worry. All the bodies are burned, as they should be. Only proper way to dispose of the dead."


    Arn disagreed; his own people buried them. He knew that sometimes, those of particular strong will or destiny might return, resting in their burial mounds as draugar, but they caused no harm, nor did they leave their place of rest; not like the creature that Domitian had described. Regardless, knowing they burned the slain in the arena meant Arn had nothing to worry about in that regard. If he leeched from anyone elsewhere, he would have to take precautions that they could not return either.


    "Still, troubling news. Almost makes you glad to be in here, behind walls. Leave others to deal with maleficus."


    Maleficus ¨C the Aquilan word for all the kinds of magic they disapproved of, which seemed crude to Arn. Tyrians did not care much for such simple distinctions; the nature of magic rested on how and why it was used.


    "There''s talk they''ll send a spellbreaker from Archen, though they always make such claims. Never actually heard of any showing up," Domitian prattled on.


    "The good sister is here for those who need prayer," Mahan announced through the room, and several of the gladiators got up. sea??h th§× Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Arn still had no use of her rituals, but he had committed to learning signs from her, even if his purpose was another; he had to keep up the ruse. So he nodded farewell to Domitian and went to the training yard, watching the Aquilans give their praise to Luna, who already approached the horizon.


    When complete, he approached Sister Helena, who greeted him with a smile and several gestures. ''Ready to learn?''


    ''Yes.''


    *


    As a bell rang in the distance, Helena looked up at the horizon beyond the wall before returning her attention to her companion. ''I should leave soon. But you learn fast.''


    ''Thanks. You are a good teacher.'' While not his usual form of communication, Arn was familiar with picking up languages and mastering words; a necessary trait for any sk¨¢ld. If only he could anticipate this being useful other than keeping the nun within his orbit. He had not seen further sign of her possessing magic, but he assumed she had a lifetime''s experience of hiding it. He imagined she did not wear the black veil before her face solely out of modesty, but also to keep others from noticing the same marks as he had.


    ''Do you feel ready to try a brief conversation?''


    ''Yes. I feel ready,'' he replied, mirroring her gestures, and he believed he saw her smile beneath her veil.


    ''Tell me your name.''


    ''My name is a-r-n.''


    ''Where are you from?''


    ''I am from the North. Green islands,'' he replied, trying to use as many words as he could recall from their lessons.


    ''Why are you here?'' The moment Helena finished signing the question, he sensed as much as saw her distraught expression. "I''m sorry," she added, speaking quickly. "I didn''t mean to ask such a question."


    Arn shrugged. Avoiding any mention of his circumstances would not improve them. ''I was taken prisoner.'' He hesitated; it struck him that for the first time, someone asked questions of him in earnest fashion without judgement or ulterior motives, but simply to get to know him, and he had the ability to reply without tediously writing on a little tablet. ''They took my tongue'', he continued. ''My words. My song. I can''t sing.''


    There was more he wanted to relate, yet his vocabulary of gestures was exhausted, and perhaps for the best; complaining to this Aquilan nun would not improve his circumstances either, and this sudden need to explain himself, to be pitied for his loss ¨C it was nothing but weakness.


    ''I''m sorry'', she repeated, this time in their silent language. ''I wish I could hear you sing.''


    Arn felt his emotions stuck in his throat, and he cursed himself for allowing this woman to get the better of him instead of the reverse. ''It doesn''t matter. Thank you for teaching.''


    "Yes, I better get going." She rose from the bench and picked up her staff, leaning against the wall of the training yard. With a nod, the priestess bid the sk¨¢ld farewell and left.

 Chapter 12: The Dominion of Earth

    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 sk¨¢ld 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 sk¨¢ld 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 ¨C use his drop of spellpower and hope it obeyed him rather than give fate a second reason to cast him down.


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    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 ¨C not a road to take with thousands of eyes upon him ¨C 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 ¨C thankfully, this ability did not require speech ¨C 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 sk¨¢ld 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 sk¨¢ld.


    "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 ¨C 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 sk¨¢ld 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 seier 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 ¨C 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 sk¨¢ld 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.


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 Chapter 13: Seeds of Entanglement

    Seeds of Entanglement


    His rune of subtlety was active, suppressing any sound, making him melt into the shadows. Stalking between tents, staying away from the rings of light cast by torches. Using his sense of magic to feel the vibrations through the earth of any movement, hiding each time a soldier came out of a tent or a sentinel moved in his direction.


    Searching, looking, trying to guess where they would keep any prisoners. The camp was small; a dozen tents to search, though hindered by the need to stay hidden.


    A sudden burst of power. The realisation that he was not the only one wielding magic on this night, in this place. An ambush.


    *


    Not even bad dreams could spoil Arn''s mood. While only being able to move pebbles around was a far cry from when he could rend the earth asunder, Arn could now sense the ground beneath his feet; a natural ability for all Tyrian wielders of magic, among the first they developed, and his once again. Though as suspected, the land this far south, in a place this overburdened by people, felt dead. No sense of vitality, no rejuvenation bursting to happen in spring. Just dried out stone, like a desiccated husk.


    Having achieved a victory yesterday, it seemed reasonable to ask for leave into the city; if questioned, he could always claim that he needed to pay homage to his gods for his victory in the arena.


    He was not questioned. Mahan simply grunted acknowledgement and waved him back to sparring. Once the day¡¯s training had come to an end, and Arn had washed and eaten, he left the ludus.


    To reach the docks in the western end, he had to cross through the middle with the great arena and the forums that hosted markets, debates, and other facets of public life. Despite not being Aquilan, Arn had experience with those; the Tyrian tribes relied on their own assemblies, great or small, to solve issues whether between ordinary people or the tribes.


    At times, they might even discuss matters that pertained to all of Tyria, usually done so at the great solstice thing. Only last year, Arn had spoken at the moot, arguing against closer relations with the Aquilan Empire; that he now walked the streets of their capital seemed a jest on the part of fate.


    *


    Reaching the loremaster''s hut, Arn knocked and entered. The old man looked up with a crooked smile, seated on the ground with a handful of bones thrown onto the floor. "They told me to expect you back, though I didn''t imagine so soon."


    Arn frowned; he had never used runes or bones himself to tell the future, and he preferred magic with a tangible purpose, where the result and consequences could be felt and seen immediately.


    "You''re here for your next rune, I take it."


    The sk¨¢ld nodded, feeling impatient.


    "I''m to send you onwards to Lucius. He''s further up the district, closer to the docks. A big tavern with a sign of a ship that has a broken mast."


    That seemed rather uncreative for a public house by the harbour, including making part of the name a broken item, but taverns were run by barkeeps, not sk¨¢lds, after all.


    "What''s the rune you want done? I''ll prepare it, in case you handle your next task."


    Another choice before him. While having his supernatural swiftness back would further sharpen his edge over other fighters, Arn did not require it to win. It was time to consider another concern, ensuring his exploits in the city went unnoticed. Digging out his tablet, Arn grabbed the stylus and made a single mark.


    Helgi nodded. "Subtlety it is."


    *


    Arn located the place without trouble; it was by far the largest structure on the street. Stepping inside, he found what he would describe as a seedy tavern, full of unsavoury characters. Every patron looked armed with at least a dagger, and plenty had scars that told they had been in scraps. Dice and cards on the tables in between small piles of coin showed games of chance in progress. As for the staff, some appeared too lightly dressed for the spring weather, offering other services than fetching drinks.


    Given Arn''s own appearance and dealings, he probably fit in with the clientele. Keeping the hood of his cloak up, he approached the barkeep and held up his tablet.


    "I can''t read, fellow. What you want? Ale, wine, brandy?" came the reply from the youth, cleaning a dirty mug with a rag that looked like it could only add more dirt.


    Arn shook his head, sighing, and tapped the word on his tablet again.


    "Look, just hold up a finger. Ale, wine, or brandy? One, two, three?"


    "He''s not here for drink, you dolt," snapped one of the serving girls, stepping behind the bar to fill up two tankards. "He wants Lucius." She nodded to her right. "He''s in the back room, through there. Though he''ll get mad if you disturb him without good cause."


    Arn nodded in gratitude and began walking away.


    "How does a simple girl like you know her letters?"


    "Didn''t they have a temple in your neighbourhood?"


    "Yeah, but I only went to stare at the priestess of Luna, didn''t I?" the barkeep laughed.


    Any reply from the serving girl was lost in the noise of loud conversation and raucous laughter. Glancing to his right and left as he made his way through the room, Arn nearly flinched recognising a familiar face. In a sailor''s lap, plying him with spirits, sat Iris. The girl giggled at something her current patron had said, inaudible to Arn through the cacophony of the room. He hurried to pull his hood forward, shielding his face with his hand as well, as he hastened past their table.


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    Double doors barred the way forward, though they were unlocked. Pushing them open, Arn swiftly stepped past the threshold to find a room with three tables, all occupied by men doing the same as in the common room, gambling and drinking. A few smoked pipes as well, leaving the air thick.


    Seeing a scarred stranger with his hood up enter their space, several of the thugs got on their feet, hand on the dagger already. "You got two breaths to explain what you''re doing here," one of them growled.


    Laughter cut through the smoky haze and tension both. "That''s too stingy of you, Thumbs." Standing up, Lucius wore a smirk. "This good fellow doesn''t talk much, and I doubt he can write that fast. Calm yourselves," he added, gesturing for his men to sit back. "This Tyrian lad is a friend of the establishment." While they complied, Lucius motioned for Arn to follow him as he walked towards a staircase in the far end of the room. "Come along. You''re meeting the chief tonight."


    *


    Lucius led Arn up winding stairs and through narrow corridors and low doors. Rather than an attempt to save on construction costs, Arn figured it served to put any attacker at a disadvantage, hemming them in and making them stoop.


    Their path took them up several stories; Arn had noticed that the building was taller than any other on the street, but he had not given any thought as to why. It would seem that the proprietor, and apparently also Arn''s taskmaster, enjoyed being elevated from the common folk ¨C or he just liked the view of the harbour.


    They reached a hallway, following it to the end, where Lucius knocked on an elaborate door with carvings.


    "What?" came a shout from inside.


    "Chief, it''s me. I''ve got the Tyrian with me."


    "Tell that old bastard to wait."


    "Not Helgi, chief. The mute."


    The muffled sound of shuffling reached them. "Alright. Get in."


    As the door opened, it revealed a room of more luxury than Arn would have expected anywhere on the docks, but especially in a tavern like this. A thick rug lay on the floor, and the windows had glass in them. The furniture was, like the door, carved with extra effort spent on appearance and treated to give it a dark colour. The room held what one would expect from the study of a merchant or such; a desk and drawers, chairs stitched with cloth, and shelves holding ledgers or the like.


    As for the occupant, he wore a velvet doublet over a silk shirt. Years of easy life had left a mark on his body, giving him a bloated look, reinforced by his chair being too small for him. The tip of his nose was missing, making it look flat like a pig''s snout.


    He was not alone; one of the girls that clearly worked the common room as well stood to the side, pulling up her dress. "Be off, darling," he spoke in a deep voice. "I''ve got business to discuss."


    She hurried past the newcomers; Lucius did not give her a second glance, but sat down in one of the chairs.


    "Go ahead, Tyrian. Sit down. You''re making me nervous, standing there with such a glare," the chief laughed. "I''m Magnus, the humble owner of this fine establishment. You''ve heard of me?"


    Arn finally sat down, shaking his head.


    "Well, old Helgi works for me. As does dear Lucius. So that little task you handled in the blood fields, up in the slums dealing with those wretches, you did so for me." He gave an affable smile as if discussing the price of wool rather than how he had ordered the deaths of three people. Though, as the one who had killed them, Arn could hardly claim indignation. "I''m to take it from your presence that you''re up for another task? Same payment as before."


    Arn gave a slow nod.


    "Good. Honestly, your little outing to the slums was more of a test to see if Helgi exaggerated." Magnus drummed his fingertips against his desk. "Rewards like the one you demand, involving both an expertly crafted stone by an earthmage and one of your northern rune masters, they¡¯re expensive. So this next task will be equally demanding, though for one of your kind ¨C" He frowned and looked at Lucius. "What did you call him?"


    "A spellblade, chief."


    "Right. For someone with magic and swordsmanship like Helgi claimed, it shouldn''t be a problem."


    Arn took out his tablet and wrote,


    Magnus smiled. "Northeast of here, beyond the blood fields, you''ll find a tavern much like this, called The Half Pig, run by a ruthless bitch called Vera. You can''t mistake her ¨C she''s missing one ear. I want her dead. I don''t care much about when or how, as long as you get it done."


    Magnus looked at his underling, confused. "What does he mean?"


    "Oh, our guy here doesn''t use his own blade. Maybe it''s a Tyrian thing." Lucius looked at Arn. "Anyway, not a problem. We''ll leave a sword for you down in the bar. Not the strangest thing people have picked up from here," he grinned.


    "Good. All such details, Lucius will handle," the chief declared. "We have an agreement?"


    Arn gave a nod.


    Magnus smiled at his henchmen. "I like this fellow. He doesn''t interrupt, and no unnecessary questions. Alright, off with you. Lucius, let our new friend here have whatever he wants on the house."


    "You got it, chief."


    *


    The only thing Arn wanted was to leave, which he swiftly did after refusing various offers to satisfy his appetites. The tavern provided nothing Arn desired, and time was always an issue on his evening jaunts. Leaving straightaway offered Arn an opportunity to do some swift scouting before he had to be back at the ludus.


    Walking through the streets, he heard the last bell of the day ring, heralding the two hours known as the time of the wolf; Arn had until then before the gates to his ungracious home were shut. Picking up the pace, he crossed half of Aquila, going northeast until he saw the sign with half a pig ¨C the front half ¨C on it.


    Still with his hood up, he entered. The place reminded him of the establishment he had just left, offering roughly the same services to approximately the same clientele. Coin and drink flowed freely, and Arn looked to be the only patron unarmed.


    The barkeep gave him a bored look and spoke in a voice echoing the same emotion, "Ale, wine, brandy?" S§×arch* The n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Same kind of tavern down to the nails, it appeared. Arn held up one finger and fished out a silver coin from his belt, receiving a few copper pieces and a tankard in return. He dragged a stool to a corner ¨C all tables and proper chairs were in use ¨C and sat down, drinking his barley water while observing the common room.


    He took note of who among the armed people seemed to be customers, and who had the familiarity to enter backrooms or go upstairs like they worked at the place. He saw his target as well; as promised, a one-eared woman with the self-assured confidence that came from owning the place.


    When time began to feel pressing, Arn left and with swift steps began his return to the ludus. On the way, he considered what he had learned. This would be a far more difficult task than the previous; the place was crowded, well lit, and full of people capable in a fight, should Arn be discovered in his purpose.


    In addition, the sk¨¢ld had also gotten a handle of who exactly he had undertaken this task for. This bloated fellow, Magnus, ran some sort of criminal enterprise; considering the location by the docks, it most likely involved smuggling as the main source of income. Since he had sent an outsider rather than one of his own trusted minions to deal with three serfs in the slums, it suggested that his reach was limited to the harbour district, and maybe the neighbouring parts of the city south of there.


    Given that this Vera''s headquarters lay just east of the slums, and Magnus had chosen her as the next target, Arn felt that he could deduce the deeper layer of the situation. She had to be a rival, running her own crime ring, and probably she was the reason that Magnus could not send his own people into the blood fields, as they called that dilapidated district.


    It did not make a difference to Arn as such; he saw no other recourse for getting his runes back, and he had no qualms about killing one criminal on behalf of another. But he felt a little more comfortable with a better grasp of whom he was getting entangled with, whether friend or foe; especially given his volatile circumstances, which made it seem likely that some might move from one category to the other.

 Chapter 14: Under the Visage of the Moon

    Under the Visage of the Moon


    The sound of wooden weapons striking each other echoed through the yard, interspersed with various outbursts of triumph or frustration, as the gladiators of House Ignius trained. Arn''s mind was elsewhere; in his thoughts, he went over the tavern from yesterday, considering the best approach.


    He would have to do the deed at night; during the evening would be too conspicuous, and the place would be crawling with people. Hopefully, even if a tavern like that probably served customers until the early hours, nightfall would see it quiet with an opportunity for Arn to slip in. While sneaking out of the ludus carried its own risk, it also gave Arn more time to get it done rather than if he left in the evening and had to return by last bell. Thanks to his rune, he had the strength to scale the wall and get out.


    A blade, though fortunately made of wood, struck him across the face. Titus, his opponent, laughed, especially seeing the scowl on the Tyrian''s face. Before their sparring could continue, Mahan stalked over to stand between them. "How did that happen, Northman? How did you let him get so close to strike you with his short reach?"


    Arn stared at the gladius wielded by Titus and looked up at Mahan, tired of being asked questions that would take him too long to answer. He did not bring his tablet to training anyway, given how easily it might break during the physical exertions.


    "Tell me," Mahan demanded. "Use your signs. The sister has taught you, no?"


    Surprise filled Arn''s face, and he swiftly signed, ''You understand?''


    "Not the first silent fighter I''ve trained," the weapons master replied. "Though the last was many years ago, admittedly, but I remember well enough. So, tell me why you failed."


    Arn suddenly missed his excuse for not having to explain himself. ''I was distracted.''


    "In the arena, especially given your reputation, that''ll mean death," Mahan told him brusquely. "A blow across the face like that? You don''t recover before it''s too late. If this happens again, you''re not sparring anymore, but working the equipment for the next fiveday."


    Behind the weapons master, Titus'' grin widened; being removed from sparring was considered among the worst humiliations in the ludus, and it also meant Arn would not be given any fights in the arena anytime soon.


    While that threat alone sufficed to make Arn focus, seeing his opponent''s smirk helped as well. ''It won''t happen again.''


    "See that it doesn''t. Alright, back to it!" Mahan barked, turning around to harangue his other fighters.


    *


    After training, Arn went to see Gaius, the clerk who handled the affairs of the school and its gladiators, including holding their money. Arn raised his tablet.


    "Eager to spend it on drink and harlots, I''m sure," the beady-eyed Aquilan remarked, digging out a ledger and turning to the page with the latest entries. "Fifteen silver for Arn, Tyrian," he read, giving a sigh. "Hardly seems worth keeping records of." He adjusted the column to zero, wrote the day¡¯s date, and unlocked a drawer to take out one crown and five silvers. "There."


    Arn swept the coins from the table into the palm of his hand and left. As always, the gold stung his hand, like a wasp. This small amount was not enough to suppress his magic, but the sensation was a stark reminder of what the hated metal could do.


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    Once alone, Arn placed the golden coin inside his belt, next to his needle; the silver he threw into a pocket.


    *


    It was Manday; after the evening meal, some of the fighters returned to the yard to pray with Sister Helena. His thoughts still on his task, Arn was not in the mood to practise signs, yet he took Mahan''s counsel to heart about avoiding distractions to focus on the matter at hand. Following the nun to the bench, once her ritual was done, he turned his attention to her lessons.


    ''Did you know Mahan knows signs?'' Arn asked, practising conversation.


    ''I did not. He must have learned long ago before I began to come here.''


    ''I figured you didn''t teach him, or you would have mentioned he also knew.''


    ''Yes. That must be nice. Another person you can talk to.''


    ''I guess. I miss having an excuse not to answer questions.''


    The sister burst into a surprised laughter underneath her veil, disrupting whatever signs she had been about to make.


    ''Why do you come here?'' Arn figured it best to keep asking, making the sister talk about herself rather than him. ''Does your goddess demand it?''


    Helena smiled, barely noticeable beneath the veil. ''No. But you go mad staying in a convent all day, every day. All us sisters do different work. Every morning, I teach the children from the neighbourhood. Others tend to the sick, and so on. Whoever needs help.''


    ''Sounds like good work.'' It sounded like a waste of time, but each to their own.


    ''Listen to me ¨C well, look at me, doing all the talking. You are supposed to practise, not me.''


    ''That''s alright. I learn from seeing you. Tell me about ¨C your convent.''


    She wagged a finger in the air. ''No. You tell me something. What does your name mean?''


    ''It means eagle. My people.'' Arn lacked the gestures to explain it was one of nine Tyrian tribes, and that each had its own animal sacred to it. Perhaps for the best; he realised that he felt tempted to speak with this nun, converse with another human being, even as he had just told himself to steer the conversation away from himself.


    ''You will find lots of eagles in Aquila,'' Helena signed with another obscured smile, referring to the Imperial standard of the realm. She looked up, though not at any banners flying, such being absent, but at the darkening night sky. ''I must go. I will see you next fiveday.''


    ''See you next fiveday,'' Arn replied, repeating her gestures back to her. As she left, he looked up as well at the reason why he should either carry out his murderous task tonight or else wait another month; the moon was new, casting no light over the city.


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    Arn had some experience sneaking around and infiltrating enemy strongholds, but always with the power of his magic to aid him; most importantly his rune of subtlety that pulled shadows to him and dampened any noise. Ironic that he could sorely use that ability for this task, yet he would only have the rune restored to him upon completion.


    He could wait, of course; spend a few more evenings at the tavern, learning more about his target and the best way to make his approach, until a month had passed, providing the next suitable night for sneaking out of the ludus.


    But time did not strike Arn as a friend; no matter his precautions, he was always in danger of being discovered or unmasked. The lanista knew his secret; while the thugs at the docks were not aware of his identity, they knew he had magic, and if they found out he was a gladiator, he would be at their mercy to be extorted.


    And besides Arn''s hurry to regain his powers, there was also the matter of vengeance; Arn had sworn an oath, and he could not sit idle, night after night. His own words spurred him to action with the gods as his witnesses, and endless delay might rob him of his opportunity; the man who took everything from Arn needed to die by his blade, not from his heart giving up after feasting on meat or any other such frivolous reason.


    With all these arguments churning in his head, perhaps serving only to mask his impatience, Arn waited until nightfall when the guards had made their last headcount and left. Once it seemed reasonable that all were asleep, the Tyrian snuck out into the yard. The walls prevented any light from the city to reach into the enclosure, and with the moon absent, it was completely dark.


    Walking over to the wall, Arn called upon his rune of force to grant him strength. It did so reluctantly and with accompanying pain, but it obeyed all the same, and Arn made a leap up the wall, twice the length of a tall man, allowing his hands to grab the top of the stonework. With another pulse of strength, he hauled his body up only to lower himself down the other side.


    Landing on the ground, Arn''s head whipped back and forth. The alley lay dark, and nobody was around. He was out of the ludus; a free man until sunrise.

 Chapter 15: A Blade in the Dark

    A Blade in the Dark


    As the first thing, Arn collected a sword. He had no trouble, except that the barkeep at The Broken Mast still could not read, so he had to fetch the serving girl who could. Once they understood that the weapon underneath the desk was meant for Arn, they handed it over without question, as if dispensing swords was simply another part of their work routines.


    It was a gladius, though not the same as Arn had been given before, lacking the markings of any legion. Strapping it to his belt while quickly leaving, as he had another long walk ahead of him, Arn wondered if he should have demanded a longer blade, more suited to his fighting style; on the other hand, the short blade was easier to conceal beneath his cloak, and considering how many wore this kind of weapon, it drew little attention even if spotted by others.


    Once at the other drinking hole, Arn bought a mug of ale and retreated to a corner. He barely drank any of it, spilling the drink instead when he could do so unnoticed; once empty, he returned to the bar and bought another. In this manner, he gave off his best impression of a surly traveller, spending his hard-earned coin to get drunk while surreptitiously keeping watch of the place. No sign of his target yet, which could mean she had already retired upstairs ¨C Arn assumed she kept her bedchamber on the second floor ¨C or she was absent entirely.


    His patience was eventually rewarded while on his sixth mug, most of his silver gone. Doors to a backroom burst open. A man hastened through the area, crashing into a chair and causing laughter. As he ran past Arn, the sk¨¢ld got a look at what drove him out. He had a cut across his cheek, and one hand clutched the other to his chest; the fingers looked swollen and broken.


    Emptying his tankard, Arn went to the bar and signalled for it to be refilled while pointing with his thumb over his shoulder at the doors, still swinging from the wounded man''s hasty departure.


    "Just another fool owing money he can''t pay," the barkeep explained helpfully as he filled Arn''s mug up. "Best make sure you only drink what you can pay for, friend."


    Arn handed over some copper pennies and returned to his chair. Moments later, he saw a one-eared woman stride out of the backroom to walk upstairs.


    *


    Arn waited as long as he dared, as he could not know whether Vera had other tasks keeping her awake; he assumed that she had to go to bed at some point, and so he gave her as much time as he could afford. When dawn was only a few hours away, he decided to finally take action.


    Leaving the tavern, Arn pulled up his hood and walked around the building. It had a walled backyard, allowing for supplies to be delivered and stored. Ensuring he was alone in the alley, Arn called upon his rune and did as he had done at the ludus, scaling the obstacle with a single leap.


    Luck in the late hour favoured him; the yard was empty. Now came the next difficulty. He could not risk entering the building and walking the hallway, searching room after room. But Vera had to have her bedchamber on the upper floor, as the ground floor was taken up by the tavern. Looking up, Arn saw four windows, each with shutters.


    As before, Arn jumped up until his one hand could catch onto the ledge of the window. With the other, he pulled open one shutter and dragged himself up to look inside.


    The lack of moonlight and consequential darkness offered another obstacle, but Arn got the impression that he looked into a study. Letting himself fall down on the ground, Arn guessed that Vera kept her room close by for convenience. This in mind, he repeated the procedure with the nearest window, jumping up to catch onto the ledge, force open the shutter, and glance inside.


    This time, he saw the outline of a bed, and faint snoring reached his ears. Carefully, Arn pulled himself up further, but just as he was about to cross into the room, he caught sight of a thin thread stretched across the window. He imagined it was tied to something that would make plenty of noise if broken. Pleased with himself to have noticed this, Arn pushed himself further up and deftly manoeuvred around the thread.


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    He was in. Drawing his sword, Arn looked down at the sleeping woman, making sure she did indeed have only one ear. Time to strike.


    He hesitated. While Arn had killed plenty of people, they had always faced him with a weapon in hand, and he had no quarrel with this woman either. A part of Arn objected to what was cold-blooded murder.


    Yet, another voice whispered to him, given Arn''s magic, it did not matter if someone faced him sleeping or wielding a weapon; they stood no chance regardless. The gladiators he killed in the arena had offered no offence to him either, nor did they stand much chance to resist him, and Arn slaughtered them all the same, even relishing it as it allowed him to regain his powers. And while this woman might not have done anything to Arn, she was hardly an innocent; nobody paid mages to assassinate decent folk.


    And the last, perhaps most compelling argument that Arn told himself: by doing this now, undisturbed, he could leech her life to further feed himself. Pushing doubt aside, Arn clamped his free hand down on her mouth and used the sword in the other to stab her through the chest.


    Her eyes widened, bulging out. She tried to open her lips and release a scream, but to no avail. Arn knew where to strike, between the ribs, and death came for her with a moment''s notice. As life abandoned her body, Arn seized it and forced it into himself, making his tree of seier grow another branch. With this piece of stolen magic, the element of water would once more bend to his will. Sear?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    As always, euphoria was immediately replaced by the expected backlash, though past experience helped Arn get through it. His vision blurred, but not for long; his knees buckled under him, and he fell down next to the bed, but moments later, he could stand up again, albeit still feeling nauseated.


    Remembering what happened to the corpses of those he leeched from, Arn grabbed his sword and pulled it out of the body. Calling upon his rune, he struck down to decapitate her with a single blow, destroying any chance that she would rise again as draugr.


    Still recovering from the backlash of his leeching, Arn froze as he heard a knock on the door. "Vera? Sorry to wake you. I''ll come in if that''s alright."


    Scrambling, Arn threw his sword out of the window and leapt onto the ledge to lower himself down and flee. In his haste, he forgot about the thread, which now broke, making a platter and two cups fall to the ground with plenty of noise.


    "Vera?" The door burst open, and the guard looked from the beheaded corpse in the bed to the figure jumping out of the window. "Help! Murder!"


    Arn was on the ground. He could not readily see his sword, nor did he care; he was not in any good condition to fight, and his best chance lay in flight. Running across the small yard, Arn prepared himself and summoned his strength once more to jump onto the wall. As he was about to lower himself down, he glanced at the window and saw the guard hurling a knife at him.


    If Arn had a sword in his hand, he could have used his bladesong to intercept; or, if he had his rune of swiftness, he could have caught the weapon in the air. He had neither, and it struck into the left side of his waist, embedding itself. Groaning with pain, Arn pulled out the weapon and threw it away before letting himself fall down from the wall. Staggering away, he made his escape into the surrounding darkness of the alleyways.


    *


    Once Arn had distance between himself and any would-be pursuers, he collapsed onto the ground. Between the punishment for leeching and his stab wound, he was in a state. One hand pressing against the injury, the other fumbled to tear a part of his shirt off and use as rags to stem the bleeding. Knowing they would be searching for him, he got back on his feet and resumed his stumbling run; while his left hand pushed cloth against his injury, his right hand untied the empty scabbard by his side and flung it away.


    Arn had intended that he would go to the docks and collect his payment straightaway; that now proved far too ambitious. It would double his journey, and he needed to get somewhere safe as fast as possible.


    Fortunately, he had gone this way last night, and even in his current condition, he recalled the route. Though he never would have imagined such a reaction before, the sight of the wall surrounding the training yard of the ludus was a welcome sight. A final effort, drawing on his rune once more, and he scaled the obstacle.


    As quickly as he could, he returned to his cell. Using the water in his jar, he washed his wound before turning what remained of his shirt into bandages, wrapped all the way around his body.


    Finally lying down in his cot, Arn wiped the cold sweat from his brow. He needed rest; he had no idea how he was going to face tomorrow''s training. He had only just closed his eyes when in the distance, the tolling of the first bell could be heard.

 Chapter 16: For Want of a Nail

    For Want of a Nail


    Hearing his fellow gladiators leave their cells, assembling for breakfast, Arn realised he could not hope to get through training. Lack of rest and blood loss made him sluggish; Mahan would immediately realise something was wrong, and he could not explain away a stab wound. He could only think of a single recourse, though that might be because his current state diminished his capacity for thinking.


    Enacting his plan, he removed his bloody bandages and stuffed them into the hay of his cot. With uncertain steps, Arn made his way to the training yard. He had on previous occasions noticed a bent nail sticking out of the woodwork, which now had to serve as gruesome salvation.


    Despite his weakened condition, magic still obeyed him, and Arn used his strength to pull the nail out. He hesitated briefly, gritting his teeth before finally plunging the sharp metal into his injury.


    The pain threatened to overwhelm him, making his eyes darken; the blood loss did not help either. Leaving the training yard, he stumbled his way towards the workshop of the medicus.


    *


    "What happened?"


    Arn lay with closed eyes. Pain and discomfort kept him from drifting off to sleep, though weariness made it difficult to pay heed to his surroundings. Still, he recognised the voice as belonging to Mahan.


    "Fellow had a nail in his side." The answer came from the medicus.


    "What? How is that possible?"


    "Well, lots of old woodwork around here that could use replacement. Or maybe it was a hook hanging on a wall somewhere," the old man speculated.


    "It should not cause an injury to fell a trained warrior."


    ¡°To be honest, it looked more like a stab wound. And the nail was deep in him, like someone had used it as a knife on him."


    A moment of silence followed. "I''ll have to investigate this," Mahan finally spoke. "And move him to the inner house. Continue your treatments."


    "I cleaned the wound, applied the poultice, and bandaged it. Nothing more I can do. Should the dominus know of this?"


    "He left yesterday on business. He won''t return for two fivedays at least."


    Retreating footsteps told Arn that Mahan had hurried away.


    *


    At some point, Arn fell asleep. When he woke up, unfamiliar surroundings added to the haze that had descended on his mind. He lay in a proper bed, and pain extended like rings from his waist when he moved or touched his left side. Despite being under heavy blankets, he felt cold, and he retreated further under their protection.


    At some point, though Arn had no idea how long he had been awake by then, a man entered; it took him a moment to recognise the weapons master. "Northman. I need you to tell me what happened. Did someone attack you?"


    Various memories surfaced. A dagger hurled at him, striking his side. Although feeling feeble, something told Arn to keep this to himself. Arn parted his lips to feign ignorance when he realised something horrid; he had no tongue, just a stump in his mouth. He could not speak even if he wanted to. Well, that made keeping secrets easier.


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    "You can use your signs," Mahan told him. "I''ll understand."


    Arn stared at him with glossy eyes and turned his head away.


    *


    The sound of voices woke him up, though Arn kept his eyes closed rather than reveal he was listening.


    "Well?" Mahan asked.


    "He has a fever. Strange. A wound suffered this morning should not be infected after half a day. It''s not even dark outside yet," the medicus mumbled. "He''s in a weakened state, unnaturally so."


    "Nether take me," the weapons master muttered in turn. "The dominus is gone, and this happens. What does he need?"


    "Perhaps his body will fight it off on its own," the old man considered. "If not, alchemy or a healer."


    "I doubt the dominus could afford the latter if his own life was at stake. But an elixir of some sort might be possible to get."


    "What do the other fighters say?"


    "They all claim to have seen nothing. I asked him this morning, but he already seemed out of it and gave me no answer."


    A scrambling sound of items being shuffled around, perhaps the tools of the medicus. "I''ll come back tomorrow and change his bandages."


    *


    As the fever gripped him, Arn found his own grasp on his situation growing tenuous. People unknown to him entered his room and fed him or gave him water, quickly and efficiently, like one would do a tree in a garden threatened by drought. On occasion, his wound was disturbed, shooting pain through his body. Nobody spoke to him, and when he considered doing so himself, he could not find the words before they had already left again. sea??h th§× N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Eventually, he had a few lucid moments; looking out, he saw sunlight, but he could not tell which day it might be. He remembered that he had a secret. Nobody could know about his magic or how he was wounded. Despite feeling exhausted, he clung to that thought, recognising it to be paramount.


    And he knew another secret. A nun hiding her magic as well. It was time to make use of that. Despite his condition making it hard to think, Arn realised he needed more help than a poor man''s physician could offer; the fog on his mind only reinforced this belief.


    Fortunately, someone clear-minded had brought his tablet to the room. Stretching out his hand, Arn managed to grab it and open its halves. Barely able to focus, his hand shook from the fever as he etched letters into the wax.


    *


    The cool sensation of wet cloth against his face woke Arn up, and he was able to recognise a dark veil above him. He tried to speak, but only a croaking sound issued; he had forgotten again that he no longer had that ability.


    "Arn? Do you hear me?"


    Slowly, and with some difficulty from lying down, Arn nodded.


    "They said that you asked for me. Though they weren''t sure. You wrote in Tyrian letters, so they had to find someone who could read it."


    Struggling, he recalled how to communicate with her. ''Help me.''


    "I''ll pray for you, of course! And I can help you feel better." She put the cloth back into the bowl of water and retrieved it to wring it.


    ''No. Help me. With magic.''


    She arrested her movement briefly before placing the cool cloth on his brow. "You''re doing worse than I thought."


    ''I know you have magic.'' Arn exhaled, his breathing becoming laboured.


    "I shall pray for you, Master Arn." She straightened herself up abruptly, threw the cloth back into the bowl, making the water splash, and left his room with hasty steps.


    *


    The window stood open to allow fresh air into a room heavy with sweat and sickness, but on a clouded night with a new moon, it offered no light. Lying in the dark, drifting between fever dreams and waking up, shivering from cold while buried under blankets, Arn''s mind was in a labyrinth. He found himself stalking into a camp, evading guards, only to remember being in the arena with a lion tearing him to shreds before throwing his eyes open with a gasp, thinking himself back on his home island, wondering why his family''s house looked so different.


    He tried to call for his mother or father, but only unintelligible noises issued from his mouth. He wiped his brow of sweat and accidentally tasted the salt as he ran his hand across his lips afterwards. He moved his fingers to touch his rune of recovery on his left thigh, wondering why it did not activate to help him feel better; the scar tissue brushing against his fingertips provided an answer his mind could not comprehend in its current haze.


    As morning came, his fever had only worsened.

 Chapter 17: Reprieve

    Reprieve


    "Northman. Wake up."


    A hand gently slapping his cheek had the desired effect on Arn, who opened his eyes. He did not recognise the dark-skinned, muscular man who bent over him. Another, an old man who looked Aquilan, stood on the other side.


    "Drink this."


    Arn looked at a small flacon barely visible in the big man''s hand. A dreadful memory pierced his mind; a vile concoction being forced down his throat, leaving him weak. Despite his fevered state, Arn pulled his blanket off and tried to jump out of the bed. Sear?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Hold him!" Mahan commanded, placing the elixir on a nearby drawer to have both hands free and comply with his own order. The old physician put in a token effort, though he could barely control one arm that Arn flailed about. "Never mind," Mahan barked, using his strength to push Arn back into the bed. "Just get the potion. Pour it in him!"


    Arn struggled in vain as a hand held his head firm while another grabbed his jaw to pry it open. Liquid splashed into his mouth, and he was forced to swallow it. He continued to squirm, but realising it was futile, he eventually became calm.


    "Will it be enough?" Mahan asked.


    "Gods only know."


    *


    As the fever dreams receded, Arn finally felt able to string two coherent thoughts together. He sorted through his memories of the last few days, separating what belonged in the distant past or had been conjured up by a distressed mind from what had actually happened. He had been wounded, and a burning pain told him of a severe infection, possibly exacerbated by his weakness after leeching from his victim, or maybe the blade had been coated in venom.


    He had been given some manner of medicine, to which he attributed his improved state, while it lasted; although lacking the knowledge of an apothecary or alchemist, he did not have faith that this would cure him. Sickness had gripped his body too tightly for such remedies to matter, dispelling any hope that he would recover on his own. This was a reprieve, and it would not last. Only real magic could help him.


    His hands fumbling around in the dark, Arn finally found his tablet. Staring at the wax, he could at length make out the letters he had written. He recognised them as Tyrian. Odd. Erasing them from the wax, he repeated the message, this time in Aquilan, hoping his helpers, or jailers, would comply with his request.


    *


    Time passed. Arn had something to eat and was given sour wine to drink, though it did little to help him. As the hours passed, he felt the fever make its slow return, and for once, he prayed.


    "I just don''t see what more I can do for him," a voice declared outside the room.


    "Who can say? But it''s what he requested. He even wrote it again, this time in Aquilan."


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    "But I already visited him once. He''s probably confused and forgot. It''s better that I allow him to rest rather than disturb him."


    "Look, he may be dying. It seems cruel to deny him his last wish."


    No further arguments came; the door opened, and Sister Helena stepped inside. "I''ll just spend a moment, I suppose."


    "No need to hurry." Mahan closed the door again.


    Once alone, the nun turned her head sharply towards the Tyrian. "Leave me alone," she hissed through gritted teeth.


    ''You have magic. Heal me.'' Arn''s eyes shone as they stared at her. Faint moonlight reached through the window to let him make out her silhouette, though he could not tell her face through the veil.


    ''I do not,'' she replied in the same, silent manner.


    ''You do. I saw your wounds. They heal fast. Only magic does that.'' Arn took a few deep breaths; he felt exhausted, mentally, trying to phrase himself using the meagre allotment of signs he knew. ''You keep it a secret. Heal me, and I won''t tell.''


    "You threaten ¨C" She arrested herself and continued with gestures. ''You threaten me? After I help you?''


    ''Yes. Heal me or I die. My death is ¨C" Arn did not know the right sign for conscience. ''My death will burden you.''


    "You''re sick with delusions," Helena retorted; either anger made her switch to speech, or perhaps she also had reached the limits of what she could explain with her hands. "Nobody will believe you."


    ''How many healers in all the Empire? Five? To get one more, they''ll believe.'' Arn''s breath came ragged. ''Save me. Save yourself. Heal me.''


    "I can''t!" She bit her lip. ''I cannot. I don''t know how.''


    ''Your body does. It has healed you often. You can do it to me.'' Arn did not admit that he felt less certain about the last part. Tyrian seier worked differently from Aquilan magic; while he knew the principles of the latter, he could not be sure it also applied to how they would employ healing, being rare and something he had never witnessed. But he had no other option. ''Place your hand on my wound. Use your will. Demand it to be healed. It will work.'' Or so Arn prayed.


    "I can''t," she mumbled, sounding on the verge of tears underneath the veil that hid her face. "It''s evil. Magic is evil."


    ''It''s my only hope, or I die.'' Arn felt the mist of the fever creeping over his mind. Concentrating was becoming harder. ''But first, I tell them about you. They will make you use magic every day. Or you do it once. For me.''


    "You deserve to die!" she exclaimed before clamping one hand over her mouth, twisting the black fabric in between.


    ''And I will. Or you help me. And I keep quiet.''


    Silence hung in the air between them, heavy with stench. "How do I do it?"


    ''Touch my wound.'' Arn pulled the blanket away to reveal the bloody bandage. Helena moved around to the other side of his bed; a hesitant hand was extended forward to acquiesce with his demand. ''Demand it to be healed. Use your will. Your magic will obey.'' Arn prayed as he never had done before, hoping the Thunderer would show him mercy one more time.


    Moments trickled by. Arn blinked, feeling sweat running from his brow down his cheek. His breathing sounded like the bellows of a forge.


    At last, he saw it. A glow of magic, probably invisible to those without the gift. More importantly, he felt it. Healing power flowing into him, restoring his body to its natural state and combatting the ills threatening to overwhelm him.


    Helena stumbled away. She tore the veil from her face and threw up into a washing bowl.


    Feeling better, Arn raised his head to regard her as she stood, her back turned to him. He had wondered if the effort would kill her; an untrained magic-wielder attempting an improvised spell like this could have been her undoing. If all she suffered was magical exhaustion, causing some vomiting and probably a nasty headache, she was lucky.


    "We are done," she muttered, replacing her veil before she faced him. "Never speak to me again. Better you die." She left as swiftly as her weakened state might allow.


    Arn leaned his head back. He still felt fragile; the fever had not subsided all at once. The healing energy of a complete novice would not cure all his ills in one day, as expected. Arn had hoped that with some guidance, after earning her trust, perhaps she could have restored his tongue. Probably a fool''s hope, given she lacked all training, and she could barely heal an infected wound. If this was all he gained from the nun, so be it; he did not regret it. He would live. Closing his eyes, Arn took a deep breath. He would live.

 Chapter 18: Enclosure

    Enclosure


    Waking up, Arn felt as much himself as could be expected under the circumstances. His body still ached from the fever, along with fatigue despite sleeping. But any acute pain was gone, and his wound barely felt sore. Another day or two, and he should be back to his full strength.


    "You''re well again," Mahan declared, entering the room. "That''s a relief to us all."


    Arn looked up from his sickbed, sensing the weapons master had more to say.


    "Except one, perhaps. How did you get wounded?"


    Arn shrugged.


    "Give me a real answer. Don''t hide behind your lack of words."


    Clenching his jaw, Arn grabbed his tablet and wrote,


    "Hardly. The wound was deep and bigger than what could be caused by accident. Did someone have a weapon in the ludus?"


    Arn shook his head.


    "You truly claim that a nail injured you in such a way?"


    Arn nodded.


    Frustration filled Mahan''s face. "Northman, tell me who attacked you!"


    No reply came.


    "I have to send you back to the ludus. You can''t stay in the inner house now you''re on the mend. Are you thinking about taking your own revenge, Tyrian?"


    ''No.'' Obviously not, considering nobody in the ludus had harmed Arn. Ironic that for once, he was telling the truth, yet the weapons master seemed disinclined to believe him. He gestured the word again, trying to convey his sincerity. He wanted this matter forgotten as fast as possible.


    "Execution awaits any gladiator who attacks another. I would believe your tale if you told me who attacked you and why," Mahan urged him. "Gods know these Aquilans don''t always take kindly to foreigners. But if you take matters into your hands, you''ll be the one facing the noose."


    ''I don''t have quarrel with anyone,'' Arn signed.


    The weapons master sighed. "Very well. Get up. I''ll take you back to your cell."


    *


    When Arn appeared in the common room for the evening meal, some of the other gladiators got up and nodded to him, including Sigismund, the champion of the ludus. Arn gave the same courtesy in reply before he felt a heavy hand slapping him on the back, and he had to take a step forward to regain his balance. "Northman!"


    Arn coughed and turned his head to acknowledge Domitian.


    "Sorry, you''re not still delicate, are you?" The big Aquilan grabbed his shoulder to stabilise him, albeit unnecessarily.


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    Arn shook his head.


    "Come on, let''s get some grub in you. You look thin, mate. Well, you did that before, but you need sustenance to get your strength back." Domitian pushed through the queue of fighters to grab two bowls of barley porridge, ignoring any protests; none of those still waiting had sufficient standing to feel confident about challenging him.


    Finding seats on a bench, the pair sat down, and Arn accepted the food. It struck him that if he had died from his injury, Domitian was probably the only person in the world who might have mourned him for even a moment.


    *


    As night fell, Arn waited in his room. It could be risky to leave as soon as he was back in his cell, but he needed resolution concerning his last task for the criminals of the harbour. Despite the complications, he had finished his work, and they owed him a rune token. Days had already passed, and while there was no reason for the stone to be gone ¨C it was too valuable to throw away, and Helgi had no other uses for it ¨C Arn would not feel at ease until he had been paid, his rune power restored. The thought of his wing-clipped magic irked him, like a pebble in the boot felt with each step taken; it left him vulnerable.


    Arn had only just opened his door when he heard steps in the hallway. He froze his movements except to slowly pull the door back. The footfall increased until it passed him by. Waiting a few more moments, Arn dared to stick his head out and saw one of the guards, patrolling down the ludus.


    Mahan. It had to be the weapons master. He suspected Arn would do something, and while his reasoning might be wrong, his conclusion unfortunately proved correct, as did his preventive measure. Trying to sneak out and scale the wall of the training yard with guards on the prowl was a step too far, especially as the moon had grown over the last nights, providing illumination.


    Suppressing his disappointment, Arn retreated to his cot. He would have to wait.


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    Next morning, he returned to training, though as after his recovery the first time, he did not spar, but went through the exercises meant to restore and build up his strength. During a quiet moment, he approached Mahan. ''I want to leave tonight,'' he signed and quickly added, ''to give thanks to the gods.''


    "Denied. Back to training."


    ''Why?''


    The weapons master''s eyes moved from Arn''s hands up to stare him in the face. "I don''t answer to you!" he growled. "If you''re well enough to argue, you can get back to training!"


    Grumbling, but keeping his hands quiet, Arn did so. He was being punished, clearly. If he could speak to Ignius, the dominus would undoubtedly lift this restriction, but the man was still away on business. For the time being, Arn was once again a prisoner of the ludus.


    *


    Days passed. Arn resumed sparring with the others, no trace of illness or injury on him. Despite being untrained, Helena''s magic had cured him as best could be hoped for, albeit with their cordial relations as the price paid. She had served the purpose Arn had intended; he doubted he would see her again, except when she might throw an insult his way, communicated with signs. He did his best to suppress the voice inside of him that regretted how he had treated someone who had only shown him kindness; in his current situation, and in a city like Aquila, kindness was a vulnerability that left one easy to exploit.


    Feeling guilty towards an Aquilan nun of all people seemed most absurd of all; yet that was how he felt.


    Training helped; it required his full focus, or he would be punished with a smarting blow and an insolent grin from his sparring partner. Afterwards, the full exertion of the body left the head too tired for self-doubt or other such useless feelings.


    In the solitude of his cell, Arn practised his newest regained power. Being wounded straight after killing the one-eared woman, leeching her life force, had pushed it from his mind while being sick; feeling hale again, he rejoiced in the return of another ability. Using the jar of water in his room, he commanded drops to separate and rise up, floating in the air, straining against their nature that demanded they plummeted back into the pot.


    Finishing his little flourishes with the water, no more impressive than what the simplest apprentice could do, Arn drank the water instead. Training body and practising magic both made for thirsty work.


    When a fiveday had passed, a rumour went through the ludus; the dominus had returned from his trip.

 Chapter 19: Arcane Matters

    Arcane Matters


    Requesting an audience with Ignius went through Mahan, same as asking for leave, and Arn figured the weapons master would not be inclined to grant that either to him. But by playing the truth a little loosely, Arn imagined he could get around this obstacle.


    In the evening, once the weapons master had left the ludus and retreated to the inner house, Arn approached the gate that separated the two parts. A guard sat, bored, looking up with an idle glance. "What do you want?"


    Arn held up his tablet.


    "I haven''t heard anything about that." The guard gave him a second glance. "If the dominus wanted you, he''d send word to fetch you."


    Arn hurried to scribble more.


    The guard gave a wary look from the tablet to the gladiator. "And what, he forgot? Can''t have been important."


    A sigh followed. "Fine. I''ll go."


    A while later, the guard returned to unlock the door and accompany Arn through the inner house.


    *


    Once Arn was alone with him in his study, Ignius raised his eyebrows, the only hair left on his head. "I assume there''s a good reason you needed to meet? Master Mahan told me you were injured and refused to explain why."


    After smoothing out the previous letters from the wax, Arn quickly wrote,


    "I hope not." Ignius cleared his throat. He was a hard man to read, but his demeanour seemed tired; perhaps from long travels, or maybe his business ventures did not go well. "If you are discovered, you''ll be executed for sacrilege ¨C the games are consecrated to Malac, after all. And I''ll lose everything I own and be sent into exile with my family, if I''m lucky."


    Arn was well aware of the risk; he had more pressing concerns.


    "How''s that an issue? You''re winning your fights. I allowed you to leave as you wanted because I assumed you needed ¨C supplies or whatever to get your powers back. They are back."


    Ignius exhaled. "I suppose we don''t want scrutiny. I shall tell Mahan to cease his efforts."


    "Why? As said, you''re winning your fights. You don''t need to grow stronger." Ignius regarded him with what could be a glint of suspicion.


    Arn knew what motivated this merchant of blood. The same as any merchant.


    Ignius played it coy, keeping silent, but Arn already knew that the greedy lanista would bend to his wish. If he was ready to break the rules of the arena and risk everything, he would not play it safe now. "Fine. I''ll tell Mahan to let you leave. But don''t abuse this privilege!" Ignius added with sudden force. "You''ve drawn his suspicions. The more special treatment you receive, the more questions it raises."


    Arn bowed his head in acceptance.


    "Another thing, since you''re here. I''ll need you in a fiveday. For what you might call an exhibition fight."


    The Tyrian frowned.


    "One of the city''s luminaries is hosting a great feast, and he''s in charge of handing out fights at the arena. Most lanistae will be present, hoping to impress him. I need to do so as well."


    Ignius nodded. "We''re all bringing our best gladiator. If it goes well, perhaps I can dig out of this hole that having only three fights every Solday has left me in," he growled, and his words seemed aimed more at himself than Arn.


    As for the Tyrian, he was not pleased. He doubted he could get away with killing and leeching life from his opponent under such circumstances, making the fight worthless to him.


    "You''re a gladiator in my ludus!" Ignius exclaimed; his calm exterior cracked easily these days, it seemed. "You''ll do as I say. Next fiveday. No fights in the arena for you until solstice either. No point taking any risks, and if I force Mahan to put you in the arena, he''ll only get more suspicious."


    Arn stared at the lanista, hiding his feelings as best he could. Finally, he bowed his head and left.


    *


    As cautioned, Arn did not force the issue with Mahan the next day. He stayed quiet ¨C easily done for a mute ¨C and waited, working the equipment dutifully. His patience was rewarded at the end of training when the weapons master approached him. "You can leave tonight. If you must." He flung the words carelessly at the Tyrian and quickly turned away, preventing Arn from gesturing a response. Not that he had any in mind; he had achieved his goal, and he saw no reason to push his luck.


    Stepping out of the gate, Arn took a deep breath. Last he had come down these streets, he had been injured, scaling the wall of the training yard to get to relative safety. The city outside seemed the same, indifferent to him. People hurried past him, busy with their own errands or burdened by their own troubles.


    As Arn began walking west towards the docks, he noticed that his hands occasionally, without conscious thought, touched the edge of his belt. He felt vulnerable without a sword by his side, despite having other magic at his disposal; even against an armed foe, he would probably win a fight. Assuming he saw the danger coming.


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    This Vera, the one-eared woman he had killed, she had people working for her. In Arn''s experience, criminal organisations like that came in two varieties. Either it ran on pure self-interest, in which case, her death immediately caused a struggle for power between her would-be successors, or it relied on bonds of loyalty to each other above anything else, in which case, a successor would be decided, who would feel compelled to avenge her death.


    Arn was not going anywhere near the area where this group operated, they could not know his identity or how to find him, and they might not be looking for him at all. Still, Arn wished he had a sword by his side as he pushed through the busy crowds, making his way to the harbour.


    *


    Arn went straight to Helgi. He assumed the loremaster had his stone, and he saw no reason to deal with the thugs at The Broken Mast. He would ensure first that he got his payment; if so, he would tell Helgi that he was available for a third task, to get his next rune done, and the old man could pass that on.


    "Sink my ship and call me an otter if it isn''t the silent sk¨¢ld!" Helgi grinned at him, and his exuberant mood immediately spoiled Arn''s.


    "Alright, I got it right here. Kept it for you. Won''t even charge you for days of storage." The loremaster dug out a small, nearly smooth stone, engraved with a symbol and flowing with magic. He handed it over.


    As soon as Arn''s hand closed around it, he felt a pang of relief. He stowed it in his pouch for now and continued to write, He drew the sign of swiftness next to the words before erasing it all.


    "Very good. I''ll let those wet rats know about it." Helgi gave him a scrutinising look. "What happened? The half-deaf woman is dead, we heard, but I''d have expected to see you here immediately. You''re always in a hurry."


    It would take a while to explain, and Arn saw no reason for it. Instead, he figured he should make use of the loremaster''s knowledge. He tapped on the metal ring that adorned his upper arm.


    "You''re wearing it, and you don''t know?" This time, an odd look followed from Helgi. "Well, alright." He placed his hand on the metal, closing his eyes. "Strange. Archean. Those fellows don''t usually let their trinkets out of sight. Did you go to the tower?"


    Arn looked at him questioningly.


    "The Archean tower here in Aquila. Those wizards got themselves an outpost here, like they do in most big cities."


    Arn knew that; he had simply not realised what Helgi referred to. He shook his head. Arn had never met an Archean wizard, those being elusive and few in number, at least this far from their city-state that lay hundreds of miles to the east.


    "Well, they probably wouldn''t let you in, anyway. A secretive bunch, they are. I can''t honestly say what this little piece of jewellery does. You''d have to ask them, but I doubt you''d get the opportunity or that they''d answer you."


    Arn slapped his fist over his heart as a quick gesture of gratitude and left.


    Returning to the streets, his mind went over what Helgi had told him. Arn knew nothing about Archen or its wizards other than they were rumoured to possess unfathomable magic powers. They stayed in their city mostly besides scattered outposts across the continent where those with the gift of magic might go, hoping to be accepted into their brotherhood, though many were rejected; presumably, every mage in Aquila was someone who had failed to impress the Archeans. Considering how dangerous some of them could still be ¨C Arn carried the wounds to prove it from his own encounter ¨C that did not bode well for any Archean involvement in his situation.


    As such, it did not necessarily change Arn''s situation. If the ring could track him down as claimed by Ignius, he needed it gone regardless of its origin. He would continue regaining his power; once time came for vengeance, he would turn his thoughts towards escape as well. Until then, he would worry about his next steps rather than these Archean wizards.


    *


    The northeastern district of Aquila contained workshops and craftsmen of all sorts, but architecturally, it was dominated by a great tower that rose taller than any other structure in the city. While built from the same stone as the rest of Aquila, it nonetheless exuded an eerie sensation that made locals instinctively shy away whenever they passed by close. No other building lay nearby, giving it a wide, open approach all around.


    In official documents, its name was given as the Tower of the Arcane. Among ordinary people, it carried the similar, though more descriptive moniker of the Archean tower. And for those who disliked magic, it was only referred to by various insults.


    The tower stood as one of the oldest structures in the city, in part because it seemed indestructible; while fires might at times rage through Aquila, necessitating rebuilding, it never touched the seat of the Archean wizards. They had built it as part of the treaties between their city-state and the Empire, whereby the powerful mages lent aid on certain matters to the Imperials in exchange for concessions, such as building outposts for their magical research and be allowed recruitment into their ranks.


    As far as the Imperial administration went, that was all they knew about the tower in their capital. No Aquilans ever went inside, nor could they. Powerful wards lay on the structure itself and the gate, barring access and any attempt to harm it; no battering ram could bring it down.


    For that reason, the locals stared as a hooded traveller walked up to the tower. He took out a stone from his pocket and placed it against the wood of the gate, making it swing open.


    *


    "Mistress, a traveller has arrived. A spellbreaker. He''s on the ground floor, waiting." A hulk of a man stood by the threshold into the wing, having stepped just inside to close the door behind him. Before him lay the top floor of the tower, nearly all of it a single chamber, though a few partial walls divided it into different uses. One area held a bed and wardrobe, another a bookcase and a writing desk; some of the walls held shelves filled with jars and flasks. Other tables served as workstations for alchemy, judging by the tools scattered on them. In one of the few places walled off to make its own room, opposite the door, a large piece of canvas lay to cover the floor.


    As for the occupant, Vasilia sat skimming through a bundle of parchment, containing different symbols written on them. She wore an entirely white robe; hearing her attendant speak, she looked up. "Did he give his name yet?"


    "Atreus, mistress." sea??h th§× Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    She arrested her movements. "Are you sure?"


    "He said so."


    Throwing the parchment onto the table, she got up quickly. "Have the other masters seen him yet?"


    "Not when I left, but their attendants would have told them, and I do have to walk further than them."


    "Stay here." She hurried to leave her chambers.


    *


    Despite making haste, Vasilia arrived as the last. When she stepped down from the staircase that wound itself around the tower, she found two wizards waiting for her, one dressed in blue, the other in red, along with a scruffy traveller. "There we are," the blue-clad mage declared.


    The trio in uniform-coloured clothing all stood facing the newcomer, who bowed his head. "Masters of the tower, I seek hospitality."


    "Always happy to provide such to our brethren," spoke the red woman.


    "Especially to Atreus, mightiest of spellbreakers, slayer of fiends!" exclaimed the blue wizard.


    "Just the one," Atreus mumbled.


    "Indeed, we are surprised to find the foremost member of your fellowship in our tower," Vasilia remarked with an unfriendly smile. "What brings Master Atreus to our tower?"


    "I was up north. Took a ship to Aquila, and now I make my way to Archen. But besides a good night''s rest, I could use supplies."


    "Take all you need," said the red mage. From a pocket, she withdrew a stone covered in markings. "Once you feel settled, come visit me on the red floor. I should like to speak more."


    "Of course." Atreus accepted the token and bowed his head.


    Watching him walk away, Vasilia placed a hand inside her pocket to touch her own wardstone.

 Chapter 20: A Garden Brawl

    A Garden Brawl


    Days earlier, before the arrival of the spellbreaker, Arn could finally rejoin the other gladiators in training, though Mahan made no mention of when he would have his next fight in the arena, and Arn did not press the matter; the last fivedays had been tumultuous, and he did not wish to draw more attention than necessary.


    He was pleased to have another rune restored to him; he had spent a night in meditation, and once more, subtlety was bestowed on him. Shadows would be drawn to him, drape themselves around him, and light would shy away from his presence. It would keep him safe from the eyes of others when leaving the ludus, for instance, and help him get around unseen.


    On the same day that Atreus arrived in Aquila, a break in the monotony of the ludus took place. "Where''s the barbarian?" Gaius, the clerk, appeared in the training yard with an overbearing look at the leather-clad, sweating men beating each other up. "The newest of them, that is, the one from Tyria."


    Mahan pointed out Arn. "What''s this about?"


    "The dominus will be bringing him along for tonight¡¯s festivities at House Flavus."


    "Him!" The exclamation came with a sneer from the weapons master. "I was not told of this! Why isn''t Sigismund representing our ludus?"


    Gaius glanced at him. "If the dominus wanted you to know, he''d have told you." He raised his voice. "You, Tyrian! You will accompany the dominus tonight. Go and bathe. New clothing awaits you in your cell. Join us as soon as you''re ready. Don''t make the master wait for you."


    Noticing various looks sent his way, and none too happy himself either about being turned into a performing dog, Arn discarded his weapons and left training.


    *


    The clothing turned out to be of the same sort that he usually wore outside of training. A woollen tunic and a shirt and trousers in linen. The only difference was that the garments were new without any of the tear or stains that his other clothes inevitably accumulated during wear.


    A guard took him from the ludus to the inner house and brought him to the courtyard to wait. A carriage stood with a pair of horses harnessed, waiting for the master and his family. It suddenly struck him how eerie it felt to be attending a celebration. If in Tyria, he would have worn colourful garb with patterns rather than this simple fabric; the belt around his waist would have a buckle crafted like an animal or perhaps a wyrm, and he would have combed his hair and tied it somehow. Arn ran a hand across his head, feeling how it was shorn; gladiators kept it short.


    Ignius appeared, along with a woman and a small boy, all of them dressed in as much luxury as they could afford, and a servant. While his family entered the carriage, the lanista glanced up and down at Arn. "Lose that. It makes you look like a spice peddler." He pointed at the leather pouch containing Arn''s tablet. "Jump onto the back and hold on. We leave now."


    Arn untied the pouch and left it on the nearest table, suddenly feeling vulnerable without his means of communication. Having no choice in the matter, he returned and leapt up to stand on the small board at the back of the carriage, and the driver set the horses into motion.


    *


    House Flavus, whoever they were, possessed considerable means. The carriage entered the grounds of a mansion several times the size of the ludus, along with extensive gardens surrounding it. Upon arrival, servants greeted them; one led the respectable guests into the house itself, while another gestured for Arn to follow to the kitchens.


    He arrived to find what could only be fellow gladiators, given their physical form. There had to be at least thirty or more; if each represented a ludus, it spoke of how much blood the great arena demanded. They all sat around a table, drinking and eating. "I suggest you join us, straw head," one of them remarked. "You won''t get anything else this night."


    As Arn sat down and grabbed bread, the others regarded him with curious looks. "You''re new. Which ludus is yours, then?"


    No point trying to have a conversation; Arn ripped off a chunk of bread and began chewing.


    "What do you reckon, fellows? He doesn''t understand the language, or he''s too stupid to understand?"


    "I know where he''s from," another interjected. "Saw him fight. He''s from House Ignius."


    "Wait, that nasty Tyrian who killed both his opponents?" Sear?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Yeah, the blood eagle, they call him."


    "Bastards, the lot of them."


    "Wonder what happened to Sigismund ¨C why ain''t he here?"


    "Maybe this bird brain killed him too."


    Arn kept chewing, ignoring the dirty looks sent his way.


    *


    After the meal, the gladiators walked outside again and through the garden in single file; Arn simply followed their example, making up the tail end. The sounds of loud conversation drowning out faint music reached them as they turned around a corner, reaching the main gardens of the mansion.


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    Ostentatious wealth was on display, and not just the exquisitely carved statues that dotted the landscape. The men wore silken shirts and velvet doublets, and the women had dresses of the same materials, imported from distant lands at great cost. Arn let his sense of magic extend from him, and the constant flashes of burning heat told him of all the golden jewellery being worn; not to protect against magic, he assumed, but simply as ornaments.


    The gladiators lined up like horses at the market, and their arrival caused excitement. The guests, patricians and aristocrats of the Empire, flocked around them to inspect the specimens. They had no qualms about touching the muscles of the men, remarking on their strength and physical form, and Arn growled each time this happened to him, to little effect; the women shivered in delighted terror at the barbarian, and the men gave overbearing smiles. He might be a wolf among lambs, but they knew he was leashed; baring fangs was all he could do. At least they did not go so far as to pry open his mouth to inspect his teeth.


    Arn distracted himself from this indignity by imagining all the violent deaths he could bring upon them, and after a while, the guests lost interest and drifted away, though he noticed a few continued discussing the present gladiators.


    His gaze swept over the gathering, the well-dressed elite among the sculptures and trees with beleaguered servants flitting about to supply them all with drink, and Arn wondered how much longer this would go on. Ignius had spoken of exhibition fights, but this resembled rather a cattle market.


    "You can loosen your hands, friend," spoke the gladiator by his side.


    Arn realised he had been clenching his fists, and he took the advice.


    "Not too long now. They''ll do the ritual, and then you''ll get to fight."


    The fellow had either correctly understood Arn''s desire to have the night done with, or incorrectly interpreted him as being impatient for the fighting. Regardless, unable to speak with the man, Arn could make no reply.


    "You''re mute, right? I heard about you. Usually, it takes more than a couple of fights in the arena to get a reputation, but you sure knew how to speed things along."


    Great. Arn could not walk away or quiet the man; this evening grew ever more insufferable.


    "Well, there''s no sharp weapons tonight, so maybe that''ll keep you cool for once." The gladiator chuckled at his own remark.


    Arn closed his eyes, trying to retreat his thoughts from the surrounding world.


    "If you''re wondering about the wait, it''s because they got to do the ritual first."


    Arn had wondered. Despite his intentions, Arn opened his eyes and glanced at his companion, a short and bald man.


    "Oh yeah, this whole affair is a celebration to Luna. Us gladiators being shown off like prize cattle is just an afterthought. But they''re very strict about it." He glanced back at Arn with a smirk. "Without it, this would just be a dirty brawl. But with rituals, this becomes a sacred event." His smile widened. "Nothing pleases the Lady of the Moon more than sweaty men beating on each other, apparently."


    Arn knew that the Aquilans performed rituals to Malac before the fights in the arena, though they always took place before his arrival, so he had yet to witness it. Another oddity of this realm; everything required a ritual or chanted mumbling, no matter how it might fit together. If they wanted to watch two men fight, why did they have to pray about it first?


    "Finally, they''re here," Arn''s companion mumbled. "Their convent is next door, you''d think they''d arrive early. Guess it takes a while to cross these grounds on foot."


    Confused for a moment, the Tyrian glanced around until he saw a progression of priestesses ¨C or nuns, as the Aquilans called them. The Maidens of the Moon, Arn recognised; coincidentally, the only such order whose uniforms he would be able to recognise, having seen one regularly in the ludus.


    Was Sister Helena among them? Difficult to tell when they all wore the same veil, and their robes hid their figures. Arn watched as the congregation became silent and they began their rituals, planting their staves in the ground while chanting. Above them, a halfmoon shone upon the garden.


    *


    Once the ritual ended ¨C which consisted of stomping into the ground alongside mumbled chants, as far as Arn could tell ¨C the sisters withdrew to one side, but they did not leave. Perhaps their presence was required, or maybe they enjoyed watching muscular men bloody each other as much as any ordinary Aquilan did.


    A patrician stepped forward to stand on the edge of the consecrated space. "Honoured guests! The house of Flavus is grateful for your presence as we renew our pact with Luna, our gentle patroness who shines upon us this eve!" The guests clapped politely without much enthusiasm; this was not why they had come. "But before I can allow you to leave, I would ask you to help in my most important task as magistrate." The patrician gave a self-assured smile. "Choose who are the finest gladiators of our city!" This time, the crowd cheered.


    As two fighters left the line to take positions inside the ring marked by staves, Arn''s eyes searched among the nuns, who stood on the edge of the audience. One of them could be Helena; she had the right height.


    When her veil was turned in his direction, Arn gestured, ''Hullo.''


    She promptly looked away, making further silent conversation impossible. Perhaps he had guessed wrong and just made a nun feel uncomfortable at being hailed.


    The sister turned her head back. ''How dare you talk to me.''


    Arn had guessed right. He had not, however, considered why he had initiated conversation; what he wanted to say. Or rather, he knew what he ought to say, but the gestures felt too feeble to convey what he felt. ''I''m sorry.''


    Two gladiators returned to the line, replaced by two others, and their movement interrupted the line of sight briefly until she could reply. ''You''re sorry. That makes it alright.''


    Sarcasm was difficult to convey through hand movement, but Arn figured that was the intention. ''I''m sorry'', he repeated, as he knew no other way to say it. As much as he appreciated that in a situation where no spoken conversation was possible, he could still talk, his frustration grew due to the limitations. He wanted to tell her that he regretted pushing her, but his life had been in danger; that while he might initially have learned signs from her to take advantage of her, he was grateful for the hours spent in her company conversing about anything other than fights, training, and coin. The only time he had been able to forget his present circumstances. ''I''m sorry.''


    ''Never speak to me again.''


    With clumsy hands, Arn signed the first thought that came to his mind. ''I used to sing.''


    A slight tilt of the head hidden by the dark veil. The lack of an immediate reply suggested he had at least caught her off-guard.


    ''If I could, I would sing, so you could know my regret. But I''m less of a man. So this is all I can say. Thanks to you.''


    Other of the nuns turned their heads in his direction; Arn realised that others might be listening in on their conversation, in a manner of speaking. Although the other guests also looked at him.


    The voice of their host broke through the noise. "Finally, as our last fighter, from the house of Ignius, we shall see the Blood Eagle!"

 Chapter 21: Challenged

    Challenged


    Arn stepped forward from the line, approaching a table that contained a selection of training weapons. He chose his buckler first, strapping it to his wrist, before picking up a suitable blade.


    "Do remember, Northman, it''s just sparring," his opponent told him, likewise choosing his weapons. It was the bald fellow who had conversed with him earlier. He gave Arn a grin. "Don''t kill me."


    They both stepped into the ring. Arn saw the expectant faces when he glanced towards the crowd, anticipating a spectacle. The Tyrian did not intend to indulge them more than necessary.


    A woman, giggling with nervous energy, dropped a piece of cloth to signal they could start, and Arn advanced with his weapon raised. As his adversary mirrored to parry, Arn pulled strength from his rune. He slammed the swords together that the wooden blades splintered.


    With the other gladiator taken aback, Arn dropped the hilt, stepped in close, and simply shoved him with such force, he fell to the ground. The fight was over; not bothering to conceal the disdain on his face, aimed at the Aquilans staring at him, Arn removed the buckler from his wrist and discarded it carelessly.


    "Sol''s Eye, I hope we never meet on the sands," the bald gladiator mumbled as he got on his feet.


    "Master Ignius, what a specimen!" declared their host, and the tension was broken by cheering and applause. "Where did you dig up such a man?"


    "Humbled by your praise, Master Flavus," the lanista replied. "A savage beast from the far North, caught raiding in our lands. Killed several legionaries, and another five had to work together to subdue him."


    "I''m surprised they went to such risk, taking him alive," another voice chimed in, speaking with a drawl. "Any northern savage killing our legionaries deserves only death." The casual tone from his first words gave way to hostility, and Arn glanced at him. Unlike other guests dressed in many colours, he wore a black tunic with a silver eagle on it.


    "Undoubtedly you are correct, Sir Salvius," remarked the host. "Yet think of the spectacle we would miss!"


    Hearing the name, Arn summoned all his willpower to remain still and avoid his expression betraying his emotions.


    "You''ve some experience with these barbarians," another spoke. "Haven''t you spent time up north?"


    "Yes. A time I hardly cherish." Salvius, standing with the posture of a warrior, glanced briefly at Arn. No sign of recognition in his eyes; with Arn''s hair and beard cut short, not to mention the scar that adorned his face, he did not look his old self.


    Arn knew Salvius to be a mageknight of the Aquilan legions; an officer with high rank and possessive of magical gifts that supported his martial prowess. A strong fighter in battle amidst ordinary soldiers, undoubtedly, though vulnerable to all the powers that a sk¨¢ld could bring to bear. If only Arn had those in full, he might have taken his vengeance right then and there, but as it stood, victory seemed doubtful.


    "Understandable, given the Tyrian tonight seems the strongest of all the gladiators!" declared a patrician woman.


    "No wonder the emperor has been reluctant to expand northwards. If there''s more like him, I wouldn''t want to settle in Nordmark either!"


    "He''s just a man," Salvius proclaimed. "Any Aquilan mageknight can defeat a hundred like him."


    And any sk¨¢ld could destroy the strongest mageknight, Arn thought to himself. Galdr and runes would crush this prattling mageling in an even fight, which the Aquilan should know, given their last encounter.


    "Show us!"


    "Yes, let us see what an Aquilan can do!"


    More voices joined the chorus. Salvius raised his hands in feigned reluctance before stepping forward to grab a blade from the table, causing cheers to erupt. He took another and stepped into the circle to face Arn, throwing the second sword to him. "Come on, pale eyes," he smirked. "Strike with all your strength!"


    The Tyrian responded, though he knew to avoid using magic against a mage; he made his attack, fighting like any other gladiator. Salvius met his weapon with his own, but pure magic shimmered around the mageknight, including what he held, protecting it from physical damage; Arn''s sword splintered striking the barrier.


    Triumphant cries rose from the crowd, and Salvius smiled to them. Seeing the magical shield fade, Arn hurled his hilt into the mageknight''s face, catching him unawares. It struck him on the chin, and now it was the Tyrian who smiled.


    One hand cautiously touching his chin, Salvius looked at the gladiator. He advanced, swinging his blade with supernatural swiftness. Unarmed, Arn could not deflect, but the weapon was not steel, it did not hold an edge; bracing himself, he raised his arm and used that to parry. Ignoring the pain as the wooden sword struck him, Arn stepped in close and pushed the mageknight already off-balance with enough force to send him to the ground.


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    Some might have considered the fight at an end with one man down, but Salvius rolled away and got on his feet, clearly eager to continue. He had dropped his weapon in the motion, and instead, he approached Arn with raised fists. Happy to oblige, the Tyrian raised his own hands, and they exchanged punches, though not to even outcome. The mageknight allowed Arn to land a blow only to move close and retaliate. And since Salvius could summon his magic to protect him, Arn did not cause actual harm, but only received it.


    Furthermore, Salvius knew to empower himself with magic, like Arn could with his runes; his punches came with supernatural strength, leaving the Tyrian bloody and bruised. Staring at the mageknight, the sk¨¢ld thought about how easy this fight should have been. One chanting of galdr in the man''s ears, and he would be on his knees, or the casting of a major rune could send him flying through the air. But either of that required speech.


    Arn had his minor rune of force, allowing him strength to match the mageknight; but any use of magic, however covertly he tried to be, would mean Arn''s execution if discovered, and so he took blow after blow.


    "Had enough, savage?" Salvius shouted, more for the benefit of the spectators than his opponent.


    Arn knew he should yield. He gained nothing from this fight, and he could not defeat a mage without using magic of his own. Of all Aquilans, he longed to strike down this mageknight in particular, but it would not be here or now.


    Yet seeing this crowd, so assured of the might wielded by their Empire, their right to encroach on Tyrian lands, a feeling stirred in him. In this moment, he represented all nine tribes of Tyria, and they were being challenged; if it went without answer, it would only embolden them.


    Wiping the blood from his mouth, Arn stood up. Another punch felled him, and he got back up. He swung, a feeble blow without the strength of his rune behind it, and the mageknight evaded with a smirk, striking back to send Arn down.


    "Enough!" a woman''s voice cried out from among the audience.


    "Sir Salvius, I think your point has been made. We should not deprive the arena the pleasure of seeing this man fight on the sands," the host said with a disarming smile.


    Breathing heavily, the mageknight looked at the Tyrian getting back on his feet. His expression turned, changing into a mask of civility. "Of course. I forgot we have gentler company than in the untamed woods of Tyria."


    The Aquilans dispersed, the fighting at an end. Arn glanced at the gladiators, who shook their heads at him, for one reason or another. His eyes turned to the gathering of priestesses in the garden, but their veils did not allow him to measure their reactions. Wiping his face and looking down at the blood on his hands, his own blood, he could think of one positive consequence of this bout; his battered state and exhaustion made him too tired to feel the rage that the sight of Salvius should have awakened in him.


    *


    The Tower of the Arcane had, despite its great size, few inhabitants. A handful of apprentices occupied the lowest floors. A spiral staircase wound itself along the outer wall, granting access further up. The top three were reserved for the masters of the tower.


    While Arn was fighting in the gardens of Flavus, Atreus made his way up until he reached a red door, two floors still above him. He took out a wardstone and touched the wood, making it swing open.


    Inside, he saw the typical quarters of an Archean wizard who had risen to the rank of tower master. Bedchamber, study, workshop, all in one.


    A woman dressed in red rose to greet her visitor with a smile, once the door had closed behind him. "Atreus."


    "Cora."


    They embraced and separated again. "I appreciate you took the time to bathe before accepting my invitation."


    "I still have my manners." They sat down with the hostess pouring wine for her guest and herself, and Atreus accepted his cup. "Thank you. Now, why did you ask me to come? To Aquila, I mean." Sear?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Yes, I''ve grown increasingly uneasy. Once, I and the other masters worked together freely. Now, we guard our secrets jealously and never visit each other''s floors."


    Atreus shrugged. "That is Archen for you. Everyone pursues their own ambitions, and alliances are temporary and practical."


    "Perhaps, but something happened. Some fivedays ago. An undead creature walked the streets of Aquila."


    Her guest put down his cup. "What kind?"


    "The lowest form, from what I heard. Probably an accidental creation."


    The spellbreaker relaxed his shoulders. "Unlikely to be an example of maleficus, then. More likely, an Aquilan mage releasing their magic without much control."


    "Perhaps. But what if it is more? If either of my fellow masters are involved, we have a responsibility to intervene," Cora argued. She regarded him with dark eyes, scrutinising his face.


    A slow sigh was released from him. "In truth, I intended to hasten my return to Archen. If you think matters have changed in this tower, it is little compared to our city."


    "Surely you can delay your return a fiveday or two while investigating?"


    "Only if I must. In some months'' time, the constellation of the triumvirate coincides with a full moon ¨C I should like to be in Archen by then."


    "Any specific reason for your haste?" She frowned. "Such convergences happen once every other year or so."


    Now it was his turn to regard her carefully. "I''m worried. Archen is full of secret groupings, cabals and factions, and I''ve had my eye on one in particular. Now, I find doors closed and ears deaf."


    "Same as here," Cora considered. "Though why does that leave you worried? You just dismissed my concerns."


    "This feels different. The secrecy in Archen borders on paranoia." Atreus'' fingers fiddled with the stem of his cup, but he did not pick it up. "It doesn''t resemble the fear that a rival will steal their work, but that a spellbreaker will discover them guilty of maleficus."


    "Forbidden magic at work in the heart of Archen?" Her eyes turned wide. "Do you have proof?"


    "None," he admitted. "Not the slightest sign of necromancy, leechcraft, mental enslavement, or any other kind of forbidden spellcraft. Either my concerns are unfounded ¨C or some manner of magic is at work beyond my ken." He looked at her straight. "And if I intended some new, unproven ritual, I''d carry it out when the triumvirate met in the heavens under a full moon."


    "Well, as said, it''s months away. Could you not spare a few days to investigate what happened here? Just to alleviate my concerns that my fellow masters have gone astray," Cora pleaded.


    The spellbreaker took a deep breath. "Very well. I shall look into it."

 Chapter 22: In Shadow’s Embrace

    In Shadow¡¯s Embrace


    Arn slept as he could the remaining hours of the night; an aching jaw, various bruises, and other pains woke him up intermittently. In the morning, the medicus examined him and smeared salve on his smarting skin, which eased the worst of it. It was too soon to dwell on the Aquilan mageknight and all that he deserved to suffer; first, Arn needed his powers restored that he might later take up such a fight and win. Doing his best to ignore how the meeting had left him feeling like a fish beaten to death, Arn entered the common room for breakfast.


    Stepping inside, he drew the stares of everyone, especially his bruised face. A strange thing happened as he walked forward to join the line for food; the nearest gladiator moved aside, as did the next, and the one after.


    Arn knew that disdaining this show of respect would earn him enmity, and so he walked forward until he reached the front of the line, with just a few gladiators having taken their meal before him. Likewise, as he walked away with his bowl, room was made on the upper bench, second only to Sigismund.


    While Arn sat down, the champion of House Ignius regarded him. "Is it true? You stood against a mageknight and did not yield?"


    Moving his spoon through the porridge, Arn hesitated before he nodded.


    Sigismund repeated the gesture, but as a show of respect. "The dominus did right bringing you along, then. Though you still must prove yourself at solstice if you seek to be champion of us all. Not just this ludus, but the city."


    Arn had no interest in such titles or honours, but he appreciated that the other gladiator did not react with hostility at Arn''s perceived ambition for his position. He turned his head to look directly at the fighter and bowed his head in acknowledgement.


    "Northman!" Domitian squeezed down on the bench next to him; higher than his place in the hierarchy normally allowed, but Arn''s rising tide seemed to raise his ship as well. "You must tell us everything about your fight!"


    Arn gave him a look.


    "Alright, how about I tell you what we heard, and you confirm whether it''s true or not." Without waiting for Arn to agree, Domitian continued, "Last night, did you fight Quintus from House Petrus? Short, bald fellow."


    That sounded right. Arn nodded.


    "And you shattered the weapons to fell him in one blow?"


    Not quite. Arn put his bowl away and struck the edges of his hands together, simulating blades crossing, and followed up with a shove into the air. Finally, he held up two fingers.


    "Two blows, well, still damn impressive." Domitian grinned. "And then, you stood against a mageknight? I guess your face tells the answer."


    Arn grumbled, returning to his porridge. The ache was sufficient reminder. S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "But you didn''t yield, they say. You stayed up until the fight was called."


    Arn gave a nod. He knew that if the fight had continued, he would have been knocked unconscious eventually; it was a brawl he could not have won. But he did not lose either; under the circumstances, that felt like a victory in itself. And next time he faced this mageknight, the outcome would be different.


    "Sol''s Eye, Northman, you''re a madman."


    "On and off the sands," someone muttered.


    "Fighters, I need a word with the Tyrian." Mahan approached them; by how he referred to Arn, he still seemed upset, the sk¨¢ld surmised. The other gladiators left for the training yard while the arms master sat down. "You have a fight on Solday."


    Arn raised his eyebrows in surprise. Perhaps he had misread Mahan''s emotions.


    "Don''t look at me. I didn''t decide it."


    Evidently not. And since Mahan was telling him this in private, rather than announce his name alongside the other fighters, something unusual was afoot.


    "It seems after your performance at House Flavus, you caused considerable interest in seeing you challenged. You''ve been requested to fight in the last match on Solday."


    Arn frowned, digesting this. The fights were arranged so that usually, the newest or least successful gladiators were on the sands first, allowing a progression of increasingly skilled fights as the day continued.


    "Your opponent is Cassian." A strange undertone lay in Mahan''s voice; clearly, this was supposed to mean something to Arn. Met by a confused look, the weapons master continued, "He is last year''s solstice champion. The best in the city and from the best ludus, House Petrus."


    Same school as the bald fellow that Arn had defeated. Evidently, they had sent their second-best and now regretted it. But no gladiator however strong could contend with magic; Arn was not concerned.


    "You shouldn''t look so unimpressed. He is undefeated on the sands. And given your reputation for being ruthless, he will not spare you," Mahan stressed. "I know you''re good, Arn, but so is he. And defeat means death for you."


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    For once, Arn took out his tablet and wrote a reply.


    "You''re still a fighter in my stable, no matter my disagreements with you. And your victories honour this ludus, just as your defeat shames it. And my training. Speaking of, you''ll need every moment of it. It''s two days until your fight. Get to the yard and train with Sigismund. He''s the only one who comes close to giving you the challenge that awaits you."


    *


    Arn sparred with the champion of House Ignius for the rest of the day and enjoyed a well-earned bath by eventide. The warm water, heated by enchanted stones in the bottom of the pool, was a luxury that Arn grudgingly respected the Aquilans for. Tyria had hot springs, but it was less convenient travelling for hours compared to having it in the cellar.


    Once they had all been sent to their cells, despite his weariness, Arn had one last errand. He had yet to put his new rune to the test. It was meant to grant him stealth, which would be most useful in sneaking out of the ludus at night; yet if it did not work as intended, Arn preferred to find out under innocent circumstances rather than while already halfway over the wall.


    He knew the guard did a final round, checking everyone was in their cell, before retiring to the inner house. Once the sentinel had looked in on him and moved on, Arn got to work. He called upon the rune of subtlety inscribed on his leg, newly recreated, and maintained the focus. As he opened the door to his cell, no sound came from the hinges; nor did his footsteps cause a disturbance as he stepped out into the hallway. Ahead, the guard walked with a lamp. Arn moved in the other direction until the shadows could swallow him up.


    Time to find out. Arn threw a pebble at the guard''s back. Feeling something, the man turned around. He peered down the dark hallway, squinting his eyes. Arn held his breath, focusing on his rune that kept him shrouded in darkness; after a moment, the guard resumed his round, walking down the hallway. Smiling to himself, Arn returned to this cell.


    *


    A hooded figure moved through the slums of Aquila, asking questions again and again. Despite the local unwillingness to reply, he got his answers each time, making his way through the district. Finally, he entered a watering hole of the sort that filled the area, serving hop-flavoured water for pennies to men who barely had any to spare.


    The arrival of the stranger quieted all conversation. Given the lacklustre appeal of the place, nobody bothered to come here from further than two streets away ¨C unless their reason was something other than thirst. And the newcomer, although his clothes looked travelworn, was no pauper; his garments were of good fabric, and his boots attracted envious stares. The dagger by his side countered this avarice to some degree.


    "If you''re lost, fellow, I''m not sure this is the place for you. We don''t want trouble here, but you''ll find more than you bargained for if you cause it," the barkeep warned him.


    Atreus took down the hood of his cloak and approached the man. "I''m a spellbreaker of Archen with full authority to investigate acts of maleficus under the treaties of my city and the empire of Aquila."


    Either the meaning or just the sound of his words left a suitable impression on the patrons; they all turned away, averting their gazes. The barkeep, under Atreus'' scrutiny, had no such fortune. "Alright, master, no harm meant. We''re common folk. We hardly know what any of that means."


    "You don¡¯t, I''m sure, but I doubt any in this establishment holds importance to me. Except in one regard." Atreus took out a small tablet, useful for writing small messages and notes, and he opened it up to glance over what he had written on it.


    "I''m told three serfs were killed just down the street from here."


    "What of it?"


    "There was a witness, I''m also told. A young boy saw it all and is now sheltered here."


    The barkeep nodded. "Aye. Not sure what relation the lad was to the dead men, but he lived with them. I took him in ¨C figured he could be of help around the place. What''s that to you?"


    Atreus closed his tablet and returned it to his belt. "Take me to him."


    "Alright, good master, as you wish," the tavernkeeper mumbled. He leaned down to grab a hatch and pull it open.


    The spellbreaker frowned. "You keep him locked up in your root cellar?"


    "On the contrary, master, I''d be happy if he wanted to leave. He''s skittish around other people, and downright scared to go aboveground. Oh ¨C and he hasn''t said a word since the killings, so don''t expect too much."


    "Understood. Let me have a lamp."


    "Sure, master." The barkeep grabbed one from behind him and began to fumble with flint and tinder.


    Grabbing the lamp, Atreus extended his other hand and touched its tip, igniting it. Armed with illumination, he walked down the stairs into the root cellar.


    Amidst barrels and crates of food, the spellbreaker saw a mattress and blankets, on which sat a boy. His eyes stared at the intruder, and as Atreus approached, he withdrew.


    Putting the lamp on the ground, the mage crouched. "Hullo, lad. My name is Atreus. I''m told you witnessed something gruesome, and I imagine it''s made for some sleepless nights."


    The boy gave no reply.


    "Such experiences can leave wounds on the mind. There''ll always be scars, but they can heal, to some extent. Time helps, but so does magic. If you''ll let me help you."


    Still, the boy simply looked.


    "See, where I''m from, we use magic with a lot of rules. Including that we don''t touch the mind of an innocent person unless they''ve agreed to it ¨C assuming they can, of course. Sometimes, people don''t have the ability to say yes or no." Atreus cocked his head, returning the boy''s gaze. "I think I can help you, lad, and I''d like to. But if you shake your head or run away from me, I won''t try."


    No response came.


    Atreus nodded to himself and straightened up to make his slow approach, like trying to win the friendship of an animal. The boy did not move or indicate one thing or the other; he stayed entirely immobile. Once in front of him, the spellbreaker crouched down again and extended one hand to place his fingertips on the boy''s temple. Atreus closed his eyes, and a soft light appeared at where he touched the boy, though only visible to those with the gift of magic.


    Moments later, Atreus exhaled, opened his eyes, and retracted his hand. "That should be better. I can''t promise an end to nightmares, but the worst of the hurt should be done. Do you understand me, lad?"


    "Yes." The boy flinched as if frightened by the sound of his own voice.


    "Good. Now, I know this''ll be unpleasant, but I need to ask you about that night that made you feel this way."


    "I don''t want to."


    "I know, lad, I''m sorry. But I need to find the man who did this and stop him before he does it again." Atreus gave the boy a mournful smile. "You shouldn''t think about what you saw in that hut other than him," he suggested with a tinge of magic in his words. "Focus only on his face. How he looked. Tell me that."


    "He had scars. One down his eye. Others on his body."


    Atreus took out his tablet. "That''s good. Anything else unusual about him?"


    "His eyes were blue."


    "Very good, lad." "That should be more than enough. I think you could use some sleep," Atreus suggested with a soothing voice and a touch of spellwork. The boy nodded and went to his mattress obediently, lying down. Fishing out a silver piece, the spellbreaker left it next to him and went up the stairs.

 Chapter 23: Caught Off-guard

    Caught Off-guard


    Sneaking through the camp, keeping track of the sentinels, searching among the tents. A burst of light, dispelling the shadows that cloaked him. "He''s here!" Aquilan soldiers rushing out to attack him.


    A gale of galdr came from the sk¨¢ld¡¯s tongue to cause a tapestry of deception and deceit, and the legionaries turned on each other to fight friend rather than foe. As the Tyrian turned to flee, a woman blocked his path. Ice formed in the palm of her open hand before it shot off like an arrow.


    A frostmage of Aquila. Master of that element as well, the sk¨¢ld made a dismissive gesture with his left hand, sending the icy knife astray, while his right hand drew the blade by his side. With a camp descended into chaos behind him, he leapt forward to strike.


    The mage activated her shield, protecting herself with a layer of magic that kept his blade from cutting into her. Chains of ice formed out of thin air and slithered across the ground to envelop him, but a single strike from his sword slashed them to pieces, and the spell dissipated.


    "Help me!" she yelled, activating her shield again. The sk¨¢ld struck repeatedly, knowing she would run out of spellpower soon enough and be unable to sustain her magical protection, allowing his blade to find purchase.


    Magical fire struck his back, sending tremors of pain through him. A battlemage of the legions. As the sk¨¢ld swung around, another fire bolt came flying at him, which he dodged. In response, he called upon one of his abilities as a spellblade; frost coated his blade before it flew forward like an icicle. The battlemage gave his own reply, summoning a shield of fire that absorbed the ice blade.


    Attacked from both sides by mages, swift flight was not an option. The sk¨¢ld held up one hand and whispered a word; a major rune appeared floating in the air, binding magic together for a moment before it activated, and it sent the frostmage hurling backwards to land against a tree.


    The soldiers had recovered, meanwhile, but the sk¨¢ld renewed his galdr on them, and once more with his eerie words in their ears, they fell on each other.


    The battlemage released a stream of continuous fire, striking the sk¨¢ld in his chest. He fell to one knee, grunting with pain. Slamming his free hand against the ground, the Tyrian rendered the earth, tearing it apart. The tremors made the battlemage lose his footing and fall down. Before he could recover, the sk¨¢ld acted swifter with empowered speed from the minor rune inked on his leg, leaping up to cross the distance between them in a single bound.


    Sword raised in the air, he was poised to impale the battlemage upon landing, but chains of ice flew up to entangle him, disrupting his leap by pulling him to the ground. A frustrated grunt escaped the sk¨¢ld, accompanied by a burst of magic that dispelled the restraints.


    The battlemage was back on his feet, gathering another spell in his hand; before he could release it, the sk¨¢ld summoned a rune in the air between them, this time pulling his enemy to him. He unleashed his bladesong, and the sword in his hand struck with ferocious speed and dreadful strength, overcoming the battlemage''s defensive spellcraft to slash him repeatedly.


    A blade came against the sk¨¢ld from behind, giving him the same treatment; a large gash opened across his back, and he gasped in pain. A mageknight had joined the brawl, striking with magical force. A third time, chains of ice wound themselves around the sk¨¢ld; before he could escape, the mageknight struck him on his head with the sword pommel, and he went down.


    "Took you long enough," the battlemage huffed, pressing his hand against a wound.


    "Blasted song got me," the mageknight admitted.


    "Prefect, we should just kill him." The frostmage joined them, her words directed at the mageknight as she stared at the fallen Tyrian. Around them, the legionaries ceased fighting among themselves.


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    "That would be a waste now that he is already down. He will serve as a trophy on my return. But we should declaw him. Grab his head, open his mouth." While his companions took hold of the sk¨¢ld, Sir Salvius drew the knife in his belt.


    *


    Arn woke with a start, his entire body trembling for a moment. Sleep remained a fickle ally, granting only its rejuvenation at a cost to his sanity. Yawning, he dragged himself to breakfast and afterwards sparred with Sigismund, who he suspected drove him harder than even Mahan demanded. It was not necessary; Arn''s magic would carry him to victory in tomorrow''s fight and any other fight in the arena. Yet he could not give a plausible reason for refusal or expect to be humoured; as far as the other gladiators were concerned, Arn faced the champion of Aquila''s arena, and death awaited him in defeat. He had to train as if his life depended on it or risk arousing suspicion.


    After the evening meal, Sister Helena appeared to bless the fighters in tomorrow''s games, as usual. Arn had wondered if he had frightened her off, but clearly not. He did not attend the ritual in the yard; he had no use for it, and he saw no reason to invoke her ire by showing his face. She had not appreciated his attempts of an apology yesterday; better to keep distance between himself and her.


    For that reason, he was confused when Domitian sought him out in his cell with a message from her. "The good sister asks to your whereabouts. Have you quit on your lessons with her?"


    Arn frowned, uncertain what to answer, though of course, Domitian did not expect him to.


    "Well, she''s waiting for you. Best hurry up, friend. It''s bad luck to keep a woman waiting, let alone a servant of the gods."


    Making his way to the yard, Arn found the nun waiting for him on the bench, dressed in her usual uniform and veil. The staff of her office rested on the wall behind her as she sat patiently. Unease accompanied him; the situation felt strange, and it made him uncomfortable that he could not guess at what was going on.


    "Master Arn. Please, join me."


    He sat down next to her. ''What is it?''


    She switched to gestures. ''When I was a child, a thief catcher passed through my village. I asked him how he knew to find his quarry. He replied that he knew because once, he was a thief himself. Only a criminal knows the ways of another criminal.''


    Arn regarded her sceptically, wondering where this was headed.


    Behind her dark veil, her eyes became fixed on him. ''How did you know I possess magic?''


    The question caught the Tyrian off-guard. He began moving his hands, but he did not know what to say or how to express it, and nothing coherent came from his signs.


    ''I thought so. You recognised it from yourself. You are a mage, or whatever it''s called in northern lands.''


    Finally, Arn remembered a useful gesture. ''Ridiculous.''


    ''Hardly. It would explain your performance the other night, besting your opponent so easily.''


    Arn cursed his arrogance that he had not feigned greater weakness; still, she had no proof, only suspicion. ''All gladiators are examined for magic. If you were right, I''d never be allowed in the arena.''


    ''Mistakes can be made. You know Lord Flavus, our host? He is the patron of my convent. I''m sure he''d be interested in investigating this. Especially since another examination can easily be carried out, just to provide peace of mind.'' The faint shape of her mouth behind the veil curled upwards.


    Arn''s confidence had become his weakness. Given his performance in the garden, any seed of suspicion about his abilities would find fertile soil, especially in the magistrate organising the games. He could well imagine the man would demand Arn be tested again, and this time, his magic was not dormant. He would be found out.


    ''I see that I''m right. You understand what you''ve done? The games are consecrated to Malac, and you''ve made a mockery of them. We share the same secret, yet if you are found out, it''ll be much worse for you.''


    ''What do you want?'' If hand gestures could carry a tone of voice, Arn would have growled his words like a wolf.


    ''Simply that we reach an understanding. You keep my secret, I''ll keep yours.''


    Arn had not intended otherwise. ''Done.''


    ''And you''ll never threaten me again or coerce me to help you.''


    ''Fine.'' He looked at her intently, trying to scrutinise the face beyond the veil. The cloth smoothed out her features, but his superior sight could tell the colours underneath apart, including fresh bruises across her cheek. This nun took more blows to the face than any gladiator at the ludus; something felt strange about her. Possibly Arn could use that to regain the upper hand, but investigating her activities would be difficult, given his limitations and the fact that she lived a place where men were not even allowed inside. Perhaps this stalemate would suffice; given a few more months, Arn planned to be far away. ''Anything else?''


    She got up, and he glimpsed the contour of another smile. ''No. Good eve to you, Master Arn.''


    Watching her leave, Arn rose as well. The thought of his secret known to her made him deeply uncomfortable, but the situation seemed contained, and he had a fight tomorrow. Despite victory being assured, it seemed wisest to turn his thoughts towards that and get some rest.

 Chapter 24: A Champion of Aquila

    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 sk¨¢ld 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. Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "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.


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    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 ¨C 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 sk¨¢ld''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 ¨C 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 sk¨¢ld, 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 seier blossomed, strengthening his sense of magic and resilience towards it. The second blessing of the seier-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.

 Chapter 25: In Pursuit of Knowledge

    In Pursuit of Knowledge


    Opening his eyes, Arn saw the blue sky. Something pounded his head, from within and without; the former was a headache, the latter the noise of the audience. Regaining consciousness, he remembered where he was. A sharp pain in his left hand helped cut through the haze. Pushing himself up on his elbow, his vision darkened from blood rushing to his head, but only for a few moments. With deep breaths, he got on his feet. His weapons lay on the ground, and he left them there for the arena workers to collect, along with Cassian''s body.


    The backlash from leeching had been more severe than usual; perhaps because the bounty had been greater, though Arn suspected it was rather that during combat, he had drawn on more spellpower than his body could provide, weakening him. He felt like a novice that casting two spells in a single fight could push him beyond his threshold into magical exhaustion, but at least with the energy taken from the dead gladiator, Arn''s limits had increased.


    Trotting back towards the tunnel entrance, ignoring the shouts from the crowd, Arn felt the surge of might in him. He was stronger now in every conceivable way. If he had known leeching from another mage would work this way, he would have been tempted to seek out and kill every spellcaster in Aquila.


    His fellow gladiators from the ludus watched him with awe or fear, depending on one''s interpretation. Mahan likewise stared, his expression inscrutable, and his words were few. "Congratulations, Northman."


    *


    All Arn desired was sleep. Although the fight had been brief, he felt worn out from the intense physical exertion of those moments. In addition, drawing on more spellpower than he comfortably possessed left him tired as well. Lastly, a full night''s sleep would finish the rejuvenation of his spellcraft with the power taken from Cassian. An important step on the path to becoming his former self.


    Back at the ludus, Mahan led them to the common room; they had arrived just in time for dinner. All eyes turned towards them expectantly; perhaps some guessed the truth seeing Arn alive and hale, given what defeat would have meant.


    "He won," Mahan simply told them, dispelling the anticipation. A variety of reactions met his declaration. Some looked envious, others fearful, but most shouted in jubilation, and none more so than Domitian.


    "Northman!" he yelled, slapping Arn on the back. "While everyone cowered at the thought of the mighty Cassian, you slew the beast!"


    "Cower is a strong word," Sigismund growled, "but you have proved the strength of House Ignius over that of House Petrus. Well done."


    Arn acknowledged their accolades with a nod and went up to get his plate from the kitchen servant.


    *


    After his meal, Arn went straight to his cell and lay down on his cot. He was ready for sleep.


    "Well, congratulations! I hear from the fellows we can expect a new champion."


    Sighing, Arn opened one eye to see the harlot. He waved one hand around.


    "I know, I know." She closed the door and sat down on the wall. "Quiet hour, just like when we were children and our mum wanted us to fall asleep." She stretched her neck. "That''s just something I might tell a customer, of course. Can''t hardly remember the woman."


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    Arn suddenly recalled seeing Iris at her place of work; he realised he had an opportunity here to gain some insight into the people he worked for. He sat up and grabbed his tablet, writing down a question. He had to do this carefully; he did not wish to reveal to her that he had dealings with the thugs of The Broken Mast. He would have to slowly approach the topic.


    She glanced from the tablet up at him. "I can''t read."


    A slow exhalation of breath. Of course not. Arn erased the letters in the wax and made a drawing instead.


    "A house?" A finger pointing at her. "My house? What about it? You want to visit me? Darling, you don''t even want me when I come to your place."


    Arn drew a man and pointed at her.


    "Who''s that supposed to be?"


    He added some coins.


    "A customer? Why do you care who pays me? You can''t be jealous."


    Arn erased the man and drew him again, making him bald with pointy ears.


    "Hah, that looks like Lucius! He''s an enforcer for ¨C how do you know what he looks like?"


    It took Arn a moment to realise he had done the one thing all his mental acrobatics were meant to hide ¨C that he did tasks for Magnus and his crew. Well, if the eggs were already broken, might as well make a meal. He drew a second man, missing the tip of his nose.


    "Oh, that''s Master Magnus!"


    Arn tapped his finger against each of them and pointed at her.


    "You know them. No, you want me to introduce you. No, you want ¨C me to talk ¨C about them. Oh!" She frowned. "What do you want to know?"


    Many things, but chief among them, how his services were being put to use. Erasing some of the drawings, Arn replaced them with a one-eared woman.


    "That''s not anybody at the Mast¡­ is that Vera?"


    Arn nodded eagerly.


    "She''s dead, I hear. What about her?"


    Arn tapped her portrait, drew a line between her and Magnus, and tapped on her face again.


    "What, he had her killed?"


    Not what Arn meant; he simply wanted to ask about the connection between them. Somehow, she had misunderstood him and arrived at the right conclusion.


    "I suppose that makes sense, given their history." She squinted at him. "How do you know?"


    Arn gestured for her to continue.


    "I don''t know much, but I can tell you what I heard¡­"


    *


    Moving through the southern docks, a cloaked figure stopped here and there to ask for directions or other questions. No matter who he asked, they always answered, telling him what he desired to know. Yet nobody knew of a Tyrian who possessed magic and a scar that ran from his brow to his cheek, crossing the eye.


    Expanding his search, Atreus eventually reached a small hut with Tyrian runes written on the door. He entered to find an old man, who greeted him with a smile that quickly froze. "What can old Helgi do for you?" he asked with assumed cheer. "A rune to help you sleep, keep your bed warm or your food stores cold?"


    The spellbreaker glanced around at the collection of herbs, tools, and other instruments of a loremaster''s trade. "Are there many Tyrians with the gift of magic in Aquila?"


    "Hardly, good master. I know of none but me. Fortunately, I''m able to supply any help that the magic of my homeland can offer."


    "I seek one of your kinsmen in particular. A fellow with a vicious scar running down his face."


    "Plenty of men with the marks of battle on them, but I don''t recall any with that exact description," Helgi claimed.


    Atreus turned to look the loremaster straight in the eyes. "Are you sure? You should tell me if you do," he suggested with a touch of magical force behind his words.


    Helgi smiled. "Can''t think of any."


    Atreus held eye contact for a moment longer before he looked around again. "I know little of Tyrian magic. Is it ever used to create undead?"


    "Draugar, you mean?" Helgi ran a hand through his white hair. "Sometimes, great heroes may not find rest in their burial mounds, but they cause no trouble. Leave their tombs alone, and they leave you alone."


    "Have you ever heard of a Tyrian mage creating them? Is it something you could do?"


    The loremaster shook his head with an apologetic expression. "Not at all, good master. It''s not how we use our powers."


    "Has any Tyrians ever discussed this with you? You should tell me if so," Atreus suggested, his words casual. S~ea??h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    "Never, good master."


    "I appreciate your time." Atreus left swiftly, and outside, he took out his tablet containing his notes. With the stylus, he added, Slamming the halves together, he looked around until his eyes fell on some children playing on the street. He approached them, and they looked up at him with wary eyes. "Would you want to earn a few silver pieces?"


    "What do you want? We ain''t going anywhere with you."


    "No need. I only require you to be my eyes."

 Chapter 26: The Fallen Singer

    The Fallen Singer


    In the morning, a knock came against Arn''s door. He opened it to find Mahan on the other side. "I didn''t have your coin ready last night," he explained, extending his hand to let three golden crowns fall into Arn''s. "Rather, Gaius didn''t. I think he expected you to lose."


    Same as everyone else, and it had been close. While Arn had escaped with only a minor wound, he had been evenly matched; a small mistake, and it could have gone the other way. He turned into his room and placed the coin on the shelf with his clothes, waiting for the weapons master to leave so he might hide them in his belt.


    "You should be careful. Don''t leave gold out like that. It''ll tempt those weak of will," Mahan chastised him.


    Trying not to let frustration show, Arn remained with his back turned.


    "Did you have to kill him? Cassian, the champion."


    Yes. Setting aside how much it had fed Arn''s magic, the gladiator would have known Arn possessed the gift; no other explanation for his victory. He had to die.


    "You can answer me. I know your signs."


    Arn had forgotten about that. Shoulders sinking, he turned around to face Mahan. ''I don''t pretend to fight. If I''m in the arena, it''s win or die,'' he gestured.


    "Is that your secret? Because when you train, you''re no better than Sigismund or some of the others. But when it counts, you fight like no other I''ve seen."


    Nor anyone he ever would see, but Arn kept his thoughts to himself. Whatever explanation the weapons master came up with would be the one he found it easiest to believe.


    "It''s not revenge, is it? Are you hoping to butcher your way through every Aquilan, one battle in the arena at a time?"


    That was not Arn''s intention ¨C just a fortunate accident that his path home required so much Aquilan blood.


    "I''ve been in your situation, Arn. I came here as a prisoner too. My home lies a thousand miles from here," Mahan explained, and for once, the Tyrian felt interested in his words; he had wondered at that.


    ''Where is your home?''


    "Khiva. It lies far to the east from here."


    Arn had heard of it, but never been that far southeast. And having received a reply, his interest was gone. ''The day awaits us both.''


    "Yes, it does. To breakfast with you."


    *


    With three golden crowns stitched to the inside of his belt, next to his needle, Arn sparred throughout the day. He could feel the change in the ludus where the other gladiators were concerned; how they treated him or just looked at him. No more jibes at his Tyrian origin or that he was a mute. No scornful smiles when he took a blow or failed in his attack. Whether impressed or fearful, they treated him with respect. It made little difference to Arn, but if he had to choose, he preferred this.


    In the evening, he brought an oil lamp with him back to his cell. He had less need of it than most; his sight was superior to others, and his sense of earth acted as a further pair of eyes as needed. But he wanted to be sure leeching the champion''s energy had worked, given how drastic it had felt. Alone in his room, Arn placed one finger inside the small flame that burned in the lamp.


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    He felt the heat, and he would not consider the sensation entirely harmless; but as he removed his finger, he saw no burns on the skin. For three months he had journeyed through midwinter to the land where the sun did not rise, proving himself worthy of a second blessing from the seier-wives; his body and spirit were inured to the elements of any kind. Not something he would need in the arena, but he might at other times, given his activities.


    His mind turning towards those, Arn decided tonight was the right time. Almost a month had passed since he last took advantage of a moonless night; the sky was dark with barely a sliver of light struggling to get through the clouds.


    He could have asked for leave, but doing so too often raised suspicion from an already suspicious weapons master, and he preferred to use that for going to The Broken Mast; should anyone spot him, it was simple to argue why a gladiator might use their time outside the ludus visiting a tavern with harlots. But tonight, Arn had business with Helgi, the loremaster, and he preferred nobody else knew or saw. Too easy for someone to guess what a purveyor of magic might do for a gladiator.


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    With his runes providing strength and stealth, Arn had no trouble sneaking out of the ludus after nightfall. He made his way to the Tyrian quarter by the docks; seeing the street empty, he crossed and entered the hut.


    "Gods, it''s you." The loremaster woke from his sleep. "I thought I locked that." He glanced at the door.


    He had, but locks were made of metal, belonging to the element of earth; a quick touch and burst of magic was enough to convince them to open. Another benefit of Arn''s increased powers. He held up his tablet. He drew the sign for swiftness afterwards, in case the old man had forgotten which to make next.


    Helgi yawned and looked closely at it in the dark. "Fine. I''ll get it done. As long as Magnus agrees to it, of course."


    Arn nodded; he would visit them on his next outing. First, he had another matter to discuss. With his magic being restored at a steady pace, he needed to look to his other plans, including being able to leave the city. He wrote on the tablet, and pointed to the Archean armband that still clung to him.


    "Right. That old chestnut. Look, I have little experience with Archean magic, and it''s unpredictable to mix with our own."


    "Sure. Maybe a rune of unbinding or suppression¡­" Helgi fell quiet, looking up in the dark at his visitor. "Speaking of this, I had a visitor. You shouldn''t come around here again. Best we meet at The Broken Mast or something if we must."


    Arn frowned and motioned for him to elaborate.


    "A mage came looking for you. He described your appearance. He tried to use magic to make me talk, so he''s no Aquilan trickster." Helgi wetted his lips. "He''s Archean, and if I were to guess from his questions, he''s a spellbreaker."


    Arn deepened his frown. He could not recall hearing about them before.


    Helgi sighed. "You don''t understand, do you? Spellbreakers are their ¨C enforcers. Mages trained to fight other mages. They''re exceedingly dangerous, master sk¨¢ld, and more than a match for you in your current state. Maybe the Bladesinger would have stood a chance, but not the remnant of him standing before me now."


    Arn clenched his jaw at hearing his epithet revealed so casually.


    "Ah, calm yourself, brother. Nobody else knows, and I haven''t told. I''m already keeping secrets from a spellbreaker."


    Arn jammed his finger against the single word on his tablet.


    Another sigh from the old man. "Some months ago, three or four, the town criers bragged of your capture and that you''d be thrown to the lions. Of course, I don¡¯t think most Aquilans had ever heard of you before, but they were happy to believe some great enemy of the Empire had been taken captive."


    Now Arn''s fists became clenched as well. Against his will, his mind conjured the memories of mistreatment and scorn suffered during his captivity, along with the dreadful day of being savaged by the beasts in the arena.


    "Do you know why they did this? What did you do to suffer their ire?"


    Although it felt like a weakness, Arn wanted to answer, to air his grievances, knowing perhaps no other person in Aquila would understand.


    Helgi looked from his tablet to his face. "About the southern mark?"


    Arn nodded. Suddenly, he felt tired, and he fell into a seat.


    "Well, brother, I''ve no qualms with what you''re doing. But you''ve caused enough stir for a spellbreaker to be on your trail." The loremaster caught his gaze. "Be careful."


    Arn pointed to his tablets and the words describing his need to be rid of the armband.


    "Alright, I get it. I''ll look into it. But don''t come here again, in case the spellbreaker comes back. I''ll leave a message with the barkeep at The Broken Mast if there''s anything."


    Arn bowed his head and got up. Drawing upon his rune of subtlety, he let the shadows envelop him and left.

 Chapter 27: Thorns

    Thorns


    Arn had no trouble receiving leave from Mahan; he still seemed apprehensive if not hostile towards the Tyrian, but he could not go against the will of his dominus in this matter. And with three golden crowns as his recent winnings, Arn had a good excuse for why he wanted to go into the city, should anyone wonder.


    Not that people usually asked him how he spent his time outside the ludus, but Arn worried that the weapons master might guess the truth about his prowess in the arena one day; he studied Arn''s fighting, on and off the sands, and he had opportunities to stumble upon the truth. It seemed best to have a ready explanation for his visits to the docks.


    Walking on the streets, Arn kept his pacing swift. As ever, the need to return before last bell ended hung around him like a noose, slowly tightening. It galled him, being accustomed to living free on his own terms, but he would endure it while it lasted.


    The Broken Mast looked the same as ever; Arn crossed through to find Lucius in the backrooms. "Ah, the silent Tyrian!"


    Arn pulled his hood closer around, wishing he could slap the man for announcing his origin so loudly, especially with a spellbreaker hunting Tyrians in Aquila.


    "Come to do business? I''ll take you to the see the big chief. Come along." Leaving his card-playing comrades behind, Lucius got up and led Arn through the establishment, same as last.


    Magnus was alone in his office this time, thankfully. "Our ¨C I forgot. What was he again?" he asked of Lucius, seeing the pair enter.


    "Spellblade, chief. I guess what them savages would call a mageknight."


    Nothing close to it, but Arn had no interest in educating thugs on the nature of magic. He held up his tablet.


    "Ah, good. We appreciate a skilled man hungry for work, don''t we?" Magnus looked at his crony.


    "Sure do, chief."


    "And after we saw what you did to the champion of Aquila in the arena, we got no doubt you can carry out my new plans."


    Seeing the smile widen on Magnus'' face, Arn''s own expression froze. They knew he was a gladiator, which gave them powerful leverage over him. While he might trust that Helena would keep quiet, having her own secrets, he had no such faith in these criminals. He could no longer refuse to do their bidding; worse, they might deny him payment and simply demand he complied, silence being his only reward.


    "Ah, look at him, so crestfallen!" Magnus laughed. "Be calm, my friend. This need not affect our arrangement. You do as we ask, and you get your little pebbles from old Helgi. We all keep quiet about each other, and we all stay friends."


    Acceptable, assuming the rogue could be trusted. Though Arn doubted he had a choice; if he tried to back out, he imagined that threats would quickly follow to make him comply. Better to do the task and get something out of it. He had two runes left to restore, one granting him speed, the other faster recovery from injuries. While the latter was useful for a gladiator, Arn expected the former to help him avoid getting wounded in the first place.


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    "Same as last, really. Another thorn in my side that needs removal. Fellow named Karl. Nasty sort, built like a tree trunk with fists like sledgehammers. Prefers to use them for hurting people ¨C he likes the personal touch rather than cutting someone up with a knife, say."


    Despite the gruesome description he gave of the man, Magnus seemed more delighted than anything. Arn got the feeling he probably would have offered this Karl employment if the situation had allowed it.


    "He''s usually holed up in a warehouse near merchant''s gate."


    Not far from Vera''s place, Arn thought to himself.


    "There should be a caravan coming in the next days, which means he''ll be there overnight, sorting out goods, handling ledgers. He''s not just muscle, this Karl." Magnus'' smile faded. "There''ll probably be others around him, but if you go in at night, use a bit of the sneaksman''s craft, you can get him alone. Or you deal with all of them." He shrugged. "Shouldn''t be hard for someone of your mettle."


    "Never had any doubt." The smile returned. "We''ll have your payment ready. Have you told old Helgi already?"


    Arn nodded.


    "Excellent. I look forward to hearing news of your exploits whispered from corner to corner."


    *


    With his hood all the way up to cover his face, even if the damage seemed done, Arn left the tavern. He did not see Iris on the way out, who could be the actual reason that her employer now knew about Arn as a gladiator, though as he considered it, it seemed unlikely. She was unaware of his magical gift and why his current, involuntary profession could be used to extort him. For once, the truth was probably as told to him; his victories and subsequent fame won in the arena had come at a cost.


    And Iris had provided valuable information to Arn, allowing him to piece together certain truths that Magnus with certainty withheld from him. Vera had not been a direct adversary to Magnus, running her own criminal ring, but the lieutenant of another woman, a Sindhian named Aja. Probably, this Karl was another henchman. Magnus was using Arn to systematically dismantle his main rival''s organisation. S§×arch* The n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    This had good and ill implications; it suggested that Magnus had further need of Arn to keep fighting this war until it was won. With a little luck and skill, Arn would have completed his revenge and his escape from Aquila before Magnus considered any form of betrayal. On the other hand, the killing of Vera would have made alarm bells ring in the rest of their organisation, and they would be on the lookout for would-be assassins.


    The location also added further difficulty. Unlike a tavern, Arn would have no excuse to walk inside a warehouse and collect intelligence ahead of his task. Still, any knowledge was better than none, and with a few hours left before he needed to return to the ludus, Arn set a course for the northern gate.


    *


    Following the instructions provided to him, Arn found the warehouse with relative ease. He did not linger, but simply walked by it once. Guards stood outside; if he hung around or moved past it a second time, they would take notice.


    The building had no windows and a single, large gate allowing carts to pass through. Since its purpose was to protect goods from theft, Arn doubted it would have a door or windows in the back; the fewer points of entry, the harder for thieves to gain access. Still, Arn had an idea of how to get inside when the time came.


    Walking home to the ludus, he considered everything he did not know. How the building was laid out inside with rooms, stairs, floors, where his quarry could be found, and how many else might be present. Arn was not concerned whether he could defeat a handful of thugs, regardless of number, but any complication could have unforeseen consequences. Fighting the henchmen might allow his target to flee, or a hidden nook could conceal an enemy and give them the chance to wound him. They would undoubtedly be skittish after the death of Vera, another high-ranking member of their band, and he expected plenty of resistance.


    Everything taken together, Arn felt uneasy about this task; yet it had to be soon. Getting inside without being observed by all and sundry required a moonless night; if he delayed just a few days, he would end up having to wait another month, and more than ever, time felt against him. A spellbreaker pursued him. Mahan was suspicious. Helena knew his secret, as did Magnus; Helgi even knew his true identity.


    Reaching his home, however much he disliked considering it such, Arn knew that he had to act. Not tonight; he would sleep and spare his strength in tomorrow''s training, and strike afterwards.

 Chapter 28: Words in the Night

    Words in the Night


    The following day consisted of the usual routines. At the evening meal, Arn ate while letting Domitian prattle on about whatever was on his mind; the sk¨¢ld did not pay much attention.


    "Domitian, the sister''s here, if you want the rites," another gladiator told him.


    "Ah, thanks." The Aquilan got up and glanced back at his Tyrian companion. "What about you? You still have your lessons with her?"


    Arn looked up at him, taking a few moments to understand everything, as his thoughts had been elsewhere. He finally shook his head.


    He watched Domitian leave the common room; he had not realised his friend had a match tomorrow. Finishing his food, Arn thought about Helena and their last conversation. Matters were cold between them, if not necessarily hostile, but they were also on an even footing. They had the same secret, and neither of them could afford the truth to be revealed.


    Of course, in Arn''s case, it would mean execution. In her case, she would simply be trained as a healer and her skills put to use. He could not fathom why this fate seemed so wrong to her, or rather, why she despised magic to such a degree that she would scorn her gift. Usually, such opinions about magic belonged to either ignorant peasants and commonfolk, afraid of what they did not understand, or the elite, fearful of what they could not control. Arn had never heard of a mage who feared herself.


    Maybe spurred on by his musings, maybe curiosity born of another reason, but Arn ended up drifting towards the training yard. He had arrived at the end of the ritual; each of the gladiators knelt before the priestess, who marked their foreheads and consecrated them for their battle tomorrow.


    As the fighters got up and left, Domitian winked at Arn while moving past him. The Tyrian stayed, staring at the sister picking up her staff. As she turned and saw him, she hesitated; for a strange moment, they simply exchanged looks in the silence that was hard to break.


    Finally, she put her staff aside and signed to him. ''Why did you say you used to sing?''


    He blinked. ''I didn''t. I said nothing.''


    ''Not now. The other night. In the garden.''


    He slowly exhaled. ''I wanted to explain something.''


    ''Which was?''


    Irritated by her swift questions, which emphasised how slowly the right signs came to him, he raised one hand to request silence; ironically, that same frustration was the answer she was looking for. ''I''m slow. With the signs. It''s hard for me,'' he explained.


    She remained silent, physically speaking, waiting for him to continue.


    ''I was a bard. I knew how to say anything through song. Make you laugh, cry. Forgive. Or without song, I could still put words together to say things right. Say them well.'' Bitterness filled his face. ''Now I speak like a child.''


    She regarded him, and with the veil covering her expression, he could not read her reaction. ''An apology is not about how good it sounds, but how sincere.'' S§×ar?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ''Yes. Of course.''


    ''You threatened me. You used me. Lied to me.''


    ''I know. I''m sorry.'' At least those gestures came swiftly to him, and yet they felt so inadequate. ''I was desperate. I was wrong.''


    He saw the fabric move in front of her lips as she exhaled deeply. ''I may believe you, at this point.''


    ''And I am grateful that you taught me these signs.'' Arn thought about saying more, that his conversations with Helena were the only times he felt a little like his old self, that he could forget his circumstances; for one reason or another, he kept quiet.


    ''You used to sing, you say.''


    The residue of a smile touched Arn''s face, mostly because the sudden return to the beginning of their conversation amused him. ''Yes.''


    ''Is that why they cut out your tongue?''


    Any sense of levity abandoned him. That was not the full reason, but part of it. ''More or less. They feared my words, magical or mundane.''


    ''I''m sorry,'' she signed, and it felt odd to watch those familiar gestures coming from her now. ''They''ve treated you cruelly.''


    There was nothing Arn could say to that; he did not want her pity. He did not want to be reminded that he was not a sk¨¢ld, not the Bladesinger, not the man he once was, but a gladiator and hired thug. ''Yes,'' he simply replied.


    ''I should have liked to hear you sing.''


    ''I should have liked for you to hear me.''


    Time was up; she had to leave, and Arn had to go to his cell. "Farewell, Master Arn." She made her departure, and he went to his room, waiting for the full cover of night that he might sneak out and kill a stranger.


    *


    After collecting a sword from a bread stall with a vendor more friendly to Magnus than the local criminals, Arn continued to the warehouse. Although the lack of windows and entrances provided an obstacle, the nature of the buildings also helped to hide his approach. The tall, imposing structures often lay with only narrow pathways between them, covered in shadows thanks to the height of the warehouses. And since none lived here, nobody walked those alleys or stuck a head out the window to watch strangers pass by. The only people would be the guards that patrolled in lazy patterns; easy for Arn to evade with his rune that drew the darkness around him.


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    Reaching his destination, staying around the back, Arn looked up at the warehouse wall. Collecting himself, he drew upon his rune of strength and began climbing. His fingers could barely grip around the bricks, and his boots found no footing, forcing him to haul himself up entirely by the strength of his hands. If not for magic, he would have failed immediately. Now, hanging by less than an inch, his fingers pulled him up.


    It was a gruelling climb, and Arn had no magic that would protect him should he fall. His shoulder complained, not from physical exertion, but the strain he placed his rune of force under, like a muscle suffering from an old injury that never healed right. When he reached the top, he rolled over and lay flat on his back, breathing deeply in relief.


    The darkness on a moonless night gave him some trouble; the warehouse was big, as large as the ludus and the inner house together. His eagle eyes still required a minimum of light to work by, and stomping with his boots would make too much noise; instead, he knelt and touched the roof with his hands, sending a pulse of magic through the stonework to feel where it changed. Following that sensation, his fingertips found wood. A hatch, allowing for escape should a fire erupt and block the only entrance out of the warehouse.


    It was bolted from the inside, with no handle or ring to pull upon. Yet wood, even dead and bereft of life, came from the earth, and it obeyed Arn''s magic. Placing his hand on the planks, he used a burst of spellpower to break it apart. It caused noise, perhaps rendering his earlier caution pointless, but he had to get through. It also left him with precious little spellpower for his abilities, and he would have to rely on his rune of force again to win the fights for him; while Arn only needed to kill once tonight, he doubted he would have the good fortune to only face a single adversary. Reaching through the hole to unbolt the hatch, Arn prepared to enter.


    *


    The warehouse lay in absolute darkness. Arn extended one hand to touch the wall and send his magical sense through the stonework. It gave him a rough idea of the hallway and the doors along either side. He was on the top floor, naturally, but he could not feel what lay below; the sensation provided by his magic faded out, the further it went from him, and it became hard to interpret the jumbled impressions he felt.


    Sword drawn, Arn moved forward. One hand on the wall constantly, he sent out a new pulse of magic every other moment to warn him of tremors in the ground that would herald footfall moving in his direction.


    Reaching the first door in the hallway, Arn looked down at the thin gap between wood and floor. No sliver of light that might suggest someone awake inside, working the late hours balancing ledgers. Of course, this Karl might have gone to sleep already, but Arn could always return and check the rooms he had passed by. He continued.


    Arn knew little of a merchant''s world, but he assumed offices would be higher up, since it was most practical to use the ground floor for storing the goods. So he would avoid that, also the most likely place to encounter guards. But the warehouse was tall and had several levels; perhaps the offices were placed in the middle, and the top was used to provide storage for sundry goods, or sleeping rooms, or other such purposes. That would explain why he saw no light or heard signs of activity.


    Reaching the end of the hallway, Arn''s magical sense told him of a staircase leading to the floors below; trusting his intuition that the offices might be one step below, he moved down.


    Although the winding stairway continued further to the ground floor, Arn stepped off before that, looking down at another corridor. This time, his eyes easily caught the sliver of light below one of the doors ahead. Steeling himself, Arn crept forward, using his rune of subtlety to disguise any sound he might otherwise make.


    Hoping they oiled the hinges ¨C the minor rune on his body could only cloak him to a certain limit ¨C Arn pushed the handle down slowly and pushed open carefully. Across the room, he spotted a hulking figure seated at a desk, back towards him, with an oil lamp burning merrily. Foolish to place the furniture in such a way, blinding yourself to anyone who entered.


    Arn pushed the door further, ready to slip in, when his fears about creaking hinges was made into a mockery; a tripwire stretched across the threshold became pushed as well and pulled a mess of crockery down from a drawer behind the door. The giant seated at the table jumped to his feet, grabbing a great hammer leaning against the wall. "Guards! Guards!"


    With a curse on his lips, if not his tongue, Arn attacked. Despite Magnus'' words about this Karl using his fists like hammers, he had no trouble swinging an actual one with enough force that threatened to break every bone on impact.


    But Arn had magic. He called upon his bladesong, spending his remaining spellpower, and the weapon in his hand leapt to action. With strength that belied Arn''s slender frame and nature, the sword intercepted the arc of the hammer and led it astray, allowing him to step forward. Already, the blade continued with the aim to impale itself in Karl''s chest and claim his life, when, but an inch away, the magic faltered.


    Gold. He wore the accursed metal around his neck, on his hands, his belt buckle, and bootstraps. Like a stench that deadened magic, it surrounded him.


    With a roar, Karl shoved Arn backwards, allowing him to use the range of his hammer again. He swung it repeatedly, forcing Arn to evade. But the small room had barely any space for retreats or manoeuvres, and from the hallway, more enemies appeared to threaten him from the other side.


    Realising these disadvantages could be combined to serve him, Arn moved as far back as he could, allowing the nearest guard to approach him ¨C and thereby get in the way of Karl, unable to swing his hammer without hitting something at this point.


    Arn did not worry about the guards or their number; they did not seem protected by gold, and he could easily kill them. But Karl was both a threat and his task tonight; he had to die for Arn to make his escape and collect his reward.


    Remembering another time he had been in dire straits, Arn reached out with his magic, this time searching for any trace of water. He felt it; calm liquid in a jar, in the corner of the room. Arn dove underneath the guard''s sword and grabbed the jar to throw it at the oil lamp.


    It immediately became extinguished, plunging the place into darkness. The Aquilans cried out, swinging their weapons heedlessly in fear. Arn did not require light; extending his magical sense yet again, he felt every footstep in the room.


    Like an invisible stalker, Arn struck out with empowered strength to land a killing blow at the guard. The sk¨¢ld felt the tremors from his entire body hitting the floor, sending reverberations through the stonework.


    Karl continued to swing his hammer back and forth, hoping to blindly hit something. Arn crouched low and waited until the weapon had passed by before leaping forward, finally sinking his blade into the man''s throat; gold or not, steel succeeded where magic had failed.


    Arn turned towards the hallway, still full of guards. They were frightened; the darkness had turned them into children, fearful of the monsters in the night, except they had good reason to feel this way. A creature moved in the dark, able to see and kill them at ease, and they could do nothing to defend themselves.


    For a moment, Arn considered striking them all down. He could claim the energy of the last, fuelling his magic further. But that would take time and leave him vulnerable afterwards, and he could not be sure if more guards were on their way. This rationale allowed him to overhear the voice that whispered how the old Bladesinger would never have even contemplated slaughtering men without the slightest chance to defend themselves ¨C or worse, that he would earn the disapproval of a priestess whose opinion should be irrelevant to him, and who would never hear of this anyway.


    As the guards continued to yell, swinging their weapons at every sound only to hit each other, Arn shrouded himself with his rune of subtlety and evaded them all, going up the stairway. By the time they brought torches and realised what had happened, he was making his climb down the outer wall, disappearing into the night like a vanishing spectre.

 Chapter 29: Island Trouble

    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. S§×arch* The N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    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 sk¨¢ld''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 ¨C 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.


    *


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    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, 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 ¨C 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 sk¨¢ld 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 ¨C or the woman ¨C 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 sk¨¢ld write a message.


    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. 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,


    "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.


    "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.


    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?"


    Arn hoped as much, anyway.


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


    Arn nodded.


    "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.

 Chapter 30: Impressions

    Impressions


    Arn spent another long night, siphoning power from the rune token he had gained from his latest task. It took until daybreak before he was done, and he would pay the price during sparring for the lack of sleep, but it worked. Throwing the now drained pebble into the air, his other hand caught it with speed that would provoke envy from a diving falcon. The restored rune on his arm sent tremors of pain through his body, but nothing worse than he could handle.


    It would not be much longer now. He had one rune left to restore. Given the number of fights he would have during the solstice games, he could steal enough life force to regain most of his missing powers. With Helgi providing a solution to get rid of the accursed armband that kept him trapped in Aquila, Arn was nearly ready.


    Only revenge awaited him, for which he still lacked a plan and the knowledge to formulate one. But he had stared his enemy in the face, which had proven useful. Arn knew that Salvius did not recognise him, that they were both in Aquila, and that the powers of a mageknight could not contend with those of a sk¨¢ld, not even one so diminished as Arn.


    *


    After breakfast, the Tyrian went to the workshop of the medicus. Domitian still rested on the slab, covered by a blanket with a straw pillow underneath his head. His eyes were closed, but a sheen of sweat lay upon his face.


    Getting the physician''s attention, Arn held up his tablet.


    The old man shrugged. "Ask me again tomorrow."


    Arn grabbed a piece of cloth instead and used it to wipe Domitian¡¯s face. The sensation woke him up, and he stared at Arn with wild eyes. "Northman! You''re back already. You didn''t forget to go, did you?"


    Arn looked over at the medicus and wrote on his tablet,


    Although he grumbled, the old man complied. "Patients sending a medicus out of his own workshop, Stars spare me these gladiators¡­"


    Once alone, Arn wrote,


    Domitian stared at the tablet, his eyes shining with fever. "Who? Oh, Marius! Good, Northman. I only owe him three more."


    "You¡¯ve seen her?" Domitian smiled. "My girl. Isn''t she lovely?"


    Arn was too old to be beguiled by a pair of dark eyes, but this was not the time to argue. He needed to know if his friend was being taken for a fool.


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    "An islander girl. Her parents are dead. She was offered work all the way across over here," Domitian explained. His breathing came with ragged intervals, and Arn regretted making him explain anything. "She learned our language on the ship. Realised the fate that awaited her. The latest exotic addition to some illustrious brothel or another, sold and bartered like an animal in a cage!"


    Not much different than the fate that others suffered, such as every prisoner of war, but Arn kept this argument to himself, hoping his friend would finish talking and resume resting.


    "Once they made port, that clever girl ran for dear life. Those ruffians pursued her, and that''s where I come in." Domitian smiled, staring into the air. "I showed them what''s what, harassing innocent girlies."


    A plausible tale for the most part, except it did not explain all. Arn wavered between letting the matter go and his desire to understand. Finally, he wrote,  S§×arch* The novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    It took Domitian several moments to read the questions; it seemed he had momentarily forgotten he was not alone, and he stared with confusion at the tablet that suddenly appeared before his eyes. "The boy. The money. Money for the boy. We hired a man to bring him over. Join sister and brother. I don''t remember the fellow''s name suddenly. Nasty sort, but only one willing." The meeting suddenly flung his eyes wide open. "I forgot to pay! I was going to go tonight!"


    Arn tried his best to calm him ¨C difficult when unable to speak any words that might sooth his spirit ¨C and used the cloth again to cool him down. This explained where all of Domitian''s winnings went; whether that meant the islander girl was taking advantage of the gladiator or not, Arn figured that was open to interpretation. Regardless, Arn''s curiosity was satisfied. The only thing that mattered now was Domitian returning to good health.


    *


    "Chief, there''s a woman here to see you." A large fellow with a broken nose stuck his head past the doorframe, looking at Marius sitting in the inner room. They were inside one of the small insulae that lay scattered around the docks, occupying one of the larger tenancies rather than those consisting of a single chamber.


    "She looks like she got money?"


    "Her clothes aren''t bad."


    "Send her in."


    A moment later, Vasilia entered, though nothing about her appearance suggested she was a master of the Arcane Tower. She was dressed like a patrician''s wife might be, with a heavy cloak and hood.


    Marius looked her up and down. "How can I serve, good mistress? We offer a variety of services. Problems solved, goods brought in and out, or people. And we accept all kinds of payments." He leered at her.


    A burst of subtle magic left her. "Not wearing gold. Makes it a little easier."


    "Eh?"


    She moved around the desk. Dumbfounded, he looked up at her as she touched his temple, her hand glowing with magic. "You had an encounter with a Tyrian the other day. Isn''t that right?"


    "Yes," Marius replied, his eyes looking vacant.


    "He paid you money?"


    "Yes. Two crowns."


    "And roughed up your men?"


    "Yes. He did."


    "Do you remember how he looked?"


    "Yes. I do."


    "Listen carefully," Vasilia told him, and the glow around her fingers touching his head intensified. "This is how he looked. Young with long, brown hair. And if someone asks if he had scars, you tell them he did not."


    "Yes."


    "Describe the Tyrian whom you met."


    "Young, with long, brown hair." The words came in a monotonous voice.


    "Did he have scars?"


    Marius slowly shook his head. "No, he didn''t."


    Vasilia smiled and pulled back while Marius blinked repeatedly. The glow surrounding her hand dissipated. "Very good. Now I suggest you send your men in here, one by one, so I may have the same conversation with them." Her words came with emphasis.


    Marius nodded to himself, as if the thought was his own. "Aye, good mistress, I''ll fetch the others that you may talk with them."

 Chapter 31: Suspicions

    Suspicions


    Two days came and went. Mindful that Mahan seemed suspicious of him, Arn kept to the routines of the ludus, figuring once a fiveday had passed, it would be reasonable to ask for leave again.


    He visited Domitian during meals, occasionally feeding the big man. Seeing him weakened was a strange sight, even if Arn had watched others succumb to the same fate. No matter the strength or size of a man, the wrong injury could prove stronger. The medicus did his work, but it availed little. At one point, an elixir bought at great expense from an alchemist was provided, and it made the fever abate; for an evening, Domitian seemed his own self. The next day, the fever had returned.


    *


    Late at night, retired to his cell, Arn heard a knock. He opened the door and looked at Mahan. "I got something for you." He held out his hand; as Arn did the same, four golden crowns fell into it. "Domitian''s wish. When he was lucid the other evening."


    Strange. Arn had spoken with him, and the big Aquilan had made no mention of this. Closing his fist around the coins, Arn waited for Mahan to explain, but the weapons master simply left.


    The events at the insula in the docks had receded from Arn''s memory, busy with the routines and concerned about his friend, so it took him a moment to make the connection. Domitian had given Arn all his saved up money to repay that odious thug, Marius.


    Placing the coins inside his belt, next to his needle, Arn knew what to do. He had his own errand by the harbour anyway. He would go tomorrow.


    *


    Mahan kept any suspicions to himself, perhaps sensing that Arn had a task to carry out for Domitian, and he granted the Tyrian leave without questions. This time, Arn set a course for the insula first, wanting to quickly deal with Marius before going to The Broken Mast; he imagined the latter to be the more complicated conversation.


    Seeking out people who looked Tyrian, Arn got directions to the chambers used by the smuggler, moneylender, enforcer, or whatever he was. Stepping into the first room, he saw it occupied by four familiar faces, sitting around a table playing cards; one of them had a broken nose.


    Curiously, Arn''s appearance did not cause the intimidation he had imagined, or the hostility; they stared at him, wary, but not particularly frightened at the sight of a single, unarmed man. Perhaps they had more courage than most who sought that line of work, scaring money out of the weak.


    He held up his tablet.


    One of them got up and opened the door to the inner chamber. "Tyrian fellow out here for you, master."


    "Fine, send him in."


    Marius sat behind his desk, and like his men, he looked up at Arn without fear or even a glint of recognition. "What''ll it be? I''m a busy man, so get to your point."


    Arn imagined how the man''s nose would sound, breaking, as he wrote, He stacked three crowns onto the table.


    Marius looked at him with a sour expression. "That big lout owes five."


    Arn clenched a fist, wondering if he really had to beat it into their heads.


    After a moment, the thug grinned and grabbed the coin. "Worth a try. Tell that oaf his debts are settled. Though I wonder why he keeps sending Tyrians to do his business."


    Only too happy to leave, Arn simply did so without a reply.


    *


    The sk¨¢ld continued just a short while until he reached another insula, this one familiar to him. He gave a few knocks.


    "Who is it?" came Iolana''s voice from inside.


    Frustrated, Arn tried to knock in different patterns, trying to signal his presence.


    "It''s that straw head again!" an old woman yelled, walking past.


    Not sure whether to thank her or slap her, Arn''s deliberations were interrupted as the door opened. On the other side, Iolana stared at him. "It''s you! Please, come inside!"


    Arn did not intend to stay long. He held up his tablet, his message already written on it.


    "Truly?" She squealed in delight and threw her arms around him, almost making him lose the tablet. Awkwardly, he pulled back, and she looked over her shoulder. "Kaleo, say thanks to Master Domitian''s friend!"


    If any sound left the quiet boy, Arn did not hear. He quickly scribbled,


    "Of course. Thank you again, Master Northman!"


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    *


    His duties to Domitian done, Arn set a course for The Broken Mast. By now, it all felt familiar, whether the locale, clientele, or staff. Going to the backrooms, he found the same people as always; one bald Lucius with ears like a troll, surrounded by henchmen gambling and drinking. Though for once, no smirks or grins met him. Instead, Lucius simply got up. "Come on. Let''s see the chief."


    They walked up the stairs to the top chamber of the building. Magnus stood by the window as they entered. "The Tyrian''s back," Lucius declared.


    Still with his back turned to them, Magnus nodded to himself. "Do you know what a spellbreaker is?"


    As the man was not looking at him, Arn had little opportunity to reply.


    "A mage hunting other mages. Supposed to be very dangerous and effective." It seemed like Magnus was talking to himself until finally, he turned to look at his visitor. "And you got one on your tail."


    Arn knew as much; it was why he could not visit Helgi anymore. But he doubted Magnus had said this as a friendly warning.


    "Now, I''ve never cared how you handled your tasks, as long as you did. But this spellbreaker, he speaks of maleficus ¨C evil magic. The sort that gets you executed."


    Arn let his magical sense extend; flashes of heat told him that Magnus wore golden jewellery everywhere. Either he feared his rivals would do to him what he had Arn do to them, or he was afraid of Arn. Possibly both.


    Arn wrote. Which was true enough. He hoped.


    "It better be that way. Whatever''s with this spellbreaker, that''s between you and him. Don''t you dare drag us down with you!"


    Being threatened by men powerless to fight against him had never amused Arn; by now, he was tired of it. But he kept his mouth closed, or rather, his tablet blank, and he refrained from using his magical strength to throw the desk into Magnus''s face.


    "Alright. With that settled," the chief continued, as if he had proven something, "on to business."


    Arn smoothed out the wax on his tablet with slow, deliberate strokes, watching Magnus with an overbearing look.


    "I want you to take care of this Sindhian woman, Aja. She''s wilier, more slippery than most."


    Especially with two of her lieutenants killed, Arn added in his thoughts, noticing that his supposed taskmaster saw fit to keep this from him.


    "She moves around. Rarely sleeps two nights in the same place. But we know she''s got a meeting coming up, a fiveday from now. We know where it''ll be."


    Arn frowned; more people meant greater risk and uncertainty.


    "Don''t give me that face. Not asking you to clear the whole building," Magnus scoffed. "But the meeting is expected to run long. Good chance she''ll stay afterwards and sleep there. That''s when you strike."


    "Best part," Lucius interjected. "It''s a merchant house. Probably to avoid suspicion. Easy for you to get in and out." He smirked. "Dumb bird thinks secrecy will keep her safe. It''s not far from the tavern where you handled the one-eared bitch." He added a description of the building in question, giving Arn some markers to find it by.


    . That was the last Arn needed, and his dealings with this uncouth rabble would be at an end. One way or another.


    Magnus glanced at the tablet with an irritated look. "Yes, yes. Be on your way ¨C don''t want you lingering." He got up and demonstratively turned his back on his visitor, staring out the window instead.


    *


    Moving through the tavern, his hood up as usual, Arn had intended to quickly make his departure, swing by the merchant house to investigate the building, and get back, same as usual. Yet the manner of this meeting left him uneasy; Magnus'' behaviour felt markedly different.


    Deciding to trade risk for information, Arn glanced around the common room until he saw a young woman sitting on a sailor''s lap. Decisively, he strode across the place to reach her and pull her up to stand.


    Spurred on by inebriation and indignation, the sailor got up. "Find your own lass, you ¨C"


    Any insult was cut short by the powerful hand that clamped down on his shoulder, forcing him back in his seat. Sufficiently clear-headed to understand the situation, the sailor slumped down and remained quiet.


    "Why, Master Northman, I didn''t realise my visits left such a fire in your loins." Iris smiled at him.


    He pointed at the corridor where he knew the tavern had private rooms, allowing the girls to do their work.


    "Sure thing, good master." The harlot smirked and followed him until they were alone in a room even less furnished than Arn''s cell back at the ludus. He glanced at the bed and decided to remain standing. "It''s five silvers. Your house only pays for our time there," she explained matter-of-factly. S§×arch* The N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Now came the difficult part. Using his tablet, Arn drew an image of a robed man extending one arm.


    "Oh, I love this game!"


    He added a stone hovering in the air and some lines that he figured could resemble magic.


    Iris frowned. "That''s, what, a wizard? Don''t see any of them here."


    Arn drew Magnus, whom she recognised immediately. He drew a line between them.


    "A wizard working for Magnus?"


    He pointed at the stone hovering in the air.


    "Oh, an earthmage!" Iris clapped her hands together.


    Exhaling, Arn nodded and tapped on the hooded figure.


    "There is a stonemage who works for Magnus, yes. Came last year to repair the walls after a fire." She shivered. "Ghastly experience. What about him?"


    Arn stared at her.


    "Oh, you want his name?" She smiled and held out her hand. "Five silvers, please."


    Grumbling, Arn went through his pocket.


    *


    The merchant house looked entirely ordinary, similar to others up and down the street. Intentional, presumably, to disguise who or what it housed. A walled courtyard allowing a trader to store goods and carts, attached to a building with two floors, providing living quarters and offices all in one.


    Arn took a stroll around the back, noticing various entry points before returning to the street in front. The only thing that distinguished it from other structures was a fellow sitting near the door, dressed like any man might be, but the blade in his belt was not like the short knives that anyone might wear for practical purposes, but a dagger meant for fighting. A scar across his cheek suggested he knew how such fighting was done. Not wanting to draw suspicion, Arn turned away.


    Once back at the ludus, he considered everything he had learned. Not just about the target; they would undoubtedly be on the lookout after losing two lieutenants, and he feared that the deceptively vulnerable merchant house would in fact be a trap of some sort. In addition, he could no longer trust Magnus; the thug knew too many of Arn''s secrets, and he withheld information that the Tyrian needed, perhaps hoping that Arn would die along with this woman, Aja, tying up a loose end.


    It was time for sleep, but Arn made a quick trip to the physician''s workshop first, as he did every morning and evening. Stepping inside, he reached for his tablet, but the old man raised a hand to arrest him.


    "Save your writing, I know the question. You ask the same every time. No, he''s not improved." His face, already deeply furrowed by age, became further twisted. "In fact, he''s taken a turn for the worse."


    Arn looked from the medicus to Domitian, the latter sweating while in the throes of uneasy dreams.

 Chapter 32: For the Sake of Another

    For the Sake of Another


    His various concerns kept Arn from sleep for a while, and when he woke again, daylight brought little relief. He thrust his worries about Magnus and obtaining the final rune token aside for now. Domitian was dying. The fever had him in its grip; infection was spreading through his body, a spectre that could slay the strongest of men. The ministrations of the medicus amounted to naught; nor did the elixirs of apothecaries and charlatan alchemists help. One solution dangled itself right in front of Arn, the most obvious one; the same that had saved him.


    In the morning, Mahan announced who would fight at tomorrow''s games, meaning today was Manday. It seemed a sign from the gods; tonight, Helena would make her recurring appearance. All Arn had to do was convince her to use the powers she hated, when she had barely forgiven him for forcing her to do so the last time, on behalf of a man she barely knew. He exhaled deeply and dug into his breakfast meal.


    *


    She performed the ritual as always in the training yard, and he watched from the shadows meanwhile. Once done, and the gladiators got up and left, Arn waited until the sister noticed him.


    ''Hullo,'' she signed. ''Come to talk?''


    ''I have.'' He approached, and they went to sit on the bench. Figuring that a less direct approach would be best, Arn gestured, ''I''m curious. Why do you do this work? A ludus is an unusual place. The opposite of the convent where you live.''


    He saw the folds of her veil move, disturbed by her mouth curling into a smile. ''It''s not all I do. Pelday, I help give food to the needy. Malday, I work in the infirmary down the street. And the rest of the time, I work in the convent.''


    ''Of course. I didn''t think you were idle the rest of the fiveday.''


    She laughed a little. ''Just making a jest. You''re right, of course. It is at the request of Lord Flavus, the patron of our convent. He also oversees the games.''


    Arn remembered the man; the patrician who had hosted the brawl in his garden where he had the displeasure of encountering Salvius again. Unconscious of his own action, Arn touched his chin.


    ''Some of my sisters attend the other ludi. I was asked to attend this one.''


    ''Our luck.'' He sensed that she smiled again. ''How long have you come here?''


    ''Must be three or four years.''


    Time to approach the actual subject. ''You must have seen Domitian many times, then.''


    ''I have.'' She lowered her face a little, staring at the empty space between them rather than his hands. ''I am sorry to hear of his condition. I will pray for him.''


    Arn wanted to shout that she could do so much more, but physical limitations meant he did not have to worry about restraining himself in that regard. Instead, he considered how to best ask the question he knew would infuriate her. ''He is dying. Medicine and a physician''s care cannot save him. I don''t think prayers will either.''


    ''We can always hope for a miracle.''


    No further delaying. ''A miracle could be made certain. By the right person. Right hands.'' He raised his eyes to look directly into her face, hidden by the black fabric. He saw it move as she exhaled.


    "You can''t be serious. Not again."


    ''Not for me. For him.''


    "Or what?" She switched back to signs. ''You''ll expose my secret?''


    ''No threats. Just a plea.'' Arn did not have to draw on his experience as a performer to convey the heavy concern that lay on him; it came by itself, written on his expression. ''He''ll die. Only you can save him.''


    ''You don''t know what you ask!'' The swift movement of her hands told him of the furore that he could not read on her face. ''I''ve never felt worse in my life than when I helped you. The gods cursed me with this gift, and they punished me for using it. It couldn''t be clearer.''


    Arn clenched his hands, suppressing the urge to tell her that she had simply suffered magical exhaustion, which happened to any novice going far beyond their skills. ''He''ll die,'' he repeated. ''You have the power to save a man''s life.''


    He sensed her staring at him. ''What has this power done for you? Destroyed your life and made you a slave.''


    ''A tool is not good or evil. The same blade that kills the defenceless might be used in other hands to defend the weak.''


    She shook her head. "No," she spoke. "Even the Archeans agree some kinds of magic are wrong. They just don''t understand it''s every kind."


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    ''You pray for these men every time they go to fight. Why can''t you help them now when it would really matter?''


    She stiffened her shoulders. ''Prayer is righteous. We leave it in the hands of the gods.''


    ''But yours already have the power to decide.'' Unable to hold back, he reached out and grabbed her hands, squeezing them.


    "You''re not supposed to touch a Maiden of the Moon," she mumbled, pulling her hands back.


    "Sister Helena! Northman!" From across the yard, Mahan''s voice reached them. He stood in the doorway. "It is late."


    Arn got up and signed to him, ''Can we visit Domitian? I''ve asked the sister to bless him.''


    The weapons master hesitated. "Alright. Sure. Just don''t take long."


    Helena stood up as well, and he imagined an angry look sent his way, though the veil made it hard to tell. He glanced back at her. ''Come on.''


    In the workshop of the medicus, Domitian lay, moving closer to death with each passing moment. The physician had already gone to sleep in the adjoining room.


    Mindful that time was sparse, yet afraid to push Helena, Arn kept quiet and let her see with her own eyes what was at stake, who she condemned unless she acted.


    At length, she looked up at him. ''Why do you care? What difference does it make if he lives or dies?''


    ''He is my only friend.''


    She exhaled, causing her veil to flutter again. ''I won''t do it for your sake. But I will for his.''


    Relieved, Arn pulled away the blanket to reveal bloody bandages covering the wounds on his stomach. Hesitant, the sister placed her hands above the rags, turned rusty in colour. A burst of power left her, and immediately, Domitian shook and trembled. Arn grabbed his shoulders, holding him down, and a moment later, he became calm.


    Helena, meanwhile, ripped the veil from her face and stumbled over to purge herself in a bowl of water, and he quickly looked away. "I don''t know why I let you do this to me," she muttered, wiping her mouth before she placed the fabric back in place.


    ''Thank you,'' he signed, but he was not sure she noticed; she left without further words or even a look in his direction. On the slab, Domitian slept peacefully.


    *


    News of Domitian''s recovery spread through the ludus during breakfast, and it was taken as a good omen for the day''s upcoming fights. Arn ate his meal in silence, never tempted to participate in the discussions that filled the common room; it would be too cumbersome even if he cared enough to make his opinion known.


    The good mood was compounded by it being Solday with Mahan absent, allowing for relaxed sparring. The gladiators laughed and enjoyed the day, Arn included; at times, half a smile even found its way to his face. He visited Domitian, quickly on the mend, though still resting. With the medicus and other well-wishers coming in and out of the workshop, Arn figured it was best to avoid any discussion about Domitian¡¯s private affairs; he simply gave a nod in response to the unspoken question on his friend¡¯s face.


    The omen held true as their fighters returned from the arena, all with victories. A few jars of wine were opened and shared after training, and all seemed well in the House of Ignius.


    *


    Retired to his cell after dark, Arn heard a knock. Opening, he saw Mahan outside. ¡°I should like to talk.¡±


    Having no reason nor really the option to refuse the weapons master, Arn pulled back and let him enter. ¡®Yes?¡¯ he signed, remembering that he could use this with Mahan.


    ¡°Something strange has happened in this house, and I think you¡¯re aware of it.¡±


    Arn bristled at the accusation, primarily because it was true; at the same time, Mahan could refer to several things, and in any case, he had no reason to confirm any suspicions.


    ¡°Yesterday, Domitian was dying. I¡¯ve seen enough injuries to know this. The medicus believed this as well.¡±


    Arn kept his hands quiet, not wishing to encourage this line of thinking.


    ¡°Today, no sign of fever or weakness. That shouldn¡¯t be possible.¡± Mahan stared at him, and the accusation lay unspoken between them.


    Feeling compelled to give some kind of answer, Arn finally replied, ¡®We all prayed for a miracle.¡¯


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen a miracle, but I¡¯ve witnessed magic. That¡¯s the only thing I know of that might bring a man back, hale and hearty, from death¡¯s door.¡± S§×ar?h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Arn did his best to laugh, letting that serve as his response.


    ¡°You brought the sister in here last night.¡± Mahan¡¯s gaze pierced the Tyrian. ¡°What did she do?¡±


    ¡®She prayed. I guess her goddess listened.¡¯


    The weapons master shook his head. ¡°I think she did more. Just like when you were badly injured, and she came to visit you. Soon after, you were well again.¡±


    ¡®What does it matter, magic or miracle? Domitian is well.¡¯


    ¡°She is not sanctioned to work with magic,¡± Mahan hissed. ¡°She could well be considered a maleficar, a practitioner of the evil arts. If it becomes known we have consorted with a rogue mage, this entire house could be tainted by association!¡±


    ¡®Surely not!¡¯


    ¡°The only safe thing is to report her ourselves,¡± the weapons master muttered.


    Arn swallowed. He realised that both honour and reason demanded the same course of action of him. He had to protect Helena, who had only done this because he asked her to, and he needed to give Mahan incentive to keep quiet, lest an official investigation into Helena and the ludus also revealed him to the authorities. ¡®She doesn¡¯t have magic.¡¯ He hesitated, feeling the other man¡¯s agitated state, knowing this would only make it worse. ¡®I do.¡¯


    Mahan looked at him without comprehension. ¡°What do you mean? I think you used the wrong signs.¡±


    ¡®No. I am what you call a mage.¡¯


    The weapons master barked a laugh that turned into a sneer. ¡°You were examined when you first came here. Don¡¯t ever say that again, not even in jest.¡±


    Sighing, Arn reached out. Using his rune of force, he grabbed Mahan by the collar with one hand and raised the big man into the air with ease until his head touched the ceiling.


    ¡°What ¨C put me down!¡±


    Slowly, controlled, Arn lowered Mahan down onto the ground. He released him and carefully signed, ¡®I have magic.¡¯


    A string of words followed in a language unknown to Arn, but he could guess the meaning. ¡°You have magic,¡± Mahan hissed through his teeth. ¡°Do you know what that means?¡±


    Arn figured he did not actually want an answer and gave none.


    ¡°We are all guilty of blasphemy, violating the sacred laws of the arena! They¡¯ll throw us to the lions, this entire ludus!¡±


    Arn saw the opportunity to be glib, but he remained silent.


    ¡°Does the dominus know?¡± Mahan ceased his furious ravings to stare directly at Arn again. ¡°Of course he does. That¡¯s why he lets you do what you want. Eternal Flame, the pair of you have doomed us!¡± He marched out, slamming the door behind him.


    Arn let out a sigh and lay down on his cot. More and more people knew his secret; time was running out.

 Chapter 33: Handling Business

    Handling Business


    Despite feeling uneasy about one more person having discovered the truth about him, Arn steeled his nerves. He had a plan. At the moment with his spellpower weak and a lack of certain abilities such as galdr or major runes, he could not be confident that he would defeat a mageknight.


    He would get his last minor rune restored; while it did not help directly in combat, it increased his natural healing and recovery, keeping him ready for every fight of the solstice games, where he could leech sufficient energy to restore other of his abilities, including regaining enough spellpower to win a magic duel. Meanwhile, Helgi would find a solution to the armband that kept him trapped in Aquila; once freed of that, and with his vengeance taken, Arn would make his escape.


    He tried not to think about every step that could go wrong; every turn that might fall the wrong way. Every person who could betray him.


    Beginning the day¡¯s training, Arn glanced at Mahan, who kept his distance. When the weapons master did approach, he barked his usual orders and corrections before continuing. He put on a good performance, and Arn felt a little less uneasy. If Arn¡¯s magic was discovered, Mahan stood to lose as much as the Tyrian.


    In the evening, while the others piled in to bathe and eat, Domitian hung back and motioned for the Tyrian to join him. They sat down at the bench in the yard, and Arn thought about yesterday¡¯s conversation with Helena in the exact same place.


    ¡°Ah, Northman, I can¡¯t tell you how good it feels to breathe freely and walk around!¡± As if to demonstrate, the Aquilan took a deep breath and laughed. He had only participated sparingly in today¡¯s training, but he seemed fully recovered. ¡°Master Mahan told me my coin was delivered to you. Did I take your silent meaning correctly yesterday that my debt is cleared?¡±


    Arn nodded, lacking his tablet to add any explanations.


    ¡°Good, good. Iolana? You saw her?¡±


    He repeated his gesture.


    ¡°Ah, excellent. But I was one crown short of the debt ¨C did you pay the remainder?¡± S§×arch* The n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The Tyrian gave a modest shrug in confirmation.


    ¡°You¡¯re a true friend.¡± Domitian slapped him on the shoulder. ¡°I shall pay you back after my next victory.¡±


    A shaking of the head. Arn did not need the coin, and he had done more than just spending gold to help Domitian; the repayment of money felt trivial and would cheapen the act.


    ¡°If you¡¯re sure¡­ well, I owe you regardless. You ever need something done, you just let me know.¡± With a wide smile, Domitian got up and left. The Tyrian was unsure what the big Aquilan could do for him, given the sort of trouble Arn found himself in, but it never hurt to have a friend close by.


    *


    A few more sunsets followed, and the day ¨C or rather night ¨C for Arn¡¯s final task on behalf of Magnus approached. He was not concerned that he could accomplish it; those without magic never imagined or understood what could be done by those who possessed it. Especially not these Aquilans when confronted with Tyrian powers. They might expect him in that merchant house, but they would never truly be able to stand against him.


    Instead, Arn was concerned about his taskmaster. Trusting a rogue felt foolish under the best of circumstances; Magnus had held up his end of the bargain so far, but probably only because he still had use of Arn. That would end with the death of this Sindhian woman, Aja, removing his rival. With the spellbreaker on the hunt for him, and Magnus aware that Arn posed as a gladiator ¨C everything made him feel uneasy.


    Though better to know than assume. Hoping to work his way towards some measure of certainty, Arn requested leave and went into the city.


    *


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    It took him a while to find his destination; Iris had only given the scarcest of instructions, little more than pointing him in the right direction. But asking his way forward via his tablet, Arn reached the place. A typical merchant¡¯s dwelling, much like the one he was meant to infiltrate the following night. What set this apart were the services and goods offered.


    Many workshops, taverns, and the like had a sign outside with an image showing their trade, as not all could read. Bread for bakers, a mug of ale for public houses, boots for cobblers and so on. Not the case here. If someone could not read, they would most likely not be welcomed as customers. Instead, the sign simply stated, Glad to have found the place, Arn entered the workshop of an earthmage.


    The courtyard had large stacks and slabs of stone in various stages of shaping. Many were roughly cut, waiting to be changed. Others looked perfectly hewn, like bricks made in a kiln. A few workers hauled them on and off a cart, casting a quick look at the newcomer before resuming their task.


    Arn continued inside into the first room, where a clerk sat behind a desk. She looked up. ¡°Yes? Do you have an appointment with Master Quirinius? Or work already commissioned?¡±


    Arn dug out his tablet.


    ¡°I see.¡± She frowned. ¡°You¡¯ve brought your own cart, workmen? I wasn¡¯t aware of any shipment being readied for today other than the one the men are already preparing.¡±


    Arn explained.


    ¡°Oh, so not for construction. Let me look.¡± She opened the ledger in front of her, and her eyes glanced down the rows. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I see no open tasks for any Magnus.¡±


    She looked again. ¡°Sorry, not that either.¡±


    She glanced up at the scarred Tyrian standing on the other side of the desk. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I can¡¯t divulge information about other customers.¡±


    It did not matter. Arn turned and left. He had found out what he wanted to know, namely that it seemed Magnus had not bought another stone for Helgi to enchant. One might think of reasons why, excuses, but Arn suspected why the old rogue felt no need to prepare payment for Arn¡¯s work. Weighing his options, the Tyrian walked back to the ludus. Tomorrow was the appointed night when he was meant to strike at Aja; he needed to reach a decision fast.


    *


    Arn spent the next day in consideration, in between sparring and getting the occasional hit from Domitian due to being distracted. Ignoring the laughter from the big Aquilan, Arn figured he had a simple choice in front of him; the difficulty lay in examining the reasons to do one or the other. He could do the task as set before him and afterwards deal with Magnus, whether the thug paid him or betrayed him. Or, he could turn on the rogue before he turned on Arn.


    As night fell, the sk¨¢ld waited until the ludus slept. Gathering shadows around him, he made his way out to the training yard. Above him, the moon gave faint light; about ten days had passed since the new moon, which meant more illumination than he felt comfortable with, but time had become a beast snapping at his heels. His rune of subtlety could disguise him to a certain degree, though being caught in full light would still make him visible. A few clouds helped his cause, and when the moment seemed most opportune, he scaled the wall with a single jump.


    A sword awaited him in a tavern allied to Magnus and the smugglers; Arn strapped it to his waist and continued. Soon, he could see his destination, glancing at it while staying behind the corner of another building. Nobody out front, but there would probably be a guard inside the courtyard, watching that entrance. Another patrolled around the back of the building. Arn could perhaps get close and kill him without causing alarm, but it was a risk to take, and a clear hostile action that might not be the best choice.


    Instead, Arn used his rune of force to climb another building further down the street. No watchmen here; the city guard patrolled the thoroughfare, but not the alleys. Once on the rooftop, drawing on the same strength, Arn jumped to the next. Waiting until the sentinel on the ground had slipped around the corner, he made another leap to reach his destination. During his scouting yesterday, he had noticed this particular roof possessed something many older structures did not. A chimney, large enough for a person to climb up and clean ¨C or climb down.


    *


    Covered in soot, Arn barely needed to use his rune of subtlety to pull shadows around him. Several men slept scattered around the common room that had the fireplace connected to the chimney. None of them stirred as a shade moved among them, slipping up the stairs. No doubt they had alarms on the windows and doors, trusting in those to warn them of intruders, like when Arn had infiltrated that tavern to kill Vera, the one-eared woman. They had not considered that where smoke would go up, shadows might come down.


    A handful of rooms above. Cautiously, using his sense of magic, Arn made his way forward, keeping a supernatural eye out for traps or anything out of the ordinary. Opening one door, scouting ahead with his magic, he felt what struck him as a bonfire on the bed; a large collection of gold, meant to keep someone safe from magic. Now it drew the sk¨¢ld like a moth. He unsheathed his sword, looking down at his victim.


    A Sindhian, the woman had darker skin than most Aquilans. She had short hair and a weather-worn face of furrows and lines, making her age hard to guess. Even in sleep, she looked stern. Readying his sword, he placed the blade across her throat, and her eyes opened in shock.

 Chapter 34: A Change at the Top

    A Change at the Top


    In the dead of night, a figure made its way across Aquila. Others were on the streets as well; while solstice would not come for another fiveday, some began celebrations early, and the first travellers had already begun to pour into the city in anticipation of all the games and festivities.


    Avoiding drunkards and revellers, Arn walked to The Broken Mast. A long journey that took him through much of Aquila, and he had about the same distance to cross, getting back to the ludus before daybreak. Though Mahan¡¯s knowledge of his magic made that less of a concern; an excuse for Arn¡¯s absence at morning call could easily be conjured up, and the weapons master would have to play along in order to protect Arn¡¯s secret.


    Sword strapped at his side, the Tyrian entered The Broken Mast. At this hour, it was closed to ordinary patrons, but various henchmen serving Magnus still remained, along with some of the staff serving them. Their number included Lucius, sitting at a table in the common room rather than the backroom with his entourage, now that no outsiders were in the tavern.


    He looked up seeing Arn arrive, letting a pair of dice fall from his hands. ¡°It¡¯s done?¡±


    The sk¨¢ld nodded. He held out a hand in expectation of payment.


    ¡°Horse before plough, my friend, one step at a time. Let¡¯s tell the big fellow. He¡¯s got your payment, anyhow.¡± Lucius got up, interrupted himself to whisper in the ear of his closest compatriot, and moved towards the stairs. ¡°Let¡¯s go, Northman.¡± They moved through the building until outside Magnus¡¯ chamber. Lucius held out a hand to make Arn halt and knocked on the door. ¡°Chief? The Tyrian¡¯s back. Says the task is done.¡±


    ¡°Let him in.¡±


    Despite the late hour, Magnus was behind his desk in his usual clothes, having awaited Arn¡¯s arrival. The Tyrian looked him over, as always noticing the missing nose tip, making it look like a snout. In addition, using his magical sense, he realised that both men in the room wore various pieces of golden jewellery.


    ¡°You done with the sword? We don¡¯t have an endless supply of them you can use,¡± Lucius remarked casually, as if he had no ulterior reasons for asking Arn to disarm himself.


    The sk¨¢ld ignored him and reached out a hand towards Magnus. Last chance for the thug to prove Arn¡¯s misgivings false.


    ¡°First, I want to be sure. The Sindhian woman is dead? How did you kill her?¡±


    Arn smiled to himself and shook his head. These questions were just to stall for time, giving Lucius¡¯ footmen from downstairs the opportunity to get in position. Too predictable. With one look from goblin ears to pig snout, he drew the short blade they had lent to him.


    Both of them seemed surprised and apprehensive until Magnus exhaled. ¡°No point in the charade, then. Sorry, lad, you¡¯ve just become too much of a liability. Boys, get him!¡± he shouted while Lucius pulled the door open. A handful of thugs burst through the opening, all of them protected by gold.


    Drawing on his strength, Arn decided to teach them they were woefully unprepared. He grabbed the desk in the room with his free arm and threw it at the men in the door. They all either went down or fell backwards, several of them with broken bones.


    As Magnus shrieked in fear, Arn turned to Lucius, the closest opponent still on his feet. He had drawn his own sword, and the golden rings on his fingers and arms kept Arn from using his spellblade abilities.


    But Arn was still a gladiator. He trained swordplay for several hours a day. With ease, he disarmed Lucius and grabbed him by the collar, pulled him around, and finally pushed him out of the window. His screams reached them briefly as he fell several floors down, coming to a sudden halt.


    Some of the henchmen were back on their feet, crawling over the splintered desk or their comrades to get at Arn. As with Lucius, the Tyrian did not require magic; superior swordsmanship proved sufficient. As it turned out, spending nights gambling dice and drinking did not prepare for combat against someone who spent their days training in a ludus.


    Perhaps if the surprise had succeeded ¨C had they gotten through the door to surround Arn, or if he had surrendered his weapon beforehand¡­ It did not matter. The last of them died or fled.


    Finally, Arn turned to Magnus, huddled up in a corner. He wished that he could leech the man¡¯s life, making the most of the opportunity, but he did not dare to weaken himself; the backlash would prevent him from fighting properly, and he could not know what lay ahead in the next hour. Instead, he simply slashed Magnus across the throat, right above his golden necklace, and left him to bleed out. By the time Arn was through the door, the chief was already dead.


    *


    The noise of fighting, including a desk shattering and a man pushed out of a window to fall screaming down to the ground, all of it had alerted the tavern and the neighbourhood. Yet the residents knew to stay indoors and stay clear; anyone walking down the street turned around. The exception was a gang of well-armed ruffians, led by a Sindhian woman, who moved with determined strides towards The Broken Mast.


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    Arn was still inside, making his way downstairs. Bloody sword in his hand, nobody questioned him among the chaos of the tavern residents preparing themselves for a fight; what remained of the guards and henchmen, at any rate.


    His part done, Arn continued to the ground floor. He went to the wing with the single bedrooms, all in a row, occupied both during the day and at night, but currently empty. Continuing his search, he went to the large kitchens that supplied the establishment with food, whether staff or customers.


    As soon as he stepped past the threshold, a hand came swinging at him, wielding a dagger. Grabbing the attacker by the wrist with his empowered speed, courtesy of his rune, Arn stopped himself from squeezing or breaking the weapon out of her hand. In the dark, he saw all those who worked at the Mast without necessarily being a part of its criminal ring. Barkeeps, waitresses, and the harlots, including Iris.


    Pushing his attacker away, one of the serving girls, Arn raised his empty hand to command calm. Realising his other hand grasped a bloody sword, he lowered it.


    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s alright!¡± came a voice. ¡°That¡¯s the Northman. He¡¯s a good sort. Not here to savage us, I bet.¡± Iris pushed herself forward. ¡°You¡¯re not, right?¡±


    Arn shook his head. On the contrary. He motioned for them to move further back before turning around, positioning himself in the door opening, blade ready. Blood and violence lay in the air tonight; already, screams could be heard as those loyal to Aja dealt with what remained of those loyal to Magnus. But if any thought they would find easy prey among the unarmed staff of the Mast, Arn would prove them wrong.


    He could not readily explain why he had chosen to do this. Not long ago, he might have argued that those too weak to defend themselves did not deserve that others would do it on their behalf. He owed these people nothing; they were strangers to him, except Iris, and while she had provided him help, she had taken payment for it.


    All the same, a voice told Arn that he had instigated the violence tonight, even if it was the consequences of Magnus¡¯s actions as well. The sk¨¢ld he had once been would not stand idle by. His anger towards the world and all of its inhabitants had begun to be quelled; he did not hate all of them, as taught to him by the Aquilan empire and its arena. Some of these people, the voice whispered, he cared about. And a Tyrian protected his tribe.


    Arn did not like this voice, but being mute, he found it hard to gainsay its arguments. So he stood watch as The Broken Mast fell to its assailants in a night of blood and strife.


    *


    Arn had to intervene twice, as different thugs either forgot or ignored their orders to leave the regular staff alone. He did not require magic, nor did he kill them; the skill of a gladiator proved sufficient to disarm or knock them senseless. Realising the way was barred by a defender beyond their abilities, Aja¡¯s henchmen retreated and searched the rest of the tavern, finishing their gruesome task. Within an hour, The Broken Mast had been conquered, like a citadel taken by storm.


    With the noises of battle gone, Arn ventured forth with his charges following right behind; they all had the wits to understand who offered the best chances for survival on a night like this.


    The common room, usually marked by festive mood and good cheer, had turned into a battlefield. Any of Magnus¡¯s men had followed their master¡¯s fate. With Arn killing Magnus and a handful of his warriors, along with the complete surprise achieved, the rest had not put up much of a fight against Aja¡¯s ruffians. Already, the latter had begun removing the bodies and the worst of the carnage. In the midst of it all, a conqueror surveying her victory, stood the Sindhian woman.


    Arn approached her, still wary; their alliance had been one of extreme convenience, especially on her part, given that Arn had made his suggestion with a blade at her throat. He hoped she was sensible enough to understand that if he could threaten her life, kill two of her lieutenants, and deal with Magnus and his men, it would be folly to make the same mistake and contemplate betrayal. S§×ar?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Though should she lack the sense, Arn had spared his spellpower and stood ready to give combat; same reason he had not leeched energy from any of his kills.


    ¡°The silent Tyrian. This worked better than all expectations could have imagined,¡± Aja declared with a satisfied tone. ¡°When you suggested this little turnaround on Magnus, I did wonder if this was some devious trap. Still, couldn¡¯t be more dangerous than the sword you had at my throat.¡±


    Arn nodded without paying attention. Ever since losing his ability to speak, he had also lost his interest in hearing others speak on end; unfortunately, his silence seemed to make them only eager to fill that void with their own words. With some difficulty, he managed to hold his tablet and sword with one hand, unwilling to relinquish the weapon; his left hand clumsily wrote down his words.


    ¡°Everything stands. You¡¯re a friend to me from now on, and I¡¯ll cover the cost for that little stone you spoke of. I already dispatched ¨C ah, speak of the Star, I assume that¡¯s him.¡± One of her minions appeared with Helgi in tow. The old man looked at the large blood stains, visible in the faint light of oil lamps. ¡°You¡¯re the loremaster?¡±


    He looked from his fellow Tyrian to Aja. ¡°I am. Is the Mast under new leadership then?¡±


    ¡°You could say as much. I gather you have an arrangement with my stern-faced friend here?¡±


    Helgi nodded. ¡°Aye. I¡¯ve made a few tokens for the lad.¡±


    ¡°Good. I owe him another. Do as you have before, and I¡¯ll pay as required.¡±


    ¡°Sure. I use ¨C used Magnus¡¯s connection with Quirinius, the stonemage. Will you be able to do the same? I can¡¯t make do with any old rock.¡±


    Aja gave a slow nod. ¡°I¡¯ll get you in touch with the earthmage I use myself.¡± She looked at Arn. ¡°Anything else?¡±


    The spellblade gestured at Helgi before making the rune of recovery on his tablet.


    ¡°Oh, yes, got it. I¡¯ll enchant that for you.¡±


    One last thing on Arn¡¯s mind; he quickly wrote down his thought and showed it to Aja. He motioned with his head at the serving staff and harlots still clustered some steps behind him.


    The Sindhian woman gave a sardonic smile. ¡°I¡¯m no monster. There¡¯ll be need of their hands come daylight. In fact, I think I¡¯ll stay here for a while and see everything sorted under my leadership. I am rather light on lieutenants, after all.¡±


    Arn shrugged and packed his tablet away. He gave a small bow, figuring a little courtesy was not entirely out of place, and walked out of the tavern, sheathing his sword. He would have to stash it somewhere or throw it away; he could not bring it into the ludus. With quick steps, he made his way towards his home; daylight would arrive soon.

 Chapter 35: Divine Debate

    Divine Debate


    Arn slept well that night, pleased that he had avoided a trap, turning the snare against his would-be hunter. This had also reduced the number of people who knew his secret as a spellcasting gladiator, removing the greatest danger to that vulnerability. Ignius, Mahan, and Helena all had good reasons for keeping quiet, or they would suffer their own consequences. Helgi was another matter, but the old loremaster was not entirely devoid of loyalty to a fellow Tyrian and sk¨¢ld.


    Magnus had been the most likely to sell him out, especially if feeling pressured by this spellbreaker who seemed to hound Arn¡¯s steps; another reason for caution, though so far, the Archaean mage had not come close to finding his quarry.


    The next day proved to be Manday again, which prompted the return of a regular visitor to the ludus. As usual, Arn waited until the fighters for tomorrow¡¯s games had been blessed, watching the ritual. Strangely, he felt uneasy, looking at the priestess of Luna. Helena had agreed to help him again, despite her intense dislike for using magic; it had been necessary to save Domitian¡¯s life, yet Arn was bothered at the thought of her being upset with him for asking her.


    They had tentatively mended relations after Arn had forced her to use magic the first time, and he had potentially destroyed any such progress. He was troubled by this, and furthermore uncomfortable realising that this troubled him in the first place; he did not care to examine his own reasons. He simply noticed the small pang of relief as she signed a greeting to him, once her ritual with the fighters was at an end, and he pushed these thoughts aside. S§×ar?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡®Good evening,¡¯ he responded to her as he approached, and they sat down on the bench.


    ¡®How is Domitian?¡¯


    ¡®His strength is back, and he is none the wiser. Nor is anybody else.¡¯ At least where Helena¡¯s involvement was concerned; Arn saw no reason to admit that he had revealed his own circumstances to Mahan.


    ¡®Good. I¡¯m glad he is fine.¡¯


    Pushing his luck, Arn let curiosity ask his next question. ¡®Why do you dislike magic so? You have seen twice now the power it holds.¡¯


    ¡®I have also seen how that power can be abused.¡¯


    ¡®You worship the Moon, do you not?¡¯ he asked next.


    ¡®It¡¯s a little more complicated. Luna is the Lady of the Moon. It is her sign, her symbol to us, her light given to us in darkness.¡¯


    ¡®And that same sign, that light, strengthens magic,¡¯ Arn told her, wondering if she knew about this.


    She frowned. Evidently not. ¡®What do you mean?¡¯


    ¡®Magic is like water, difficult to grasp, and it follows its own rules for the most part, different from land to land. But among the few constants is that spells are better in moonlight. Herbs harvested at full moon have stronger properties, and magic rituals are best done at such an hour,¡¯ the sk¨¢ld explained, pleased that he could elaborate in such a fashion using only signs.


    ¡®I wouldn¡¯t know about that.¡¯


    Arn watched the black veil that covered her face, hiding her expression. Did she look displeased, or was she trying to suppress curiosity? Did the discussion bother her, or was she animated by arguing with him?


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    ¡®You are competing in the solstice games, I take it.¡¯


    Helena had taken advantage of his silence to change the topic. He gave a brief nod. ¡®I am.¡¯


    ¡®And last year¡¯s champion is not competing. Thanks to you.¡¯


    Arn¡¯s thoughts returned to that fight; brief and intense, but dangerous all the same, duelling another mage. ¡®Don¡¯t feel sorry for him. He used magic too.¡¯


    He could almost tell the scandalised look behind her veil. ¡®No!¡¯


    ¡®Yes. No wonder he made champion.¡¯


    A sigh issued from her. ¡®Is nothing sacred? Is nobody honest?¡¯


    ¡®Not where money, power, or women are concerned, in my experience.¡¯


    ¡®Bleak, but believable, I suppose.¡¯


    ¡®Will you watch the games?¡¯


    She shook her head. ¡®Solstice, whether summer or winter, is our busiest time. Lots of rituals that can only be done during those days, and in between, the city is full of visitors. Plenty of people who need our help for one reason or another.¡¯


    ¡®So you¡¯ll be busy taking care of those doing poorly, while I¡¯ll be busy making them feel poorly.¡¯


    Half-hearted laughter came in response. ¡®I guess.¡¯


    ¡®It seems we are opposites in every way.¡¯


    ¡®Like the sun and the moon.¡¯


    ¡°Sister Helena!¡± Mahan¡¯s powerful voice reached them. ¡°It¡¯s getting late.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± She bowed her head to Arn and rose, picking up her staff as well.


    While she left for the inner gate that separated the gladiator quarters from the residence, Mahan followed Arn to his cell. ¡°What does the pair of you talk so much about?¡± he asked with a squint at the northerner.


    Arn shrugged. ¡®Gods.¡¯


    ¡°A theological debate between a nun and a mute Tyrian,¡± Mahan muttered. ¡°Keep to yourself, Northman. You¡¯ve brought nothing but trouble to my ludus ever since you arrived.¡±


    The sk¨¢ld smiled and closed the door. He wondered if the weapons master would change his tune once Arn won the solstice games. Probably not, if he knew how much stronger all the victories would make Arn¡¯s magic. Pleased with himself, the sk¨¢ld went to sleep.


    *


    High in the Tower of the Arcane, Atreus the spellbreaker leaned back in his chair. He sat in the red wing opposite Cora, one of the three masters of the Tower. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but I have found nothing.¡±


    ¡°How certain are you?¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°As certain as one can be? I have looked thoroughly into both of your fellow masters. You¡¯re right that Vasilia has bought corpses ¨C she got them from the arena, which is quite clever ¨C but while that may be against Aquilan law, it is not against ours to conduct anatomical studies on the dead. As long as you¡¯re not making them dead in the first place.¡±


    ¡°Every would-be necromancer claims they¡¯re just getting corpses for anatomical studies!¡±


    ¡°I know that better than anyone,¡± the spellbreaker replied, and his voice was less jovial. ¡°But I¡¯ve not come across as much as a reanimated fingernail around her, or elsewhere in the city, for that matter.¡±


    ¡°But you haven¡¯t been to the white floor. You don¡¯t know what she could hide there.¡±


    ¡°No, and I am not permitted to break into a master¡¯s chambers based on pure speculation,¡± Atreus chided her.


    ¡°What of the undead abomination seen in the streets?¡±


    ¡°Unrelated. Certainly not of Archean make. A Tyrian is involved. Whether a berserker or sk¨¢ld is hard to tell.¡± He cleared his throat. ¡°Somehow, he eludes me still.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have thought some northern brute could evade Archen¡¯s most accomplished spellbreaker.¡±


    ¡°Every lead I investigate turns up nothing.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps he has left the city already, and you are wasting your time,¡± Cora considered. ¡°There are more suitable targets for your inquisitive eyes.¡±


    ¡°I have people watching the docks and the gates,¡± Atreus retorted. ¡°Though he may have slipped past,¡± he admitted a moment later. ¡°Regardless, I will spend my remaining time as I see fit, pursuing actual signs of maleficus rather than the speculative kind.¡±


    ¡°Yes, you were rather eager to leave when we first spoke, and now you delay on account of some barbarian.¡± The mage in red watched him carefully.


    ¡°I am a spellbreaker. I hunt maleficars wherever they are, whomever they may be. But you¡¯re right ¨C the celestial conjunction draws near, and I should be in Archen before that. You¡¯ll be rid of me soon enough.¡±


    She sighed. ¡°Perish such insinuations. My concerns leave me frustrated, but I appreciate that you took the time to look into matters. Even if I¡¯ll never be convinced that the good Vasilia is as pure as those white robes she wears.¡±


    Atreus gave a wry smile as his only response.

 Chapter 36: On the Threshold

    On the Threshold


    A fiveday came and went, but as Solday arrived, none of the gladiators from House Ignius left the ludus to fight in the arena; instead, they gathered in the common room to be addressed by the weapons master.


    ¡°Listen closely! The solstice games begin tomorrow. For the benefit of those new to our ludus, I¡¯ll explain briefly. It¡¯s simple enough even you lot can keep up.¡±


    Some laughed at this, though most seemed subdued. While few showed any signs of being anxious, everyone knew that they would be pushed to their limits, and they might not all live to see the end of the games.


    ¡°Everyone has a fight tomorrow. If you win, you got another the day after. Win that one, you get another, and so on. You lose, you¡¯re done in the games ¨C and pray that¡¯s the worst of it.¡± Mahan¡¯s stern gaze swept over them. ¡°All the best from every ludus will compete to be crowned champion and get the spoils. The competition is fierce, not to mention deadly.¡±


    Nobody laughed or smiled anymore.


    ¡°Those that get through the first four days will fight the grand melee on the fifth day, but I¡¯ll discuss that when the time comes ¨C with those still in the games. For now, all of you, think only about the fight you¡¯re facing. Don¡¯t fill your head with thoughts of the fifth day or becoming champion,¡± Mahan warned them. ¡°Distractions are how you lose.¡± S~ea??h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Arn had hitherto felt confident about these games, given his own advantage, but he had not known their nature. A big fight posed dangers for him despite his powers; it was impossible to be aware of everything happening in such a chaotic battle, all against all, and he would be a prime target, considering he took out last year¡¯s champion. Taking a deep breath, the Tyrian considered that he best pay attention to the weapons master when the day arrived.


    *


    After long hours of sparring, Arn wanted nothing more than to sink into sleep. But he had an errand to run, and it seemed wise to have it dealt with before the games tomorrow. Thus, when everyone slept, Arn shrouded himself in shadows and left the ludus.


    He made his way to the home of Helgi with the assumption that by now, his final rune token would be done. It would have been more comfortable to visit him in the evening, but since that spellbreaker might still be on his trail, Arn preferred caution. Besides, he would not get much sleep tonight regardless, as it would take most of the nocturnal hours to drain the stone of its magic and reactivate his rune.


    Getting inside the house unseen was child¡¯s play at this point for the sk¨¢ld, and he shook the old man awake. ¡°You! Sneaking in here like a thief!¡± Helgi grumbled. ¡°A man¡¯s home is sacred!¡±


    Arn shrugged, not willing to expend the effort for a longer reply. He held out his hand and pointed at the empty palm.


    ¡°Yes, yes, stow your sails. I¡¯ve got it.¡± Helgi got up, wearing only a nightshirt, and rummaged around a drawer until he could pick out the rune token and hand it over.


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    Arn grasped it with delight. A rune of recovery would speed up his natural healing after every fight or exertion. While it did not help him as such in his fights, it would be of use in between, and especially in the coming fiveday that promised battle after battle. Furthermore, this was the last of the minor runes on his body; with it restored, Arn felt he had taken a significant step in returning to his former self.


    But it was not all he needed from the loremaster. He held out his arm, still adorned by the Archean armband that he knew little of, including its origin. He did not believe that the lanista, down on his luck, had the means to acquire such an item. Crucially, if it truly could track him, he needed it gone before he made his escape. For that, he needed Helgi.


    ¡°Yes, yes, I¡¯ve not forgotten. I think I can craft a rune of unbinding with sufficient strength to remove it,¡± the old Tyrian considered. ¡°But it¡¯s not easy. I need the right materials. I¡¯ve sent word, but it¡¯ll be at least two fivedays before any ship from home will arrive, bearing what I need.¡±


    Arn frowned, digesting this. He could wait ten days, if need be; the solstice games would consume the next five regardless. But not much longer. He took out his tablet and wrote,


    ¡°Bring all the coin you have,¡± Helgi added. ¡°Getting this all the way from Tyria isn¡¯t cheap.¡±


    Winning the solstice games should provide more than enough gold.


    *


    Arn made a swift return to the ludus, keeping his hood up. The streets were full, even though the festivities were only supposed to begin tomorrow. Arn had never spent solstice in Aquila before; he had barely visited the Empire until his involuntary trip to the Imperial capital. Part of his old curiosity as a sk¨¢ld awoke, wondering what rituals and significance this held to the Aquilans.


    In Tyria, they would be preparing the bonfires for the shortest night. Many would journey to the solstice thing of the nine tribes, where grievances could be aired and resolved without bloodshed, and the seier-wives might be consulted for their wisdom. A large market would naturally spring up; people from across the northern lands travelled to the moot, which meant that so did peddlers and merchants.


    Arn recalled last year¡¯s solstice thing with sudden clarity as he walked on, dodging drunkards and piles of refuse on the street. A delegation from Aquila had explained their wishes to establish colonies in the wastelands between Tyria and Aquila, south of the Frosten river, and their hopes for peaceful relations.


    Some had spoken on their behalf, arguing increased trade; Tyria ever hungered for metals, and many luxuries could only come from the south. In turn, the furs, whale ivory, and amber of the North was greatly prized by the Aquilans.


    Arn had spoken against. He remembered his words still. ¡°These Aquilans come to us with honey-coated words and gilded promises. But any man here who wishes to dress his children in cotton or offer his wife jewellery, let him take a ship south and make the trade as we have always done! What does it matter if the journey takes ten days rather than five? Are we so desperate for silver, so hungry for silk that we must have it on our doorstep?¡± He had swept his gaze across the assembly before lingering on the Imperial emissary, a mageknight named Salvius. ¡°I have not heard any ask why the Aquilans desire this. Why this eternal thirst for land? They have a whole empire, and still they must have more! No, I say. Let them stay within their borders, and we shall be within ours. Let the empty lands remain empty, and we shall have no quarrel. A distant neighbour is a peaceful neighbour.¡±


    That had ended the debate, the words of the Bladesinger swaying most of the assembly. The seier-wives were silent on the matter, leaving it in the hands of the solstice thing, who voted against accepting Aquilan expansion. Arn had figured that was the end of it; he could not have imagined the course of events this would unleash for him personally.


    Back at the ludus, he went to his cell, hand grasping the rune token tightly. Pushing thoughts of the past away, knowing he could not afford to lose focus in the coming days, Arn began to pull the magic from the stone into himself, restoring his final rune.

 Chapter 37: Days of Summer

    Days of Summer


    Trumpets rang, the sun reflected in the bronze. Across the sands, twenty-one raised platforms stood, scattered throughout the area, being smaller arenas within the larger, original one. The officials ushered two gladiators to each pedestal, sending them up the ladders to stand opposite their adversary, forty in total; the master of the games occupied the twenty-first platform on the middle.


    ¡°Good people of Aquila!¡± he called out, his voice magically amplified. ¡°Today, we honour Sol with games in his splendour! Let the blood of the arena be a sacrifice to his name and glory!¡±


    The crowd shouted and roared in response. Arn, wielding his long blade and buckler as usual, did his best to avoid the distraction they posed. He had one fight ahead of him, one opponent in front of him; he would kill the man, and his work for the day was done. Others would take their place on the platform, continuing the next round of games, but their fate was their own.


    Despite his intention to consider only the battle awaiting him, Arn thought about the sheer magnitude of these games. Hundreds of gladiators would fight today, twenty pairs at a time. Tomorrow, half would fight again, and tomorrow, the half that remained of them, all the way until the fifth day.


    Across from him stood a triarius, likewise ready. He fought with a spear, which all other things being even, would give him an advantage in reach. Fortunately for Arn, one other thing was not even.


    A ritual took place, still on the main platform. Arn had never seen this before, as he had always spent the beginning of these days in the tunnels below the arena. A hint of the bard¡¯s curiosity made him look over to see a bull be sacrificed, its blood splattering across the wooden planks; he wondered briefly how they had gotten such a large animal up there. Maybe the central pedestal had a ramp on the other side he could not see.


    Some kind of chanting took place, holy words spoken or prayers invoked; Arn had no interest anymore, his curiosity already sated. He did not believe the Aquilan gods cared who won or lost in this place, or about the blood spilled in their honour to entertain the crowds; or if they did, they were cruel and unworthy of reverence. A man might take up arms and fight for a variety of reasons; doing so for the amusement of others seemed among the poorest.


    The ritual reached its end, and Arn readied himself. ¡°Fight!¡± came the command, and forty gladiators obeyed.


    With so many battles taking place to entertain the crowd, Arn saw no reason to prolong the inevitable just to put on a spectacle. He called upon his bladesong, and spellpower took over his hand, making the sword move on its own. With preternatural skill and speed, he parried past his enemy¡¯s spear and slashed him across the chest with enough force to cut leather, skin, and flesh apart.


    Shocked, the triarius dropped his weapons and fell to his knees. His tongue lolled out like a dog¡¯s, and he stared with wide eyes at his death.


    Arn would have mumbled an apology if he still could he speak, though the reason for this sudden impulse eluded him; he did not know this man nor cared if he lived or died, and the Tyrian had already claimed plenty of lives in Aquila. All the same, he felt a strange twist of guilt as he struck his sword down for the killing blow.


    The rush of power as he leeched the dying man¡¯s energy pushed away such thoughts. Within Arn, his seier grew stronger, reinforcing his abilities and resistances. He dropped to one knee, the backlash taking its toll as always, but far less severe than when he first began. While it left him vulnerable for a few moments, and he would not relish if he had to fight afterwards, it no longer incapacitated him.


    Getting back on his feet, he wondered if it would continue to lessen; could he one day kill a man and take his life force as easily as taking a breath? If he could transform it into spellpower, it would allow him to continue casting his abilities on end, never growing tired. He would become an unstoppable force on the battlefield ¨C Arn exhaled, interrupting his own thoughts. That was not his aim. He took what he must, to fulfil his task. Distracting himself, he looked around at the carnage unfolding on the other platforms.


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    *


    An official climbed up the ladder and glanced at the fallen gladiator before turning to Arn. ¡°What¡¯s your name and your house?¡±


    The Tyrian gave him a tired look.


    ¡°Oh, are you one of the mute ones, or those who don¡¯t speak Aquilan?¡±


    Grumbling, Arn held up one finger to indicate the first option.


    ¡°Right.¡± The official ran his eyes over his tablet, containing a row of names. ¡°And you look Tyrian,¡± he added with a quick glance up. ¡°Ah, let me guess, you¡¯re Arn? Sounds Tyrian. For House Ignius?¡±


    The sk¨¢ld nodded with a weary expression.


    ¡°Very well. Your victory has been noted. You may return underground. See you tomorrow.¡± The official swiftly climbed down the ladder and proceeded to the next platform.


    Arn descended at a slower pace; around him, other gladiators also came down, and they made a tired march towards the tunnels while the people cheered.


    Looking up at them, the Tyrian felt only contempt. A well-sung tale of battle could be stirring and entertaining, sure, but such a battle would have been fought by warriors each with their own reasons. Ambition, revenge, protecting their homes ¨C all causes worth celebrating or mourning in song and tale.


    This battle, this fight in the arena, was fought only to sate the bloodlust of those who would never pick up a weapon nor cared for any reason why a man might do so. With each step through the arena, Arn¡¯s loathing increased. Thunraz, grant me strength to see this to the end, he prayed, welcoming the darkness of the tunnel as he left the sunlight of the open arena behind.


    *


    The next day, Arn fought in one of the latter rounds. Two hundred gladiators remained after yesterday¡¯s initial culling. As the fights progressed, he watched them drag the dead into the furnace room; the dying were brought to the physicians, who gave them drops of laudanum to ease their passing. Those with minor wounds had them treated afterwards, grumbling about their defeats, but probably silently grateful that the arena workers were not shovelling their body parts into the furnace right now. As for those who had gained their second victory, their mood soared as could be expected.


    Arn spent the waiting time with the other gladiators from House Ignius, those that remained, and Mahan. The weapons master gave them final instructions, as usual, except for Arn; perhaps he thought the Tyrian did not need them, or that he did not deserve them. Sear?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Watching Domitian return, head held high, Arn gave a vague smile and nodded in acknowledgement. ¡°Show them why they should fear you!¡± the Aquilan shouted, causing others in the waiting hall to turn and stare, as he slapped Arn on the shoulder. Strapping the buckler to his wrist, Arn gestured with his head in acknowledgement; it was his turn.


    He faced a legionarius this time. The man visibly paled seeing the scarred Tyrian enter the platform, and he began mumbling prayers.


    The official gave the signal to fight, and magic proved stronger than any pleas for Sol or Malac to intervene. With a few swift strikes, Arn decapitated the man and took his energy.


    *


    Third day. A hundred left. Arn faced another triarius. As the man¡¯s blood sprayed across his face, Arn felt a moment of remorse before the euphoria of the stolen life force took over, banishing any thoughts of guilt. The backlash still hurt, and he limped away, but the sensation of the power almost overtook the taste of bile in his mouth and the aching of all his muscles.


    Back at the ludus, the mood felt suppressed; one of the gladiators had been grievously wounded during the day¡¯s matches, and he died on the journey back from the arena. One by one, the fighters entered the physician¡¯s workshop and bade Titus farewell. Tomorrow, his family would collect the body for the funerary rites; their solstice celebration had ended early.


    Although Arn had no words to speak, he followed the custom, entering the workshop after Sigismund. He looked down at the fallen gladiator; part of him felt relieved to have escaped this fate himself, though he could feel sympathy with the woman made a widow and the children left fatherless. Several silver coins lay stacked on his eyes, given by Titus¡¯ still living brethren to pay for his journey to the afterlife; they would be delivered along with the body to his family. Arn dug out a coin from his belt and placed it with the others before going to his cell, seeking sleep.


    *


    Fourth and final day of individual matches. Fifty left. Again a triarius. It suggested as Arn suspected that those with spears did better than the legionarii with their short swords or the velites with bucklers.


    Once again, blood painted Arn¡¯s face, slashing his opponent¡¯s throat open. The rush of power, his seier growing and approaching its old strength, made him feel delirious.


    Walking down the ladder, he became aware of the crowd chanting. ¡°Blood Eagle! Blood Eagle!¡±


    He looked up to see their smiling faces as their tongues showered him with praise. If any still disliked him for always ending his fights in violence, they had been outnumbered and silenced. The audience cheered for him and the bloodletting he promised; did none of them understand that if they stood before him on the sands, in this moment, he would happily give them the same fate?


    Disgusted by the Aquilans and their endless thirst for blood, Arn returned to the tunnels. Tomorrow, the games would be at an end, and he could set his final plans into motion.

 Chapter 38: Champion

    Champion


    On the eve of the fourth day, Mahan gathered those gladiators of House Ignius still in the games. Three in total. Arn, Sigismund, and Domitian. Seated on a bench in the common room, they looked up at the weapons master. ¡°Sigismund has tried this before, and I suppose you¡¯ve heard about it, Domitian, but for the sake of our Northman, I¡¯ll explain,¡± he began by saying.


    Arn made sure to listen intently. While he did not care about becoming champion ¨C his goal of returning to his former strength had been reached ¨C he knew that if defeated, the other gladiators would kill him out of spite. Any words of wisdom offered by the weapon master he would gladly receive.


    ¡°Tomorrow is all for all, ostensibly, until the last man is standing. But the fighters from every house stick together, helping each other to eliminate the rest and decide the championship among themselves.¡± He took out a small tablet with a variety of notes. ¡°Ten ludi still have gladiators in the fight tomorrow, but not evenly distributed.¡±


    ¡°Last year we were only two fighters,¡± Sigismund growled.


    ¡°Yes. Some, like House Petrus, has six, while most have one or two. They¡¯ll be your most dangerous rivals, but the other houses know this as well and may help you go against them. Or they¡¯ll pretend to and strike at you once you turn your back to them,¡± Mahan admitted. ¡°Trust only each other, and help each other.¡± He looked straight at Arn. ¡°Anyone fighting isolated will go down immediately.¡±


    ¡°And if two or three of us make it to the end as the last ones?¡± asked Domitian. ¡°We just fight it out?¡±


    ¡°You do. I wish I didn¡¯t have to say this, but either of you kill one of your fellow fighters from this ludus, I¡¯ll gut you myself the moment you leave the sands.¡± Mahan¡¯s eyes swept over them to once again rest on Arn. The Tyrian felt a little insulted at the insinuation. ¡°We¡¯re fortunate that you¡¯re each a different fighter. Triarius, legionarius, veles. You can cover each other¡¯s weaknesses.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re not trained to fight together,¡± Domitian muttered. ¡°It might not be as simple as you make it sound.¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± the weapons master conceded. ¡°But just covering each other¡¯s blind spots will help. Don¡¯t let the rage of battle tear you away from the others. If you move forward to strike an enemy, move back in line. Separation means you¡¯ll be surrounded and cut down, understood?¡±


    ¡°Discipline will carry the day,¡± came another growl from Sigismund. ¡°But we can talk about it as much as we want. We¡¯ll only know how we¡¯ll fight come tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Get the sleep you can,¡± Mahan commanded, and they separated.


    *


    Tomorrow came soon. They returned to the arena, fifth day in a row, and equipped themselves with their regular arms. Mahan bade them farewell to take a place among the stands and watch them fight; left alone, the three gladiators looked towards the opening portcullis, beckoning them onto the sands.


    Before they walked through, Sigismund turned to the other two. ¡°One triarius. One legionarius. One veles. One volunteer. One damnatus. One prisoner of war. I rarely pay the gods much heed, but our small trio feels ordained.¡±


    ¡°If it means we¡¯re blessed to win, I¡¯ll take it,¡± Domitian mumbled. He seemed muted, having barely spoken so far this morning.


    ¡°We are both soldiers of the legion,¡± Sigismund continued before looking at Arn. ¡°And you, Northman, have you fought in battle alongside warriors of your home?¡±


    Arn nodded. He had.


    ¡°I imagine you hold no love for Aquilans in your heart,¡± he continued; he was usually brief in speech, and Arn wondered where he aimed to go with this. ¡°And tomorrow, I won¡¯t argue or ask what you feel. But today, we are three, and we may face twenty-two.¡±


    Arn repeated his gesture.


    ¡°I would ask that for one day, one hour, you set aside ill feelings. When we step onto the sands, we are your tribe, and you are ours.¡± The burly gladiator looked from one man to the other. ¡°We see each other through. Will you agree to this?¡±


    The Tyrian exhaled. He appreciated good oratory, and while this was not the most stirring speech or song, it was spoken from the heart. He returned the gaze that the other gladiators gave him. He had not known them for long, nor gone through the kind of dangers that formed unbreakable bonds between survivors.


    But he trained with them each day for hours. Ate together and shared the same home and circumstances, however involuntary. Once or twice, even laughed with them. His body had been broken, and they had helped him find a way back, encouraging him to fight harder when needed and telling him to rest when required. If he had anything that resembled family just a little, by the strange twists of fortune, it was the men from the ludus of House Ignius.


    Arn leaned his sword against the wall and placed one hand on each of their shoulders. He gave a third and final nod. Sigismund responded in kind. ¡°Very well. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    *


    All the platforms had been removed from the arena except the one in the centre, which had been expanded. Still, with twenty-five gladiators standing along the outer ring, it seemed small. No railing guarded them from falling down, which was purposeful; if a fighter fell down on the sands below, they were done.


    The gladiators were spread out, facing each other in a circle. Those from House Ignius had arraigned themselves to have Domitian in the middle, with his spear giving him longest reach. Sigismund and his great shield anchored their right flank; Arn, more lightly armed and swifter on his feet, took the left, meant to be the one striking out from their formation while the others protected him.


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    On the other side, the six fighters of House Petrus had placed themselves. They had a mixture of every fighter and likewise had their legionarii on the edges as defensive towers, with triarii and velites in between. They stared with naked fury at Arn, who had killed their champion, Cassian. If he had been in the fight, armed with magic same as the sk¨¢ld, Arn realised that he might very well die; fate had shown him kindness, letting them meet beforehand. Now he stood stronger, assuming nobody else from House Petrus had the gift.


    ¡°Fight!¡± cried the official, and the roar from fifty thousand spectators rose in response.


    The world became a maelstrom of noise and steel, but Arn kept his head cool; he had been in battle before. Together with his fellow fighters, he took two steps forwards, giving them space to manoeuvre backwards without falling off the edge.


    The other gladiators who fought alone or in pairs did as could be expected and went against the only groups bigger. Most of them clashed against those of House Petrus; the remainder came against House Ignius.


    Arn defended himself, keeping his magic in reserve for now. Despite the difference in numbers, the restricted area kept their attackers from using this advantage; all of them were trained to fight alone rather in formation, with weapons and moves that required space.


    Seeing an opportunity, Arn advanced a single step and struck, calling upon his rune of swiftness. It allowed him to slash an opponent across the leg, cutting through leather greaves, and retreat before any could retaliate. He dared a look to his right and saw his compatriots standing tall, only defending themselves and trusting him to thin the enemy numbers.


    A spear came against him; Arn parried with his buckler and grabbed the haft thanks to his empowered speed before hacking at it with increased strength, his sword cutting through the wood. Dumbfounded, the other gladiator stared at his broken spear before throwing it away, picking up a gladius from a fallen fighter.


    Slowly, the enemy numbers dwindled. They still had half a dozen to contend with, and House Petrus after that, but Arn began to see the end of the road. Their opponents crowded to attack him, judging him the easier mark; without magic, they would have been right. Instead, his buckler constantly intercepted strikes or thrusts.


    A legionarius came close, attacking with his short sword while using his big shield to protect himself from Arn¡¯s comrades. He chose an opportune moment when Arn was already defending himself, but the sk¨¢ld evaded with supernatural speed and gave a kick, forcing his assailant back. sea??h th§× Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    With a triumphant roar, Domitian took advantage of this to strike at an otherwise well-protected enemy. Wielding a short sword himself, he stepped forward twice to get close enough, which also placed him in Sigismund¡¯s way, preventing the latter from protecting him.


    Arn would have shouted a warning if he could, but only a mutilated yell left his throat. Another enemy slashed Domitian across the arm, causing a deep gash. Immediately, his sword hung low, and despite his large shield, he could not properly defend himself, his right side now vulnerable. As a gladiator came at him, he could only raise his wooden ward. In an incredulous move, another attacker launched himself feet first against the shield, and the sheer force of his momentum pushed Domitian several paces back ¨C falling over the edge.


    Arn dared not look over his shoulder; he trusted the sand had softened the blow and his friend was otherwise unhurt. His own position was not immediately changed, as he still had Sigismund to his right, but he in turn would be far more vulnerable now and less able to defend Arn.


    Calling on his bladesong, Arn risked a surge forwards. He wove through steel and strikes, the sword in his hand fighting on its own to find a way through and eviscerate two enemies. The lust of battle threatened to overwhelm him, the taste of blood heavy in the air, but Arn restrained himself and fell back. Immediately, Sigismund¡¯s shield came forward to halt a spear and keep him safe.


    The sortie had worked; the attacks lessened. Arn prepared to strike again when the gladiator in front of him fell to the ground, spitting blood before he died. Beyond him, the Tyrian saw why. The fighters of House Petrus, five remaining, had dealt with all their attackers and now moved forward. Only two remained between them and their victory. Glancing at Sigismund out of the corner of his eyes, Arn prepared himself.


    *


    Arn did not fear five warriors, however well-trained. He had plenty of spellpower to use his abilities; he could summon the bladesong several times more. In addition, his minor runes lay ready as ever to lend him speed and strength no human could match.


    But the moment he moved forward, Sigismund would be surrounded and struck down. No matter his magic, Arn could not attack fast enough to kill and hold them all back unless he used such powers that revealed himself to all who watched.


    His mouth dry from exertion, nourished only by blood sprayed into it, Arn chose patience. An opportunity would come, as long as they defended themselves.


    It did moments later, but not for him. As one enemy came at Sigismund from the side, he defended well, but it forced him to parry with his shield, and another threw his spear like a javelin, striking the great man in his leg. He fell to one knee with a wounded roar before struggling back up.


    Time was against them now, Arn knew. His companion¡¯s strength would be sapped sooner than that of the others. He could only think of one thing to do. Swinging his sword in a wide arc to buy himself a moment, Arn followed up by grabbing Sigismund by the back of his collar and throwing him off the platform.


    The fighters of House Petrus laughed, seeing a lithe Tyrian remain, surrounded by five. Arn smiled in return and called upon his bladesong. With astonishment, they watched their blades and spears strike only air, every parry turned aside, and the sk¨¢ld¡¯s sword cut into them with impossible force. One by one, they died.


    When the last remained, Arn looked at him through the red haze of battle fury. A bald fellow who looked familiar. He dove low and slashed the man¡¯s leg open below the knee, forcing him down.


    Kneeling, the gladiator looked at Arn. ¡°I knew it would end this way. I knew.¡±


    The Tyrian finally recognised him. The gladiator from the garden when the champions of the different houses had been brought together to perform for the magistrate and his guests. The condemned man closed his eyes, awaiting death. Inside of Arn, the hunger for power awoke, calling him to spill blood and seize the life within before it ebbed away, feeding his magic further.


    Arn struck with the pommel of his sword and sent his adversary to the ground. He had all the power he needed, and his task today was done. Seeing no enemies left standing, he let his sword drop. He began to breathe with greed, like a man surfacing from a deep swim. He felt the blood on his face, slowly drying yet becoming wet from his sweat.


    He was done. No more fighting in this place of pain. Arn raised his hands in the air, hailing Thunraz in the sky. He had been through the crucible and survived. Soon, he would be free of this prison.


    All around him, the crowds screamed in excitement, mistaking his gestures as a sign to them, and it made Arn wish he was deaf rather than mute. He would tear down this entire arena if opportunity ever presented itself. Still with ragged breath, he sat down on the edge of the platform and let himself fall the final distance.


    Both Sigismund and Domitian awaited him, and for a moment, Arn wondered what they would say. If they would congratulate him or be envious; if they would applaud his actions or feel spited by them.


    Sigismund lowered his head. ¡°Well done, champion.¡±


    Domitian laughed and flung his arms around Arn. ¡°You did it, you mad northern dog!¡±

 Chapter 39: Bonds of Brotherhood

    Bonds of Brotherhood


    There was a ceremony, of course. Arn had to return to the platform, and surrounded by bodies, they placed a wreath of laurels upon his head. Rituals followed before Arn could finally escape the sands, though he and his companions were stuck in the arena a while longer; the thousands of spectators were leaving, and if any of them saw the champion, it was liable to cause a frenzy as everyone would try to touch or get near him.


    Because of that, it was close to evening when their cart rumbled through the streets, flooded with solstice celebrants. The noise was pure cacophony, though compared to the thunderous roar of the audience inside the arena, Arn was not bothered. Singing and drinking, shouting and dancing, along with every other kind of revelry could be seen wherever one looked.


    At House Ignius, the other gladiators gave them the welcome owed to conquering heroes, especially Arn. Tables stood arrayed in the training yard, preparing for a feast. They were given time to bathe, losing the sweat, dust, and blood of the arena; afterwards, Arn dressed in a long, white tunic while wearing his green laurels. As he returned to the yard, the fighters shouted his name, stomped their feet, and slammed their hands against the tables, making plates of food and jugs of drink jump up and down.


    Only gladiators sat at the table; Mahan celebrated with the other residents of the inner house. No servants waited on them, but they had no need either; they served each other, filling cups endlessly. Arn gave half a smile taking a seat at the end of the table, but before he could eat, a guard appeared.


    ¡°Northman! The dominus summons you.¡±


    ¡°Now? Let the man drink!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, he¡¯s champion! He earned his meal!¡±


    ¡°An ill deed to steal a man away from his own celebration.¡±


    ¡°You are summoned,¡± the guard reiterated.


    Shrugging, Arn got on his feet and followed.


    *


    Walking through the corridors of the inner house, Arn could hear sounds of festivities, though his guide did not take him in that direction. Instead, they went to Ignius¡¯ study, where the lanista waited., sitting on his desk. ¡°Leave us,¡± he told the guard. Once alone, he looked at Arn. ¡°As hoped, you became champion.¡±


    The Tyrian looked at the bald, clean-shaven Aquilan, whose eyebrows seemed to loom larger in the absence of all other hair.


    ¡°Your winnings have been placed in your ledger. And as promised, I shall look for a healer to restore your tongue. Obviously, the emperor¡¯s physician is not available to us, but I will find another.¡±


    Arn cared about none of that, and he assumed Ignius would simply make up excuses as to why a healer could not be procured as time went on; if Arn were to stay and wait around for that, which he did not plan to. So he simply bowed his head, pretending to agree.


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    ¡°You¡¯re not required to fight in the regular matches anymore, naturally. We¡¯ll arrange suitable fights for you, perhaps against multiple opponents ¨C you proved yourself more than capable of dealing with them,¡± the lanista smiled. ¡°Your winnings will reflect the added challenge.¡±


    Looking up, Arn could practically see the avarice in the man¡¯s eyes. Typical for someone motivated only by greed to think that coin did the same for others. But Arn had to continue the charade just a few days longer, until Helgi could craft the rune of unbinding and free him of his armband. So he bowed his head again.


    ¡°I¡¯ll let you return to your celebration, but speaking of that, I¡¯ll need you tomorrow and a few evenings next fiveday. The various magistrates involved in the games are hosting their own celebrations, and your presence is required as the champion.¡± Ignius gave him a quick look up and down. ¡°Make sure you¡¯re presentable. Otherwise, you simply have to stand. Nobody expects you to make conversation, after all.¡± He smirked.


    Arn clenched a fist before relaxing again. Just a few more days. He bent his neck one last time.


    ¡°Guard, take our champion back to the ludus!¡±


    *


    When Arn reappeared in the yard, the gladiators greeted him as before, except in more drunken fashion. He was quickly ushered to his seat and his cup filled. Looking around at their faces, Arn saw only mirth.


    In this moment, the hierarchy that usually ruled the ludus had been dispelled and personal enmity banished. Volunteers, prisoners of war, and damnati sat next to each other. Domitian was at his left, Sigismund at his right, having deserved those seats by fighting alongside him today. Like a jarl looking at his hird, his most trusted warriors, Arn raised his cup and saw the gesture reflected by all. Hector, Cornelius, Andrew, and more. Even Marcus, the damnatus who had picked a fight with Arn in the first days now sung his praises higher than any other.


    The Tyrian understood what he had been reluctant to accept. He shared home, circumstances, and fate with these men; they lived together within these walls and died apart, sent to the sands to satiate an ever-hungry crowd. Soon, Arn expected to be gone, which had caused his reluctance to acknowledge the bond between them; they would remain here, while he would not. But tonight, they were his tribe.


    *


    As morning came, the ludus resembled the camp of a defeated army, except they had been laid low by wine rather than weapons. A handful of gladiators never made it to their cells, sleeping on the benches or slumped over the tables.


    Arn woke as the first, even though he had indulged as much as any; his rune of recovery reinvigorated his body faster, taking the sting off the hangover. He still felt tired after yesterday morning¡¯s fight and evening¡¯s feast, but looking at his fellow gladiators, he considered himself fortunate.


    Mahan appeared, walking through the ludus like a soldier overlooking the fallen on the field of battle. He shook his head seeing Marcus asleep with his face still in a bowl, amplifying his snoring. ¡°Arn,¡± he spoke in greeting, keeping his voice low, perhaps as a courtesy to the others.


    The Tyrian responded with a nod. As the weapons master made to move on, he added, ¡®I need something.¡¯


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡®My winnings, in the ledger. Give half to Domitian.¡¯


    ¡°Alright, it¡¯s your money. But why?¡±


    Because Arn would not be around much longer, and besides what he needed for Helgi, he wanted his friend to have the rest, but he could not say that; instead, he went for a lie to alleviate any suspicions. ¡®He gave me coin earlier when he was ill. Just repaying him.¡¯ Sear?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Ah, yes, I recall. Certainly.¡± Mahan glanced around. ¡°You still have your wreath, I hope? The dominus will expect you to wear it tonight.¡±


    Arn had happily forgotten about that, being paraded around like a prize cow. ¡®Yes, yes. It¡¯s in my cell.¡¯


    ¡°Good. I¡¯ll let the boys sleep it off a while longer before I start training. You¡¯re excused, given your other engagements.¡± As Mahan left, Arn stretched his neck and went for the baths. Time to wash off last night¡¯s celebration and make himself presentable for the one that lay ahead. Just a few more days, he told himself. A few more days.

 Chapter 40: The Lair of the Lindworm

    The Lair of the Lindworm


    A pure white tunic was prepared for Arn, leaving the only colour on him the green leaves of his laurel. He would have preferred to throw it far away, as it made him feel like a painted juggler at a marketplace, but it was the crown of a champion and thus necessary for him to wear.


    It had struck him as odd that something so cheap and fragile as leaves were used to mark the champion of Aquila; Sigismund, veteran of the legions, had explained that in older times, warriors on the battlefield had been crowned this way after particularly heroic deeds as a mark of respect. This was no longer done, as the legates and mageknights frowned on ordinary soldiers deciding who deserved such honours.


    Once ready, having quickly eaten something from the kitchen as he doubted anyone at the feast would consider his needs, Arn was taken to the courtyard. A carriage stood ready as last time, and he waited a while until Ignius and his family appeared. Soon after, they were underway.


    *


    Arn noticed that they passed by the convent for the Maidens of the Moon and afterwards its neighbour, the mansion of the magistrate Flavus. He had assumed their host would be the same as last time, but evidently not. Standing on the back of the carriage, holding on as they drove through streets filled with revellers, Arn felt the wind against his face; he would almost have enjoyed the moment if it did not carry the stench that inevitably arose when so many people not only lived clumped together in this overcrowded city, but also went outside on the streets at the same time.


    The carriage drove into the courtyard of a palace that exuded splendour, though it looked eerily similar to the other Arn had seen, as if built by the same mind and hands. It was all ostentatious with great columns upholding a roof in front of the main entrance, and it rose many floors high; yet Arn knew that if he placed a hand on the stonework, it would feel dead and dry. They could build, these Aquilans, but their halls seemed cold and empty; Arn wondered if they made their abodes so great to have an excuse for why they appeared so small.


    Arn followed Ignius and his family inside, still ignorant about their location. He had been told to leave his tablet and its leather pouch behind, as it would look unseemly, so he could not communicate with any; he only had his sewing needle and a few coins on the inside of his belt, neither of which would help him much.


    ¡°Master Ignius, the dominus of our new champion! Welcome to my halls.¡±


    Before he turned towards the voice, Arn recognised it. His head moved slowly until it stared upon the visage of Salvius. He thought about all the people he had killed since coming to Aquila, and how he had done it; momentarily, his fingers fumbled for an absent sword hilt. Another breath passed, and Arn regained control of himself; he could not kill a mageknight with his bare hands, and it was too soon. He was not ready yet to make his escape from this city.


    ¡°I thank you, Lord Salvius, for your invitation and the honour shown to my house.¡± Ignius bowed with a servile expression.


    The mageknight laughed in a condescending manner. ¡°How could I not, given your man¡¯s victory in the arena. Your family is awaited outside in the gardens, where refreshments are served.¡±


    ¡°I thank you, milord.¡± Ignius beckoned for his wife and small son to go in that direction as indicated by a servant.


    ¡°Some of my fellow magistrates and other luminaries are in the trophy room,¡± Salvius continued. ¡°I am certain they should like to see the champion of Aquila for themselves. And the lanista who trained him, of course.¡± He declared all this with an affable voice, though no actual warmth lay in his tone, and he turned around and began walking without bothering to look if they followed him; they did, Ignius moving with hurried steps to keep up.


    Their host led them through corridors into a large room with reclining couches, though the guests already present were standing. Some wore velvet doublets and silken shirts, while others were dressed in the traditional, old togas worn by higher magistrates in the Imperial administration. While the size of Salvius¡¯s home already suggested this, his social circles spoke of his influence; he was not merely another mageknight from the legions, as Arn had initially believed. S§×ar?h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Good lords of Aquila, we are graced by the presence of a champion!¡± Salvius declared dramatically as he entered, causing polite laughter. The guests turned to look at the Tyrian in their midst, while Ignius stood to the side, failing to hide his nervous disposition. Servants were also at the ready, offering cups and pouring wine as needed.


    ¡°Unbelievable that one so lithe could take the wreath! Usually, these gladiators that win are built like boulders!¡± one remarked.


    ¡°It¡¯s not about the size of your sword, but how you use it!¡±


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    Raucous laughter followed, and Arn had to work hard to keep his eyes from rolling out of their sockets. He felt how they stared at him, evaluating him like a heifer at market. Yet their interest quickly waned, it appeared, as they turned their gazes elsewhere.


    ¡°Sir Salvius, we could not help but note the unusual decorations in this room.¡±


    ¡°Ah, just a few knickknacks brought home from my travels,¡± their host replied, as if he had herded his guests to this particular room by accident.


    While reluctant to concede anything to the mageknight, Arn nonetheless glanced around as well. He saw what had awakened the curiosity of the others. Strange items, like a tall and thin glass container, stood on a drawer.


    ¡°This is from Sindhu, made of crystal. They use it for their alchemy,¡± Salvius explained as he led his guests around the room. ¡°This is a painting of the eternal flame in Khiva. They refused us entry to their temple, of course, so this was the best we could do,¡± he smirked. ¡°Ah, and this is my latest acquisition, obtained last year.¡± He gestured towards the wall. A sword hung, unsheathed, to show runes marked on the blade itself, with the scabbed hanging below. Strangely, next to the weapon and its scabbard, a brown feather had been tied to a nail with a leather string.


    Seeing the items, the colour vanished from Arn¡¯s face; fortunately, being pale, it made little difference. He also stood at the back, so nobody witnessed his reaction.


    ¡°Ah, from when you went to Tyria? Yes, those barbaric scribbles look like something those savages would make,¡± a guest in toga declared.


    ¡°Who has need of such little markings? Certainly not our Aquilan wizards.¡±


    ¡°Especially not while we also have access to Archean magic,¡± a nobleman in a doublet chimed in. ¡°They use writing too, don¡¯t they?¡±


    Nobody answered him; Arn sensed their unease at being reminded that Aquilan magic fell so far short of Archean, and he had to hide a smile. His mirth vanished the moment he looked at his sword again. Forged by iron he had collected himself from a mire, with the crushed bones of a bear mixed in, and enchanted by the best loremaster in Tyria. The weapon felt holy to him as a spellblade, and now it served as a conversation piece for bored Aquilans.


    ¡°I will take a good gladius with Aquilan enchantment any day over this barbarous blade,¡± Salvius proclaimed, breaking the brief silence. ¡°Though perhaps our champion disagrees.¡±


    They all turned to look at him, and the thought struck Arn, belatedly, that he was discovered. His hair was short, his face scarred, and his beard gone, but perhaps Salvius had seen through it all to recognise the Bladesinger standing in front of him, and now he had brought Arn here to taunt him.


    If so, Arn had just one moment to react accordingly. He could unleash his magic to tear the floor asunder and send all the Aquilans flying on their backs before leaping forward and seizing his sword. He would have to kill the witnesses first to keep them from raising the alarm ¨C quickly done, all of them lacking weapons and magic ¨C before turning on the mageknight. Those trained in that art were well defended against physical attacks, but Arn could use other kinds of magic.


    But it was too soon. The Archean armband made flight impossible. Killing Ignius kept him from using it to track Arn down, but the Tyrian did not trust that would set him free; the lowly lanista had not acquired an artefact like this by chance.


    All of these thoughts whirling through his head, Arn decided on the simplest course of action; he pretended he did not understand Aquilan. He stared straight ahead, as if oblivious to the entire conversation.


    ¡°I know your man is mute, but is he also deaf?¡± Salvius asked.


    ¡°He speaks little of our tongue,¡± Ignius replied, grasping for the same excuse.


    ¡°It hardly matters if he understands your question, Sir Salvius. It¡¯s not like he can give us an answer,¡± one of the magistrates pointed out, and they all laughed a little.


    ¡°I suppose.¡±


    ¡°How did you obtain this blade?¡± asked the nobleman from before. ¡°Did you buy it?¡±


    ¡°Hardly,¡± the mageknight scoffed. ¡°It was won in battle. I bested one of their sk¨¢lds and took it from him. Had him thrown to the lions upon our return.¡±


    ¡°Ah yes, I believe I saw that. An excellent spectacle,¡± another guest spoke.


    ¡°Were your travels to Tyria met with success?¡± came the nobleman again, leading to a moment of awkward silence.


    ¡°No,¡± Salvius finally admitted. ¡°The barbarians refused to give assurances for any settlements in Nordmark, and the emperor is unwilling to risk more lives until we get them. Perhaps next year at their primitive assembly, they will be more amenable to cooperation with the Empire.¡±


    Arn clenched and opened his hands, trying to keep a calm head.


    ¡°Will you lead the delegation again, do you think?¡±


    The mageknight shook his head. ¡°The emperor has already given me my next assignment. I am sent to the Western Isles, and possibly Cathai beyond, if our embassy on the Isles is well-established. In fact, I leave in a few days.¡±


    Arn did not hear what was spoken after that. Salvius¡¯s final words echoed in his mind. The mageknight was leaving. It was a journey of numerous fivedays to the Western Isles with a mage aboard to work the wind. If Arn were to follow later, he would have to stow away on an ordinary merchant ship that made the same journey in months. By the time he arrived, Salvius might already be on his way onwards to Cathai.


    Trying to track down the mageknight across oceans to realms completely unknown to him¡­ Arn realised he was out of time. The gods had placed him in this room with his sword and his enemy both in close reach for a reason. Salvius had to die now, and damn any thoughts of escape.


    A pity that the servants had to die as well, being innocent in their master¡¯s crime, but Arn did not wish to risk help coming; there could be other mages among the guests.


    Letting his magic seep into the floor below his feet, Arn prepared to tear it asunder and send every person prone. The ground told him of footfall approaching the door from the hallway, and he waited a moment, to let them enter his web.


    ¡°Master, forgive the intrusion,¡± a servant spoke, gaining Salvius¡¯s attention. ¡°You said to bring the prioress to you straight away when she arrived.¡±


    As he stepped aside, two nuns entered the room. Veiled, the one in front walked with the signs of age upon her movements. The sister who followed ¨C Arn recognised her, despite all the fabric hiding her. He swallowed, wondering why the gods would taunt him so as he looked at Sister Helena.

 Chapter 41: Where the Road Leads

    Where the Road Leads


    Arn¡¯s magic dissipated as he allowed it to fade away. Thankfully, all the guests moved to stand in front of him as they turned towards the newcomers, and nobody paid him any notice.


    ¡°Mother Superior, glad to have you,¡± Salvius spoke.


    ¡°We are honoured by the invitation, Lord Salvius,¡± the aged woman replied.


    ¡°Of course. Are your sisters ready? Have you selected who shall go on the journey?¡±


    ¡°Everything is prepared. They¡¯ll be aboard well in time before departure, I promise.¡± She looked over her shoulder at the nun behind her. ¡°This is Sister Helena, my closest aide at the convent.¡± The aforementioned priestess gave a bow, and the guests replied with their own courtesies.


    ¡°Come, let us join the others in the gardens. That is where all the food is, after all,¡± their host declared, evoking polite laughter. He moved towards the door, the prioress joining him to walk alongside. Ignius glanced back at Arn, beckoning him to walk with an impatient gesture before hurrying after the others.


    As for Helena, she stood aside and allowed herself to be behind the crowd, until she could fall into pace next to Arn. ¡®Congratulations on your wreath.¡¯


    He wondered if she meant it earnestly. ¡®Thanks,¡¯ he simply replied. ¡®How is it you¡¯re here?¡¯


    ¡®Some of my sisters will accompany Lord Salvius on his expedition to establish a chapter of our order on the Isles,¡¯ Helena explained.


    ¡®Are you going?¡¯ Not that it mattered, considering Arn¡¯s own plans, yet he found the thought of her departure difficult to bear; a foolish sentiment, but true all the same.


    ¡®No.¡¯ The quick gesture made Arn feel an odd sense of relief, and he chastised himself while paying attention to her next signs. ¡®But our convent depends on donations from benefactors such as those present tonight. I am to one day take Mother Superior¡¯s position, and so she has brought me along.¡¯


    Arn understood, nodding to himself. ¡®So you can see how it¡¯s done, getting money from the rich.¡¯


    He believed he saw the fabric before her face flutter. ¡®And so they¡¯ll remember me once I take the Mother Superior¡¯s veil.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ll make a good high priestess.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s not ¨C thank you.¡¯


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    They moved through the corridors at a leisurely pace, perhaps to allow the guests time to take in the wealth on display; exquisitely carved statues filled niches, and trees were cut into the stonework to create a grey forest. An impressive display of craftsmanship, yet Arn would rather walk in true woods with the spirits of tree and brook for company instead of dead marble. Distracted, he almost missed Helena¡¯s next words, barely catching the flurry of movements from her hands. S§×ar?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡®What troubles you?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m being dragged around like a prize cow.¡¯


    ¡®Right. My apologies. You just seemed so¡­ tense, in the other room. Like a jar about to burst.¡¯


    Arn tried to lick his lips; even months later, he still sometimes forgot. Part of him felt that he should dismiss her questions and keep the matter to himself, but another part whispered that she already knew enough to see him executed. ¡®On the wall. Salvius has my sword and tribal token hanging, as trophies.¡¯


    ¡®How did he acquire those?¡¯ A moment¡¯s delay. ¡®Of course.¡¯


    ¡®Yes.¡¯


    ¡®Does he know who you are?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t know.¡¯


    Her hands remained still for a moment. ¡®I can¡¯t imagine the strength to stay your hand in his presence. Especially when he taunts you with your belongings, knowingly or not.¡¯


    Arn had not expected her to understand his mood so well; perhaps he was more obvious to read, or she understood people better than he assumed. He had figured some kind of admonishment or discouragement from following through on his instinct, the gentle sister urging him to make the meek choice.


    ¡®If he knows, your hands are tied, of course,¡¯ she continued. ¡®But if he doesn¡¯t, I urge you not to make a move against him.¡¯


    Arn scoffed to himself, receiving the awaited response with delay. Yet before he could reply, her next words arrested him.


    ¡®You would not survive. I don¡¯t want to see him or anyone else hurt you more than you have been.¡¯ While he gathered his thoughts, wondering what to reply, she added, ¡®Same reason I could never have watched the games. Please, don¡¯t do anything rash.¡¯ She reached out a hand to quickly squeeze his in a forbidden touch, reiterating her prayer with a whisper. ¡°Please.¡±


    Her grasp prevented him from answering the implicit request, and as she let go, they arrived at the gardens, which made Ignius turn and gesture for Arn to follow him. Relieved that he was spared having to make any promises he could not keep, the Tyrian followed the lanista gladly. He did not see more of Sister Helena that night.


    *


    Thankfully, Arn was also spared the company of Salvius, except towards the very end, when Ignius and his company bade their host goodnight. Arn had continued to play the role of ignorant in the Aquilan language, as it served well to keep interest in him low; the other guests fawned over the champion and made various remarks, but as they could not speak with him, they quickly turned their attention to other matters, and he spent most of the evening serving the same role as a garden statue.


    Driving back to the ludus, Arn¡¯s mood had changed greatly, however. He did not regret being forced to come along, and his earlier frustration had vanished. He had blessed the gods for placing Salvius and his weapon within reach, cursed them for the disruption caused by Helena¡¯s arrival, and now he blessed them again.


    Tonight, Arn had learned three important things. Where his sword could be found. Where Salvius lived. And that he had to strike tonight rather than risk his quarry escaping across the sea. Marking the route well, Arn prepared himself. From above, the moon faintly illuminated him, like a promise that his labours would be crowned with success the way the light crowned his head. Around the carriage rumbling through the street, the drunken revelry continued.

 Chapter 42: An Honourable Challenge

    An Honourable Challenge


    Once the ludus had fallen asleep, Arn made his preparations. Dressed in the leather he used during training, he unlocked the gate between the ludus and the inner house with a touch of earth magic. He made his way to Gaius¡¯ study, the clerk, where he knew he could find ink and parchment. Swiftly, in the moonlight streaming through the expensive glass window, Arn wrote a message and folded it together to place it inside his tunic. Gathering shadows around him, he made his way across the wall.


    The journey back to Salvius¡¯s house went slowly compared to the swiftness of the carriage; impatient, he set a brisk pace, his heart already beating faster than usual in anticipation. Every moment since waking up at the ludus months ago, he had prepared for tonight, awaiting this opportunity. His physical recovery, rebuilding the strength of his shattered body, restoring the runes on his body, and most of all, rejuvenating his magic, all had been for this purpose.


    Stepping over a drunkard passed out on the road, Arn considered the fight ahead. In a battle purely with weapons and physical magic, he would lose to a mageknight, whose sole skill lay in such combat. Deprived of galdr and casting major runes, the minor runes on his body and his spellblade abilities were inferior. Thankfully, he had elemental magic as well. The only concern would be that his spellpower remained weak; he could only cast a handful of elemental spells before he ran out. But if he did it right, it would only take one.


    *


    The home of Salvius had walls, guards, and locks to keep intruders out. The first two caused no issues for someone with strength and shadow on his side. Usually, locks would not either, but even the doors to the servants¡¯ entrance would not respond to Arn¡¯s touch. When he sent a spark of magic inside to make it unlock, he felt only a fiery sensation that rejected him; cleverly, the locks contained traces of gold, making magic inert.


    Looking around, Arn glanced at the expansive gardens that hours earlier had played host to a celebration. Messy tables still remained, promising work for the servants in the morning cleaning it all up, but nothing that would serve Arn¡¯s purpose right now. He looked up until he saw an open window. Drawing on his rune of strength, he began climbing.


    His hands reaching the windowsill, Arn cautiously pulled himself up while ignoring the strain on his arms; magically empowered or not, it still required effort. Looking into the room, his eagle eyes followed the sound of faint snoring to find the outline of a couple sleeping on the bed. Guests that had chosen to stay the night, probably.


    Arn carefully crawled into the room, sparing them a kind thought for keeping a window open, and used his rune of subtlety as he moved forward. The room was dark, but he sent a pulse of magic through the floor to ensure he could feel everything, including the door opening. With careful steps, Arn evaded various pieces of furniture until he reached the door, unbolted it slowly, and walked through.


    Before seeking out the man he had come to kill, Arn needed to be properly equipped. Thankfully, he knew exactly where to go. He found the stairs and moved down until he could recognise the route to the trophy room. No servants or guards traversed the hallways; the former slept, and the latter were posted outside the building. None barred his way.


    As the familiar sword greeted him, hanging on the wall, Arn smiled. When his hand once again grasped the hilt laid with silver, he could have wept. His fingers ran along the blade, feeling the faint markings of the runes that granted strength to steel. With this weapon he had slain a lindworm; tonight, it would strike a foe more loathsome.


    Time was wasting. Focusing on the task at hand, Arn grabbed the sheath as well and tied it to his belt, placing the sword back in its rest. The weight and sensation of the scabbard by his side made him exhale; the world at last felt right again.


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    While not necessary for his purpose, Arn also grabbed his enchanted feather. It had no properties other than simple magic to keep it from decaying, but it belonged to him; it showed him to be a true Tyrian and tribesman. His hair was too short that it could be tied to its usual place, so he simply fastened it to his belt.


    Duly armed, the next challenge was finding his quarry. A house of this size posed a challenge, but Arn could narrow his search. While not familiar with Aquilan mansions, he had noticed that personal chambers seemed to be on the upper floors. Given that he had earlier stepped out of a bedroom for guests, he imagined Salvius would be nearby, perhaps in the adjacent wing. Swiftly, Arn returned to the upper floor and began his search from room to room.


    *


    At last, in the largest and most ostentatious chamber, Arn saw him sleeping in a bed, illuminated by moonlight. He could have killed Salvius in this moment, but it would be undignified to take his revenge in such a manner, like an assassin in the night. The mageknight had torn Arn down; the sk¨¢ld wanted him to see how he had resurrected himself.


    Finding a lamp and tinder, Arn ignited a flame that cast flickering shadows through the room. Pulling out the message he wrote back at the ludus, Arn approached the sleeping mageknight and shook his shoulder.


    Possessive of a soldier¡¯s constitution, Salvius had been deep in slumber, yet he woke and seemed alert at once. Squinting at the lamp, he rubbed his eyes. ¡°Sextus? Is that you?¡± From the darkness, a hand thrust a scrap of parchment at him past the flame and into his field of vision. Grumbling, the mageknight seized it. ¡°A missive at this hour?¡± He unfolded it to read the words, He lowered it to stare at the dark shape behind the lamp. ¡°What nonsense is this?¡±


    Arn placed the lamp on the nearby drawer so the flame no longer rose between their faces, and he waited as Salvius¡¯s eyes became accustomed to sparse light until he saw the spark of recognition in them.


    ¡°The northern savage! How did you ¨C why are ¨C no.¡± The mageknight¡¯s entire face became twisted. ¡°You are truly him. Not just a gladiator, but that northern rooster, crowing about.¡± Flinging his covers aside, Salvius got on his feet. Despite wearing just a nightshirt while faced with an armed intruder, he showed no fear or hesitation. ¡°Thank you for solving what has troubled my mind all night. You looked so strangely familiar, I thought it certain we had met in Tyria, yet I could not recall who you might be. Never would I have imagined the same man I had thrown to the lions would stand before me now.¡± He chuckled.


    The mageknight did not understand; he assumed the sk¨¢ld was still wing-clipped. He had no idea of the danger in front of him. Arn saw no reason to remedy that. He pointed to the parchment still in Salvius¡¯s hand. If the Aquilan screamed for help, Arn would unleash all his magic and kill him quickly, but only as a last resort. Single combat was the proper way to resolve this. Arn would have his revenge as a warrior, not a murderer, and the mageknight could have a warrior¡¯s death; however much Arn despised the man, he was willing to offer that.


    Salvius raised the parchment in his hand and waved it about. ¡°You are serious? Very well, I accept your challenge. I see you are armed and ready.¡± He glanced at Arn¡¯s sword and leather armour. ¡°You do not mind if I get dressed as well?¡±


    Arn stepped away and made a sweeping motion, inviting the mageknight to do as needed.


    Bowing his head, Salvius walked past him to reach his armoire. He opened it and quickly changed into proper clothes, including a leather tunic. ¡°Just the one weapon? You fight with a buckler in the arena, I recall.¡±


    The gladiator shrugged. For this, he needed just his sword.


    ¡°One weapon it is.¡± Salvius strapped a belt around his waist with a gladius by the side. Standing ready, he glanced around. ¡°This room is not the most fitting location, and I have guests sleeping nearby. My home has a gymnasium in the cellar. We shall not disturb any, and it has the proper space for our purpose. Would you agree to such a location?¡±


    Arn nodded and gestured at the door for the mageknight to lead the way.


    Salvius smiled, inclining his head. ¡°Excellent. Follow me, Master Blood Eagle, or whatever name you go by these days.¡± He set into motion and grabbed the lamp from the drawer. ¡°I do not recall your true name, I am embarrassed to admit.¡± They left the chamber and began walking down the hallway. ¡°I know what they called you, but naming a mute as Bladesinger seems almost a mockery, does it not? I suppose the name of the gladiator will have to suffice.¡±


    Walking a few steps behind, ready just in case, the Tyrian paid little attention to the flow of words. The Bladesinger was gone, it was true, but soon, Arn would take revenge on his behalf.

 Chapter 43: The Blood Eagle

    The Blood Eagle


    Arn had considered if going elsewhere in the mansion was some kind of ploy, but Salvius made no attempt to call for help or raise the alarm. No matter his faults, he was a mageknight who had been challenged; honour demanded that he replied in kind. After a long walk down different flights of stairs, they reached the promised gymnasium.


    It was little more than a circular room, but the walls were heavy stone surrounded by earth; Arn could feel it as he placed a hand against them. A sturdy place where those with magical gifts could train without destroying their surroundings.


    Salvius placed the lamp in the middle of the chamber and stepped back, drawing his sword. ¡°Do you stand ready?¡±


    Arn mirrored his movements and nodded. All his attention flowed together to focus on his adversary on the other side of the flickering light; only one of them would emerge from this cauldron of rock embedded into the ground.


    The mageknight burst into action; defensive spells layered themselves around his body while he leapt over the lamp with quickened speed and struck. Empowered by his own runes, Arn defended himself.


    As they circled around the chamber, Arn knew his adversary was trying to get him trapped against the wall with limited ability to manoeuvre. Deciding to turn it against the mageknight, Arn willingly stepped back and placed his free hand on the wall behind him. The stonework trembled briefly before a rock came flying out, aimed straight at Salvius.


    The mageknight leapt away, barely evading the attack, and in his haste, he kicked over the lamp. Seeing the light flicker, he immediately stepped back and raised his empty hand. ¡°We should not fight in the dark like beasts.¡± He bent down and picked up the lamp to place it on the lowest step of the stairwell. ¡°Much better.¡±


    Turning around, he showed his teeth in an unsettling smile, and as before, he leapt forward to launch another assault. Getting in close served Salvius better with his short sword, and Arn called upon his bladesong to parry the onslaught of blows from a mageknight of the Aquilan legions, buying him a moment to think. Conscious of his dwindling spellpower, Arn sent a tremor through the wooden floorboards, cracking them.


    Salvius staggered backwards, trying to regain his balance, and Arn unleashed his own display of swordsmanship, making full use of his longer blade. He let his magic flow into the runes upon the steel, and at last, he felt like a spellblade again. There was no hesitation, not a breath wasted. Every step and every move came to him without the need for thought. Now, he pressed the mageknight back, and he relished besting the Aquilan at his own game.


    At last, his blade found its way past the gladius and it struck against Salvius¡¯ shoulder with an edge sharpened by magic to cut through flesh and bone.


    Pure magic swelled to serve as armour, and Arn did not even cut a thread on the mageknight¡¯s clothing. With a disdainful smile, Salvius struck back before the sk¨¢ld could recover his stance, using the opening created by his own feigned vulnerability. The gladius cut across Arn¡¯s chest, who had no such defensive spells, and he felt it draw blood.


    Salvius swiftly pressed his advantage, once more on the offensive. Pushed back, forced to defend as before, Arn knew he would run out of spellpower long before the mageknight, whose magic had never suffered debilitation. It was time to change tactics and finish this.


    He stamped his foot, cracking the floor again. Ready for such a move, Salvius simply stepped to the side with a scornful smile, but Arn accomplished what he needed. The interruption and distance allowed him to move away, opposite the entrance and the lamp, and draw the shadows of the room around him.


    Squinting his eyes, Salvius laughed. ¡°Such tricks! But you cannot escape.¡± He swung his sword in a wide arc in front of him, taking a step forward.


    Arn had no such intentions. Magic pulsing through his sword, he gathered water to cover the steel and turned it frozen. As the mageknight¡¯s blade swung through the air, Arn leaned backwards to evade, immediately following up with a deep thrust.


    Sensing the danger, Salvius summoned his own magic to shield him from steel and blows. Shock filled his face as the rune blade, coated in magical ice, pushed through his defensive spells that only protected against steel. Smoothly, the magic edge stabbed into his chest.


    Arn withdrew his blade and moved alongside the wall. The mageknight clutched his wound, blood gushing out between his fingers, while his other hand feebly swung his sword around.


    With swiftness, Arn circled around to slash both of his hamstrings, and Salvius fell to his knees. He tried to speak, but no words issued from his mouth. Standing behind him, one hand atop his head, Arn prepared himself before he swung his sword to cut skin, flesh, and spine, decapitating the Aquilan.


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    He seized the release of energy that accompanied the mageknight¡¯s death, considering it only fitting that his own magic should be strengthened by the man who had destroyed it. His entire body trembled feeling the rush of power from the dead wizard, much greater than from any ordinary man. Arn¡¯s sword fell from his hand, and his legs failed to keep him standing, sending him to his knees as well. He felt the magic infuse him, growing his seier, spellpower, and control over the elements.


    The pain from the backlash felt worse than the last time, much more akin to when he first began leeching. He tasted blood in his mouth, his vision grew dark, and the gash across his chest burned. Perhaps the penalty matched the seized power, or maybe Arn had exhausted his magic in the fight, causing such repercussions.


    Regardless, it was done. Slowly, Arn felt control return. He saw the flickering shadows caused by the lamp behind him, his body obeyed him again, and the sensation of blood in his mouth was replaced by bile, though he did not purge his stomach.


    Getting back on his feet, Arn looked at the headless corpse, slumped over. It was done; his vengeance had been carried out. But one last thing remained to do. He grabbed the body and returned it to a kneeling position, pushing earth through the floorboards with his magic to keep it steady. Grabbing the gladius ¨C he would not desecrate his own sword with this work ¨C Arn cut open the leather tunic and clothes of the dead body, exposing the back. Then, he began to carve the blood eagle.


    *


    Soon after, the grisly task was completed. Looking down at the bloody corpse, Arn felt no particular joy at this final deed, not even grim satisfaction, but rather like a burdensome chore had been dealt with. It was a message to the Aquilans of the fate that awaited them in the far North.


    Done with the gladius, Arn picked up his own sword and cleaned it before sheathing it. As he turned towards the stairs, he saw light beyond the lamp already in the room. A pulse of fear going through him, Arn pulled shadows around him ¨C though even this small spark of magic made his body tremble again ¨C and he faded into the dark.


    ¡°Forgive me, master, but I noticed you sparring this late and thought you might like a cup of wine.¡± An old man, dressed as a servant, reached the foot of the stairs and stepped inside the gymnasium. It took him a moment to see the headless, mutilated corpse in the frail light present; when he finally did, he dropped the cup in his hand, spilling the liquid inside to wash over the blood, red against red. ¡°Help! Murder! Gods, the dominus!¡±


    Arn broke into a run. He shoved the old servant aside without losing his stride and sprinted up the staircase, all the while pursued by more shouts and yells. All around him, as he ran through the corridors, the house began to wake.


    *


    ¡°Over here!¡±


    ¡°He ran that way!¡±


    ¡°To the gardens!¡±


    ¡°Everyone, follow!¡±


    The yells came from different directions, making Arn feel like a chased rabbit. He might fight and probably best one or two, but by the sounds of it, they had ten times those numbers, wielding spears. If he could just get a little distance, get over the wall, and retreat into the shadows, he would be safe. So Arn ran, through the kitchen doors to the outside yard behind the mansion, past stables and other buildings, and into the wild gardens that lay between the main structures and the outer wall. Around him, the hounds closed in.


    ¡°We got him cornered!¡±


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    ¡°Spread out, don¡¯t let him get past you!¡±


    Sprinting at full speed, Arn called on his rune of force and leapt up the wall. Pain wracked his body at being taxed yet again; he was making greater demands on his magic than it could sustain. He barely managed to reach the top with his hands and slowly pull himself over, his arms bursting from the tension.


    ¡°He¡¯s getting away!¡±


    ¡°Fetch the horses! Now, now!¡±


    Letting himself fall down on the other side, Arn glanced around. He stood on a large, open street with only other walled mansions around. No small alleys or such shadowed places to hide in, assuming his runes still obeyed him. As if the Aquilan goddess herself disagreed with his actions on this night, the moon suddenly seemed to shine stronger, dispelling any darkness nearby. With a silent curse he could not utter, Arn began to run down the street.


    Behind him, he heard the sound of hoofbeats against paved road. His breathing came in ragged fashion, his feet hurt from getting down the wall, and his legs burned like the wound on his chest. If he could get to the ludus, nobody would think to search for him there. Just a few miles.


    Glancing over his shoulder, Arn realised he would not get that far. Several riders came galloping against him. The wide streets afforded no place to hide nor a direction where the mounts would be prevented from pursuit. Only the walls of other mansions lay ahead.


    Through the fear that threatened to overtake him, clouding his mind, Arn recognised his surroundings. To the left lay the estate he had visited long ago, belonging to the magistrate who ran the games. To the right lay ¨C possibly a place to hide.


    Arn had no choice; his pursuers gained on him with every step. They would reach him within moments.


    Calling on his rune of force yet again, ignoring the waves of pain it caused, Arn leapt up the wall that surrounded this particular building. As before, he only barely managed to grab onto the top, pulling himself over. This time, he fell with the same grace as an apple leaving a branch, and agony shot through his ankle upon impact with the ground.


    Terrified, he wondered if it was broken. His hands against the wall, he pushed himself up to stand and tentatively placed weight on the injured limb. It hurt, and the ankle protested against being used, but no sharp pain that usually accompanied a break. A sprain, perhaps, but he could walk. Looking around, Arn realised he was in an orchard; besides the trees, he could smell the scent of fruit. No doubt his presence here would anger Luna, but the goddess already seemed set against him, so he would risk her wrath. Catching his breath, Arn looked towards the buildings inside the compound; tonight, the Maidens of the Moon would have an unbidden guest in their convent.

 Chapter 44: Faithful

    Faithful


    She slept in her bed, peacefully ¨C until a hand covered her mouth. Her eyes shot open, but the cell lay in complete darkness. She began to struggle, though her own blankets kept her trapped.


    A finger was pressed against her cheek, moving in patterns. She tried to scream, but the hand on her mouth prevented this; still, the strange touch against her face continued.


    Suddenly, she ceased her frantic movements. Mumbled sounds came through the fingers clasped against her face.


    Hoping he had understood her correctly, that she had spoken his name, Arn removed his hand.


    ¡°Arn?¡± Helena repeated with a whisper. ¡°Are you mad? What is this?¡±


    The Tyrian began to gesture a response until the futility of his action became apparent in the darkness of the room.


    ¡°Wait,¡± she added, sounding aggravated. Pushing him back, she sat up in bed, grabbed the fire tool next to her, and ignited a candle.


    Light spread through the cell, and she looked at her visitor. He returned the gaze, seeing her for the first time without a veil. The same brown eyes that all Aquilans had, with hair of similar hue. For some reason, he felt it like a punch in his stomach to finally see her ¨C like the revelation of a statue shown to be flesh, not stone. The urge to reach out and touch her face came over him, and he only refrained due to weariness rather than any force of will.


    ¡°Explain,¡± she hissed, standing up while holding the light between them. She looked at the sword hanging by his side. ¡°What ¨C where have ¨C why ¨C oh no. You went back.¡±


    He made no reply, too tired to know what to say.


    She placed the candle back on the drawer and switched to signs. ¡®Did you kill him?¡¯


    ¡®Yes,¡¯ he simply replied, barely visible as the light now came from behind her.


    ¡®And now you come here? Why?¡¯


    He stepped back and leaned against the wall before sinking down to sit on the floor. ¡®They¡¯re after me.¡¯


    Heavy knocking interrupted them. ¡°Sister, sister! Mother calls us to gather, come quick!¡±


    Helena looked down at him in the scarce light. ¡®Don¡¯t move.¡¯ She extinguished the candle and quickly left her cell.


    *


    The convent had a single, small gate, barely large enough for a cart to pull through. A small hole at eye height opened up to allow conversation with the outside world through the smallest possible window. As Helena hastened towards the courtyard, she saw her sisters streaming in the same direction, and one of them already at the gate, having a heated conversation.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care! You can¡¯t enter!¡± she declared, standing alongside the gate rather than looking through the opening.


    ¡°Good sister, a murderer is on the loose!¡± came the frustrated reply from the soldier on the outside; he tried to peer through the opening.


    ¡°What is the meaning of this?¡± An elderly woman moved through the crowd of mumbling nuns, fixing her veil. She reached the gate, waving her younger sister away. ¡°Who disturbs our peace?¡±


    With someone finally looking back at him, the warrior bowed his head. He and his fellows wore household colours rather than those of the city guard. ¡°Venerable mother, we pursue a murderer most foul! He slew our dominus, Lord Salvius!¡±


    ¡°Most troubling tidings,¡± the prioress acknowledged with a shaken voice, ¡°but there¡¯s no reason to seek him here.¡±


    ¡°On the contrary, we saw him scale the wall to your convent.¡±


    She glanced up. ¡°These walls? Is he a goat?¡±


    ¡°Please, venerable mother, he killed a mageknight. He possesses magic, undoubtedly ¨C the same that let him scale the walls of our house.¡±


    ¡°Well, if so, he probably ran straight through here and out the other side,¡± the nun argued. ¡°He¡¯s long gone.¡±


    ¡°We set a watch on every side, thinking the same. He¡¯s not been seen leave,¡± the soldier argued, clenching his jaw. ¡°Please, for your own sake, let us search the convent!¡±


    ¡°My good fellow, this place is sacred to Luna, and no man is allowed within the premises!¡±


    ¡°That peace has already been violated, venerable mother. Let us make it right.¡±


    ¡°Mother, if I may suggest,¡± Helena interjected, and the prioress turned to her. ¡°Let us group up three and three. We search the convent. We have our staves ¨C we are not defenceless.¡±


    The old nun looked at her sisters. ¡°I suppose we have no choice,¡± she mumbled.


    ¡°If he¡¯s here, he¡¯d hide in the root cellar or storage rooms, maybe with the animals,¡± Helena continued. ¡°We can forego the dormitory wing, as we all came from there. It won¡¯t take us long to search the rest.¡±


    The prioress took a deep breath. ¡°Fine. Each get your staff and group up. But if you come across this intruder, stay back and call for help! We don¡¯t know what he¡¯s capable of. Maybe we can scare him off.¡±


    ¡°If you consider this wisest,¡± the soldier outside the gate chimed in; his tone of voice suggested his own doubts towards the scheme. ¡°We¡¯ll be ready to grab him if he tries to get out.¡±


    ¡°Very well,¡± the mother superior declared. ¡°Go!¡± she told her sisters. ¡°Make certain our sanctuary is safe!¡±


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    Arn sat in the darkness. As instructed, he had stayed in place, remaining on the floor. He could have gotten up to take a seat on Helena¡¯s bed, but it felt too intimate, a step too far after he had already breached the sanctum of not only her convent, but her personal chamber. Besides, he was accustomed to worse than sitting on a cold stone floor.


    He touched the mark that ran across his left thigh. The rune of recovery, helping his body to heal faster, such as a sprain on his ankle, assuming it worked as it should. Arn could not be certain; the punishment for leeching the mageknight¡¯s life along with exhausting his magical strength, both left him deeply weakened. If they came for him, he could not expect to outrun them, not until he had recovered.


    Could he fight them? Perhaps, but spilling blood in this place ¨C Arn paid no tribute to Aquilan gods, and he had already violated their sanctuary simply by coming here. But it would be a betrayal of Helena¡¯s trust.


    Of course, she might be leading the guards to him in this very moment. If so, he still would not fight. At least not while on the convent grounds.


    He heard commotion, but the thick door made it hard for him to recognise the sounds. So he sat, occasionally letting his fingers run over his ankle, and he waited.


    *


    The door was opened, slowly creaking. Arn looked up, but as the hallway also lay in complete darkness, he could not tell who entered; he only sensed their presence. They walked over to the drawer and ignited the candle. As the light spread, the shape revealed itself to be Helena, and she turned around. ¡®Where I left you.¡¯


    Arn raised his eyes from her hands to her face. ¡®Yes.¡¯


    ¡®We searched the convent and found no intruder. The guards accept that you somehow escaped their vigilance. They¡¯re searching the surrounding streets,¡¯ Helena explained with rapid motions, and Arn could barely keep up. ¡®Once my sisters are asleep again, you must leave.¡¯


    The sk¨¢ld inclined his head in acceptance. His ankle felt better, suggesting that his rune was working; if so, he should also be able to hide in the shadows again, and scale the walls. ¡®I¡¯ll be gone shortly.¡¯


    She sat down on her bed, giving him a scrutinising look in the fragile light that struggled to dispel the darkness between them. ¡®Will you tell me why? I understand that vengeance moved your hand tonight, but why did he mistreat you so in the first place?¡¯


    Arn felt no desire to recount the story, but he suspected Helena had broken one or more vows tonight for his sake. ¡®At the solstice gathering, last year, the mageknight came on behalf of your emperor. They wanted to settle in the empty lands between Tyria and the Empire, and so he asked for guarantee of peace with trade to follow.¡¯


    Keeping both hands and tongue silent, Helena turned a little to face him better and awaited the continuation.


    ¡®His fair words did not move me. I know the lore of our world, and I know empires. Their greed for land can never be sated,¡¯ Arn gestured; if his words had been spoken, bitterness would have flowed through them. ¡®Each new settlement would be closer to our borders, and legionaries would follow to keep them safe. I spoke all of this to the gathering, and the tribes heeded my words. They sent the mageknight away.¡¯


    ¡®So he took revenge on you?¡¯


    ¡®Yes. Or perhaps they simply wanted to remove an obstinate tongue, so I could not speak against them at the next gathering.¡¯ Arn gave a sardonic smile. ¡®They lured me into a trap, fell upon me from all sides, and they cut me down. Destroyed all I am and threw me to the lions.¡¯


    Her eyes flickered up from his hands to the scar that ran down his face. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry,¡± she whispered.


    ¡®I have my revenge. He is slain. The Empire will think twice when next they send their emissaries north.¡¯ Silence filled the darkness between them, interrupted only by the candle flickering. Now Arn scrutinised her, and his eagle eyes saw what few could; a bruise across her cheek, nearly healed. ¡®When did that happen?¡¯ After making the signs, he pointed at her face.


    ¡®Yesterday. Practising with staves.¡¯ She turned her head away.


    She was healing fast, Arn considered; what should have taken a fiveday seemed nearly healed in a day. Much better than his rune of recovery. ¡®You don¡¯t seem convinced yourself.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s a long story.¡¯


    ¡®I got nowhere to be at present.¡¯


    She sighed. ¡®Fine.¡¯ A pause followed. ¡®I was born in a village far from here. My earliest memories are happy.¡¯


    Arn stretched his neck, realising she had not exaggerated when declaring this to be a lengthy tale. But he knew hardly anything about her, and he saw no reason to interrupt.


    ¡®But one year, two evil wizards came, husband and wife. They had a son, too, without magic, but cruel enough to make up for it. They took over the village and made it their home.¡¯


    A turn that Arn had not expected. He sat up straight.


    ¡®For years, they ruled over us with terror. Any who resisted or fled were made examples of. Everyone else bowed their heads and hoped to be spared. Every now and then, they would choose someone for their rituals. We sometimes heard their screams through the night.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry. You don¡¯t have to tell me.¡¯


    She did not see his signs; she stared straight ahead, switching to speech. ¡°One day, it was my mother. Another day, my father.¡±


    ¡®That¡¯s dreadful,¡¯ he gestured, knowing it was in vain.


    ¡°A spellbreaker finally came. Half the village was destroyed, but he killed them.¡± She ran her hand across her face. ¡°Most of the adults were dead. They sent us orphans to Aquila, to the convents. I¡¯ve lived here since.¡± She finally looked at him with an expression that changed back and forth between a mournful smile and pure sorrow.


    ¡®That¡¯s why you hate magic.¡¯


    ¡°Yes,¡± she breathed.


    He thought about keeping quiet, but the last piece of the story was missing, and he felt a need to know ¨C to understand. ¡®But why do you get hurt?¡¯ He hesitated. ¡®Do you hurt yourself?¡¯


    ¡°Perhaps I should,¡± she remarked with a mirthless voice. ¡°But no.¡± She pointed at the wall he leaned against. ¡°Right in there sleeps Sister Joanna. She¡¯s from the village like me.¡± Helena breathed deeply. ¡°She discovered the truth about me. She¡¯s got more experience with magic than most. So she punishes me.¡±


    ¡®Punishes you? She hurts you?¡¯


    ¡°She ¨C she hits me. Mostly with the staff, so it¡¯s easy to explain away. I am marked by evil.¡± Helena¡¯s voice broke. ¡°I deserve to hurt. And I heal fast so that I can take more punishment.¡±


    She repeated the words of another, Arn realised, but they had taken such deep root, she believed them to be her own. He moved across the space between them, crawling as much as walking, to kneel before her. ¡®Evil is not what we are. Evil is what we do. And in a city of cruelty, these hands showed me kindness.¡¯ He took hold of hers and kissed each of them in turn, knowing no other way to get his point across.


    ¡°You¡¯re not allowed to touch,¡± she mumbled feebly, but she did not pull away.


    Instead, he broke the connection, requiring his hands to speak further. ¡®I came here with nothing but hate in my heart for Aquila and its people. You proved me wrong. And it hurts to hear you speak of yourself like this.¡¯


    For several breaths, neither spoke, but simply looked at the other person. He took in her face again, realising why she had worn a veil when they first met; the gods knew that she would have enchanted him and changed his fate. Now it was too late.


    ¡°You should go. Dawn is some hours away. You must get home before you¡¯re discovered.¡±


    He got on his feet; no pain from his ankle. The rune had done its work. ¡®I can¡¯t have my sword in the ludus.¡¯


    She shook her head. ¡°You can¡¯t leave it here. Bad enough you brought it in the first place.¡±


    ¡®I understand. Thank you, Helena. Thank you.¡¯


    The sister bowed her head. ¡°Just go.¡±


    *


    As Arn closed the door to her cell, his rune of subtlety active, he did not go far down the hallway. He stopped at the next cell and stepped inside. In the complete absence of light, he could not see anything, but he guessed that the furniture lay as in Helena¡¯s cell. He moved towards the bed and heard the sound of snoring. He could not see the woman¡¯s face, but it told him enough.


    One hand slammed down over her mouth; the other pinched her nose together. Jostled awake, she tried to scream, and her arms came out from under the blanket to flail around. She smacked her hands against him, far too feeble to deter him. He did not even have to call upon his magical strength. He kept his grip, even after she ceased to fight back, counting his breaths. When he had reached several hundred, he finally let go.

 Chapter 45: Fateful

    Fateful


    His magic sufficiently recovered, Arn had no trouble stalking through the convent under the cover of shadows. He leapt up the wall with ease. No sign of guards or soldiers on the streets. It had already been a long night, and Arn felt ready to see his bed, but he could not imagine leaving his sword anywhere but in trusted hands.


    He did not dare stash it in the ludus; if discovered, a Tyrian blade would raise a lot of questions aimed at him. Even worse if Ignius recognised it as the sword from Salvius¡¯s trophy room; once the news of the mageknight¡¯s death reached the ludus, Arn¡¯s involvement would be obvious. Fortunately, he had a better option, and if he hurried, he could just make it before daybreak. Thus, no longer limping, he hastened towards the harbour.


    *


    The streets were empty, making Arn feel eerie when contrasted with the previous fiveday and its solstice celebration. It appeared the people of Aquila had finished their revelries for now. Still, he stuck to the alleys when it would not add time to his journey, and he kept an eye out for guards.


    Finally, he saw Helgi¡¯s hut. Besides entrusting the blade and his feather to the loremaster, Arn wanted to ask about the progress for his rune of unbinding, and when it would be ready. Hopefully not more than a day or two. Then he would break that accursed armband that chained him to this city and be free.


    With a spark of magic, he convinced the backdoor to unlock and let him in. The hut lay completely dark, and Arn knocked on the table he knew stood in the middle. Nothing.


    Fumbling a bit, he found a lamp on the table along with a piece of fire steel to ignite it, tired of darkness. As light spread, he looked towards the bed and saw it empty. He swiftly glanced around, just to make sure. No signs of a struggle.


    His gaze fell on a perfectly round stone left on the table, nearly smooth except for one symbol engraved, which Arn recognised as the rune of unbinding. He picked up the token. No sense of magic. Helgi had begun his work, it seemed, but far from finished it.


    A sound alerted Arn. He turned his head towards the window, and his powerful sight noticed something. The shutters had been pulled slightly apart, allowing an eye to peer inside. Helgi¡¯s warning of a spellbreaker watching the hut flooded Arn¡¯s mind. He extinguished the lamp and sprinted out the door; he did not stop running until he had turned several corners, disappearing into the alleys of the docks.


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    Outside Helgi¡¯s house, one of the neighbourhood children laughed and walked away.


    *


    Once he felt certain none pursued him, Arn caught his breath and considered what to do. Time was nearly out. He needed to get moving back to the ludus to make it before daybreak. While Ignius might overlook that he got noticed any other night, his absence at the same time as Salvius¡¯s death would be too conspicuous.


    As he began walking, Arn considered if he simply should risk bringing his sword back. He could only keep it in his room; anywhere else in the ludus had a constant flow of people and nowhere to hide a blade of such length. Yet he could not dismiss the fear that the sword would be discovered, brought to Ignius, and the lanista ¨C or anyone else in the ludus ¨C would realise that Salvius had died by Arn¡¯s hand. The ramifications were impossible to predict.


    As his feet brought him near The Broken Mast, Arn considered another option. He would have to return to the docks anyway to collect the rune token from Helgi, assuming the coast was clear; in fact, it might serve him better to send someone else on his behalf when the time came. Someone who owed him if not fealty, at least a favour.


    *


    The insistent knocking continued. ¡°Look, tell those fools in the common room that I¡¯m done for the night,¡± Iris shouted, but it did nothing to dissuade her visitor. Finally, she tore the door open, and surprise replaced the annoyance on her face. ¡°Northman!¡±


    Arn quickly stepped inside and began to untie both the sword and the feather from his belt.


    ¡°Look, I¡¯m flattered, but really, I¡¯m exhausted. I can ask any of the girls still working ¨C¡± He held up a finger to quiet her and handed over both items. She stared at the sheathed sword in confusion. ¡°What exactly am I to do with this?¡± Sighing, he took them again and hid them under her bed. ¡°Oh. Yeah, I suppose you can¡¯t take weapons with you back to the ludus. Not that you seem restrained by its rules otherwise.¡±


    He raised his hands in a dismissive gesture before holding up one finger. Then, he folded his hands next to his cheek as if sleeping.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be back tomorrow night? Fine. I¡¯ll keep it. But you better be off. You stay any longer, you¡¯ll be obliged to pay.¡± She smirked, but he doubted that she jested. Trusting that she remembered his actions on the night that Magnus died, how Arn had protected her and the other girls, he left to make haste back to the school.


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    Weary, Arn felt a twinge of pain using his rune of force, scaling yet another wall on this night. But he cleared it and landed inside the training yard without injuring himself, though his ankle did voice a meek objection. Ignoring it, he staggered towards his cell. He would not get much sleep; the morning bell would soon ring. But even a few moments with his eyes shut was better than nothing.


    Arn had assumed he would be elated after carrying out his vengeance, but the events of the night ¨C not just the fight, but also his escape and subsequent journey across the city ¨C had wrung every drop of energy from his body. He felt utterly fatigued. Tomorrow, which would come far too soon, he would celebrate his victory; tonight, though it would not last much longer, he would rest. His head barely touched his bed before he fell asleep.

 Chapter 46: The Spellbreaker

    The Spellbreaker


    In the early hours of the morning, chaos had taken over the estate of House Salvius. Learning the news, guests practically fled out the doors. Most of the household guards were gone, combing the streets in vain for a murderer who had vanished. With all of the traffic going out the gates, a lone wanderer went the other way, unopposed.


    He looked a curious sight amidst the patricians and their retinues, all hurrying away. At length, an elderly servant approached him. ¡°What is this? On this day of tragedy, a vagabond struts in here, with all the guards absent? Haven¡¯t we suffered enough?¡±


    Atreus glanced at him briefly. ¡°I am a spellbreaker of Archen. Under the treaty between your realm and mine, I have full authority to investigate matters of maleficus, including murders committed through magic. The city guard alerted us that such might have taken place here tonight. Do you deny this?¡±


    The servant paled. ¡°Forgive me, good master, I had no idea. I know nothing of magic.¡±


    ¡°But there was a murder here tonight? The lord of the house, a mageknight?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my dominus, whom I have served faithfully for decades.¡± Tears filled the old man¡¯s eyes. ¡°I saw it myself, a dreadful sight!¡±


    ¡°Tell me what happened.¡±


    ¡°Of course, good master. I woke in the night ¨C I¡¯m old and a light sleeper. I went to the kitchens to get something to settle my stomach. I saw light down the stairs that lead to the dominus¡¯s gymnasium, so I brought a cup of wine on my way back. I thought he might be thirsty,¡± the servant explained with a lump in his throat. ¡°He was always exercising and training. Such a great man, and they butchered him!¡±


    ¡°Any idea who ¡®they¡¯ might be?¡±


    ¡°Ah, well, it was just the one.¡±


    Atreus stared at him with a piercing look. ¡°You saw the murderer?¡±


    The old man swallowed. ¡°Not quite, good master. I went down the stairs. First, I saw the dominus¡¯s body ¨C horribly mutilated, it was. Made me drop the cup out of pure fright. Then, as if spat out by the shadows, this man appeared. Ran right past me, shoving me aside!¡±


    ¡°You saw his face?¡±


    ¡°Forgive me, good master, I didn¡¯t.¡± The servant wrung his hands. ¡°He¡¯ll be far gone, the wretch. No justice for my poor, slain dominus.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s the body now?¡±


    ¡°Still in the gymnasium, good master. We didn¡¯t dare touch it. We sent for the Black Brothers to fetch it, but they haven¡¯t come yet.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Atreus declared. ¡°Show me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll take you to the stairs,¡± the servant mumbled, and he turned around. ¡°But I¡¯m never setting foot down there while I live.¡±


    Descending the staircase into darkness, Atreus summoned a small flame to illuminate his path. As he reached the circular chamber, a gruesome sight met him. A beheaded corpse, kneeling, with the head lying in front. Worse than that, the muscles on the back had been cut open, and the shoulder blades pulled up and raised into the air like a mockery of wings.


    Despite the terrible vision, Atreus did not recoil or hesitate. He approached and knelt down, examining the body and the wooden floorboards. The bloodstains had darkened, making them hard to distinguish, and he increased his floating flame to provide more light.


    From his belt, Atreus took out his small wax tablet containing his notes and began to write.


    Rising to his feet, Atreus beheld the scene one last time, scrutinising the posture of the body. When satisfied, he turned and left with swift steps.


    At the top of the stairs, a woman waited; by her clothing, she was the domina of the house. ¡°You are the Archean mage?¡±


    ¡°I am, milady. A spellbreaker, Atreus. If it makes a difference, your husband did not suffer.¡±


    She sniffed. ¡°How can you tell?¡±


    ¡°Barely any blood on his back means it happened after he had died. Lord Salvius was wounded in his chest, which brought him low, but even that wound did not bleed long, suggesting he was decapitated immediately after.¡±


    ¡°I suppose that is some comfort.¡± Despite the grisly end her husband had met, the woman seemed either composed or simply still in shock.


    ¡°It was good you did not move his body, despite how tempting it must have been,¡± Atreus commended her. ¡°I have written down my observations, so once the Black Brothers arrive, there¡¯s no need to delay them from giving your husband the final rites.¡±


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    ¡°Well, I knew some manner of heathen ritual had taken place. Same reason I had the city guard alert you lot,¡± she explained. ¡°I cannot say whether that Tyrian bastard simply enjoyed desecrating my husband¡¯s corpse or whether it was meant to be a message to the rest of us, but either way, I wanted you Archeans to see.¡±


    Atreus frowned. ¡°You know the culprit?¡±


    ¡°Stars, not by name or face. But the blood eagle ¨C my husband told his guests of it many times, witnessing it in Tyria.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re certain this was done by a Tyrian?¡±


    ¡°Nether¡¯s name, yes! It is one of their savage methods for torturing a man, which is why I am surprised this particular cutthroat only did it after Lord Salvius was dead.¡± She gave him a sharp look. ¡°Did you not know this? Must I explain your own craft to you?¡±


    ¡°Forgive me, milady. I must be on the hunt.¡± Without further explanation, Atreus hurried away.


    *


    Reaching the docks one bell before noon, Atreus hammered on the door to Helgi¡¯s hut. As he looked ready to kick the door in, the children playing on the street yelled out to him. ¡°He¡¯s not there!¡±


    The spellbreaker turned and approached them. ¡°You know where he is?¡±


    One of the kids nodded. ¡°Our neighbour¡¯s giving birth. He¡¯s been there since yesterday.¡± She eyed Atreus up and down. ¡°I can take you.¡±


    ¡°Wait! I saw something last night. You said you¡¯d pay if we told you something useful,¡± a boy interjected.


    ¡°What did you see?¡±


    ¡°Someone rummaged around old Helgi¡¯s hut in the middle of the night. When he saw me watching, he jumped like a cat and ran off,¡± he laughed.


    ¡°Did you notice his face? Did it have a scar?¡±


    The boy nodded eagerly. ¡°Yes, it did!¡±


    Atreus knelt down and looked him in the eyes. ¡°Are you lying? You should tell me the truth,¡± he suggested, reinforced by magic.


    ¡°No,¡± the boy admitted. ¡°Too dark. I couldn¡¯t see him.¡±


    ¡°Wait, I saw something too!¡± the girl now chimed in. ¡°The other fiveday. Helgi left in the middle of the night, and I followed him to The Broken Mast.¡±


    Atreus scratched his chin. ¡°What¡¯s that, a tavern?¡±


    ¡°Hah, worse than that,¡± the boy grinned. ¡°The meanest people in the harbour. They¡¯ll cut you just for looking at them! My da always tells me to stay far away from there.¡±


    The spellbreaker rose to his full height, looking up and down the street. Finally, he took out a silver piece. ¡°Show me where it is.¡±


    *


    After the tumultuous night that saw The Broken Mast change owners abruptly, Aja had moved in, taking over Magnus¡¯s quarters and study. In the following fivedays, the neighbourhood had been more or less quiet, other than the occasional brawl in the streets or the tavern, usually fuelled by drink or men competing for the same woman¡¯s affection.


    Aja had worked the building and district into her existing criminal ring; the city guard was bribed, both to overlook the events of that night as well as other affairs, contacts had been established or remade after Magnus¡¯s death, smuggling routes arranged, and coin flowed like never before. All in all, as the Sindhian woman looked over her ledgers, she did so with a satisfied smile.


    ¡°Sorry, mistress, but¡­¡± One of her henchmen stood at the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot.


    ¡°Spit it out.¡±


    ¡°Down in the common room. Says he¡¯s a wizard.¡± He cleared his throat. ¡°Not just that, but Archean. He¡¯s asking questions about Tyrians.¡±


    Immediately, Aja pulled out a drawer and opened a small box within, containing golden jewellery. ¡°Anyone say anything?¡± she asked as she put on a necklace and placed rings in her ears and more on her fingers.


    ¡°Not yet, but who knows what he¡¯s after.¡±


    Slamming the drawer shut, Aja got on her feet, and she hurried out the door. Sear?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    *


    Nobody spoke in the common room of The Broken Mast. Everyone wore different expressions, though most of them fearful, looking at the travelworn man in their midst. He stood silent as well, but he seemed comfortable, almost casual, as if unaware of the effect his presence had ¨C or just indifferent.


    As Aja came down the stairs, he turned to her. ¡°You must be the proprietress. I¡¯ve searched quite a few taverns in this district, but strangely, I never had cause to come here before. Almost as if someone took pains to point me in the wrong direction.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what that means,¡± the Sindhian replied, her mouth a thin line. ¡°We serve ale and spirits. Company if that¡¯s your thirst. Nothing more.¡±


    Atreus let his eyes slowly wander across the room before resting on Aja again. ¡°Golden earrings. Clever. But if I must, good mistress, I will rip every piece of jewellery away and make you tell me the truth. I seek a Tyrian, a scar across his eye. He¡¯s murdered several commoners but also a mageknight. He is a maleficar, and I have the full authority of your Empire to bring him to justice.¡±


    Despite her tan skin, the Sindhian woman seemed to pale. ¡°We know nothing of that! We¡¯re simple folk! We¡¯ve never dealt with magic or evil mages of any kind.¡±


    Atreus raised a hand, silencing her. ¡°That¡¯s strange. Because I sense magic in this very moment. Not from you, dressed in gold like a walking headache ¨C just looking at you irritates my mind. It¡¯s coming¡­ from there.¡± He turned and strode away, crossing the room to enter the wing where the staff of the tavern had their quarters, including the harlots. He pushed a door open, revealing a man in half-dressed state, and a woman standing behind him.


    ¡°Look, mate, I already paid!¡± the man complained; one look from Atreus silenced him.


    The spellbreaker grabbed the bed with one hand and lifted it aside as if it weighed nothing. Bending down, he picked up a sheathed sword along with a feather and let the bed drop. He turned to Iris. ¡°I dare say these belong to a Tyrian with a scar on his face. Where can I find him?¡±


    She returned his stare with crossed arms. ¡°No idea.¡±


    Atreus took a deep breath. ¡°You should tell me the truth,¡± he suggested.


    Licking her lips, Iris seemed to waver before she blinked and once more looked defiant. ¡°As I said. No idea.¡±


    The spellbreaker barked with laughter briefly. ¡°To think, of all places, it¡¯s here I¡¯d find such loyalty as to resist my suggestion.¡± He took another deep breath. ¡°But I will break you if I must.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a gladiator!¡± someone shouted from the doorway.


    ¡°You bitch,¡± Iris spat, looking at the girl who had spoken.


    Atreus turned around, ignoring Iris in favour of the other girl. ¡°You should tell me what you know of him,¡± he suggested.


    ¡°He¡¯s with House Ignius. I¡¯ve seen him there on Soldays. A Tyrian with a scar on his face.¡± Despite being the same height as Atreus, the spellbreaker seemed to tower over her, and she trembled as she spoke.


    As for him, he slowly exhaled in relief. ¡°At last. Thank you.¡± He pushed through the crowd that had gathered, and they tripped over themselves to get out of his way.

 Chapter 47: The Soul of a Skáld

    The Soul of a Sk¨¢ld


    As expected, Arn barely felt better when he woke up. Besides being tired, his magic had only begun to replenish itself, and while he did not anticipate needing it, it made him feel vulnerable and therefore uncomfortable. In the end, after a gruelling morning of sparring, he approached the weapons master. ¡®Could I get a brief respite? After solstice games and Ignius¡¯ celebration yesterday, I¡¯m tired.¡¯


    Mahan looked him over. ¡°Fine. You may rest one bell. That is all the favour your status as champion buys you. Be back after the noon meal, and no further complaints.¡±


    Better than nothing. Arn nodded in agreement and returned to his cell for sleep.


    *


    Feeling more rested in the afternoon and ready to train, Arn was intercepted by a guard. ¡°The sister¡¯s here to see you.¡± Wondering why, Arn followed the watchman. Helena appearing in the middle of the day did not bode well. They soon reached the bars that served as a gate between the ludus and the inner house, where she stood in her typical garb, veil covering her face.


    Seeing them approach, she turned her head towards the guard. Even with the fabric covering her expression, he understood. ¡°I¡¯ll leave you to it, I guess,¡± he mumbled and walked away.


    As soon as his back was turned, Helena began signing. ¡®Sister Joanna is dead.¡¯ Taken aback, Arn did not know what to respond, and she continued, ¡®You did this.¡¯


    As her hands became still, he knew he had to reply. ¡®Yes,¡¯ he finally admitted.


    Despite the veil, he believed that he could see her fuming. ¡®How could you! I sheltered you, breaking the most fundamental rules of the convent! I lied to my sisters, I betrayed their trust, and you killed one of them!¡¯


    His own anger became stirred, and he no longer had trouble giving answers. ¡®For you! She tormented you!¡¯


    ¡®She also spent her mornings feeding orphans and washing the sick at the infirmary,¡¯ Helena retorted. ¡®It¡¯s more complicated than you think!¡¯


    ¡®Her good deeds don¡¯t excuse her ill deeds,¡¯ Arn argued.


    ¡®And what of yours? Have you left anything but death in your wake? Who are you to judge the acts of another?¡¯


    His temper flared, but this time, it clouded his mind, and he could not think of any retaliation.


    ¡®We are done. I¡¯ve taken Sister Joanna¡¯s place on the expedition, whenever it leaves ¨C who knows, since you also murdered its leader.¡¯ Her veil fluttered. ¡®Yes, she was going to leave Aquila, and I¡¯d never have to see her again. Instead, I¡¯ll place that same distance between us.¡¯ Her parting blow delivered, she turned on her heel and stalked away.


    Arn wanted to shout for her to stay, to listen to him, to change her mind, but he lacked both the tongue and the words for such an accomplishment. Instead, he grasped the bars separating the nun from the sk¨¢ld and shook them in anger. For a moment, he imagined calling upon his supernatural might and twist them apart.


    The thought passed. No feat of strength, no display of magic could convince her to return. And why did he care? Soon, they would both be far from Aquila, going their own way. Letting this thought calm him down, he released his grip on the bars and walked away to begin sparring.


    *


    The afternoon waned; the evening meal would be served soon. Some of the gladiators slackened their efforts in anticipation of the day¡¯s work coming to an end, while others kept up the pace regardless. Less motivated to train than the others, Arn raised a hand to signal his desire to stop, and Marcus stepped back, grinning. ¡°Had enough, champion?¡±


    Arn wondered if he would miss any of this. He longed to have his freedom back, with nobody issuing commands on his time or presence. Even so, comfort was found in routine, and these months in the ludus had built up his strength as nothing else could have; while he certainly liked some of the gladiators better than others, he would not deny that he felt like a part of their band as a whole. The disconcerting thought appeared in his head that by escaping, he was abandoning them. But he could not see any other way.


    His musings were interrupted by commotion, loud enough to attract the attention of everyone. Across the yard, the gladiators ceased fighting and looked towards the building. From the house issued soldier after soldier, clad in the colours of the city guard, wielding spears. Leading them was an ordinary-looking man, dressed like any other traveller might be.


    Unrest spread through the fighters; some gripped their wooden weapons tighter, and murmurs could be heard everywhere. As the weapons master, Mahan stepped in front of his men to ask, ¡°What is going on?¡±


    Arn had cast a single look at the fellow leading the soldiers, and he knew. Not due to recognition; they had never met before. But he could only think of one person who would come to this place, leading guards, and look so confident without even a dagger in his belt. This had to be the spellbreaker. Holding on to his wooden sword, Arn slipped backwards into the crowd of twenty gladiators.


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    ¡°I am Atreus of Archen. Under the treaty between your realm and my city, I have full authority to investigate claims of maleficus and illegal acts done by magic. I have come seeking a Tyrian in your house. He is known by the scar down his face. Where is he?¡±


    Shocked mutterings spread through the men. Realising that fighting would only harm his companions of the ludus, Arn dropped his sword, turned around, and ran for the back wall.


    His movement caught the attention of everyone, gladiators and guards alike. Empowering himself with his rune, Arn leapt into the air, tall enough to clear the enclosure in a single bound.


    Extending his hand towards the fugitive, Atreus clenched his fist in the air and made a throwing motion.


    As if seized by a giant yet invisible grip, Arn¡¯s jump was interrupted, and he fell into the wall instead, tossed against it.


    ¡°The Tyrian in question, I assume,¡± Atreus remarked dryly. ¡°No doubt either that he possesses magic. Surrender, northerner,¡± he called out. ¡°There¡¯s no need for this to become violent.¡±


    ¡°What will happen to him?¡± asked Sigismund, standing closest to the spellbreaker.


    ¡°The fate of any maleficar. Stand aside ¨C if there¡¯s to be a battle of spells, none of you want to be caught in between,¡± Atreus warned them all.


    Sigismund looked at his fellow gladiators, clenching the training sword in his hand. ¡°He¡¯s one of us,¡± he mumbled. Without warning, he surged forward and swung his weapon at the spellbreaker with sufficient force to crack his skull.


    Atreus made a swiping motion with his hand, and the burly gladiator was flung aside. Seeing the strongest among them laid low, the other gladiators looked cowed, and nobody else moved.


    Arn, realising there was no comparison between the power of an Archean spellbreaker and an Aquilan mageknight, knew he was doomed. He caught Mahan¡¯s gaze and signed to him, ¡®Tell them all to step aside. They¡¯ll just get killed fighting.¡¯


    ¡°What¡¯s he saying?¡± Atreus demanded sharply. ¡°What do those signs mean?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s telling us to stand down,¡± Mahan interpreted, raising his voice. ¡°Do as he says, lads. Nothing we can do here.¡± He glanced at the guards, who held their spears ready, and dropped the wooden sword in his hand.


    ¡°Good. Are you prepared to surrender and come peacefully?¡± Atreus asked, staring at Arn. ¡°Let me say it again. I command you to surrender!¡± Magic filled his words. This was no simple suggestion, but pure mental domination that would leave ordinary people trembling and throwing themselves to the ground.


    Arn grimaced; he thought his ears might bleed at the assault upon his mind. But he was a sk¨¢ld; his own galdr, if he still could sing, worked much the same, and experience with such magic gave him the strength to resist. Exhaling, the Tyrian bent down and picked up his training sword. It availed little, but it was a blade, of sorts, and he was a spellblade. If he were to die, better with a fake weapon in hand than none at all, better on these sands than in the arena, and better among the only people he respected than as entertainment for the Aquilan masses.


    The spellbreaker sighed. ¡°So be it.¡±


    Understanding what was about to take place, the gladiators all hurried away to stand against the sides of the yard, while the guards moved further back behind Atreus.


    Once again, the Archean mage reached out with his hand and his magic to seize Arn and throw him about like a ragdoll, but this time, the sk¨¢ld stood ready. His own seier rose up in him, resisting the effect, and he broke free of the invisible grip.


    As he sprinted forward with empowered swiftness, Arn extended his magic to grab all the discarded training weapons on the ground and hurl them as projectiles against Atreus.


    In response, the spellbreaker raised a powerful wind behind him, sweeping away all the spears and swords harmlessly. Intensifying the strength of the gale, he halted Arn¡¯s momentum, until the latter raised the sand in front of him into a wall; where air met earth, both elements faltered, as did the spells commanding either.


    Once again, Arn rushed forward, and he struck with his bladesong to smash Atreus across the face with the wooden blade. With a swift gust of wind, the spellbreaker simply pushed the weapon out Arn¡¯s hand, and he followed up with a spell that required no movement, no words, yet it struck the sk¨¢ld like being run over by a horse.


    Pain, greater than he could have imagined, coursed through him. It did not run through his body, it did not assault his mind; his very soul felt on fire, and Arn fell to his knees in agony. He tried to scream, but only guttural sounds escaped his mouth. He thought his eyes might explode in his skull; he suddenly recalled with extreme clarity his first time in the arena, being mauled by lions.


    The torment ended. ¡°Surrender!¡± Atreus repeated with his dominating voice.


    Gasping for air, Arn looked up. Beyond the spellbreaker, he saw the city guards engrossed in the fight. With his magical reach, Arn grabbed hold of a spear from one of them and flew it into his own hand. Back on his feet, he thrust it against his enemy, and it struck against the chain shirt that Atreus wore under his clothing.


    With a burst of magic, a flame erupted to burn through the spear haft, breaking it. Throwing the back half away, Arn gripped the top half and wielded it as a knife. He aimed a blow at his adversary¡¯s head with enough force to split his skull open.


    Another powerful gust pushed him back, and Arn released his mute scream, struggling to advance against the gale that held him away from his adversary. Even his weapon slipped from his hand, and the ensorcelled wind sent it flying straight towards a gladiator¡¯s face. In the last moment, Arn seized it with his magic and hurled it back at Atreus. sea??h th§× N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The spellbreaker simply evaded the incoming assault, taking a step back. Ceasing his air spell, Atreus once more cast his soulfire.


    As before, Arn felt pure torment seize the essence of his very being, and he fell to the ground, limp. He made no further movement other than to tremble in pain. When the spell ended, he became still.


    ¡°Chain him up,¡± Atreus declared with a tired voice. ¡°He¡¯s done.¡±


    Cautiously, though still obeying the Archean mage, the guards approached the fallen Tyrian with golden manacles in their hands. Quickly, they chained his wrists along with a collar around his neck, suppressing his magic. ¡°Can¡¯t wait for you to explain to the lieutenant how you lost your spear,¡± mumbled one of them as the other, bereft of his weapon, grabbed Arn by the shoulders.


    ¡°I¡¯ll journey back with this one to the dungeons,¡± Atreus declared to the princeps of the guards. ¡°The rest fall under your responsibility. Unless you happen to discover others using magic in this ludus,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°Let¡¯s pray we don¡¯t,¡± came the reply. ¡°Alright, drag him out, and get chains for the others!¡±

 Chapter 48: The Spider’s Web

    The Spider¡¯s Web


    Arn was barely conscious for his journey to the dungeons of Aquila. His mind drifted away, only becoming aware of his surroundings briefly, much like when he had been injured and close to death from the resulting fever.


    The guards remained unaffected; under the spellbreaker¡¯s careful watch, they hauled the sk¨¢ld into a small cell, ran his chains through a ring on the wall, and left him again.


    Time passed, though Arn could not tell how long; his senses only returned to him slowly, and his dark, unfamiliar accommodations did not help. He was cold, seated on stone. This was not the ludus, lacking even the sparse furniture that his cell possessed. Straw lay on the floor, and a blanket. A bucket in a corner he could just reach if he stretched his arms. Restraints ¨C he was shackled. By the strange, hot sensation, he recognised it to be gold. At last, the realisation came to him. He was discovered, captured, and damned.


    They would do it to him again. Destroy his magic and throw him into the arena to die for sport. Or maybe just execution on a public square as part of their rituals. Regardless, this time there would be no miraculous survival; he had squandered the opportunity the gods had given him.


    All that remained for Arn was to seek his death in a more dignified manner than as entertainment or sacrifice. He had the thin needle hidden in his belt. Stabbing himself in the right place might work. But they would have to take him out of this cell at some point; if he recovered his strength, he could reach for a guard¡¯s weapon. Chained up and without magic, he stood no chance of getting away, but he would die fighting and maybe take one or two of the bastards with him.


    The door opened. It had to be night, for no light came from the small window up high on the wall. As a flame appeared out of nowhere, illuminating the cell, Arn recognised the spellbreaker.


    ¡°I brought this.¡± Atreus extended a tablet and a stylus to the prisoner. ¡°I have some questions for you. If you answer truthfully, I can have a few comforts provided to you.¡±


    Arn took the proffered items and wrote,


    ¡°The Tyrians?¡± The Archean frowned. ¡°Oh, you mean the gladiators. Well, if you answer my questions, I¡¯ll answer yours afterwards. Agreed?¡±


    With tired movements, the sk¨¢ld nodded.


    Atreus disappeared out of the cell for a moment; his flame remained. Arn extended his chained wrist, knowing the gold would extinguish the magic if it came close enough. The distance exceeded his reach, however; his shackles jingled as he let his arm fall down, and he sank back to sit against the wall.


    The spellbreaker returned with a stool and sat down in front of Arn. ¡°Did you work with others?¡±


    No need to write this answer down. The prisoner shook his head.


    ¡°Given I¡¯ve seen no evidence of a second maleficar in Aquila, I would be inclined to believe you ¨C except for that.¡± He pointed at the armband that still adorned Arn. ¡°I¡¯d recognise Archean magic anywhere. How did you get it?¡±


    He wrote,


    ¡°Do not lie to me. No simple lanista could get his hands on an Archean artefact.¡±


    Arn had surmised the same, but it did not mean he knew how Ignius got it.


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    The spellbreaker frowned, scratching his unkempt hair. ¡°Do you know what it does?¡±


    ¡°Hm. If you will allow it¡­¡± Atreus reached out a hand and touched the arm ring. He closed his eyes briefly. ¡°Hard to tell with all the gold you¡¯re wearing.¡±


    He was more than welcome to remove Arn¡¯s chains, but the Tyrian did not bother writing that down.


    ¡°Did Ignius know you possessed magic, then?¡±


    Arn nodded.


    ¡°Lastly, what was the purpose of your attacks? You left a shambling undead in the slums, you desecrated the corpse of a mageknight, and I¡¯ve no doubt you¡¯ve struck other times I didn¡¯t uncover.¡±


    With a sigh, Arn wrote his reply.


    ¡°Very well. Now, you may ask your questions.¡±


    While it made no difference, Arn wanted to know nonetheless; what mistake had he made? Was it betrayal?


    ¡°With great difficulty. Almost by chance, I came by the tavern where you hid your possessions. Your little friend didn¡¯t want to give you up, but others were more talkative.¡±


    At least this suggested that neither the spellbreaker nor anyone else knew about Helena.


    ¡°Your fellow gladiators are here in the dungeons.¡±


    Arn quickly smoothed the wax to make room.  S§×arch* The ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The spellbreaker hesitated. ¡°I can¡¯t say. If it were up to me, I¡¯d interrogate each, and if satisfied they were unaware of your activities, I¡¯d let them go. In the eyes of Archen, they¡¯ve done no wrong. But I worry that the Aquilans consider it differently.¡±


    Arn feared as much. Nothing further to discuss. He tossed the tablet aside.


    *


    Atreus returned to the guard room of the dungeons; seeing the Archean mage, they hurried on their feet. ¡°Where is Ignius kept? The lanista. I must speak with him.¡±


    The sentinels exchanged looks. ¡°Forgive us, master, they didn¡¯t tell you?¡±


    ¡°Clearly not. What¡¯s going on?¡± came the impatient reply.


    ¡°He tried to flee. He was killed.¡±


    The spellbreaker looked at them in disbelief. ¡°Killed? What threat could he have posed? How did this happen?¡±


    ¡°Begging your pardon, we weren¡¯t present.¡±


    Muttering to himself, Atreus looked around the room as if answers could be found on the walls next to oil lamps and two guards with nervous expressions. Finally, he turned and strode out.


    *


    In the red wing of the Arcane Tower, Cora watched her fellow Archean pace back and forth. ¡°Something is not right,¡± Atreus muttered. ¡°The prisoner has an Archean ring on his arm, supposedly given to him by some bumbling lanista, who is killed trying to escape?¡±


    The red master leaned back in her chair, still observing the spellbreaker. ¡°That¡¯s proof of an Archean connection. An artefact like what you describe ¨C several metals fused together ¨C is not the work of a novice. Excluding me, that leaves the blue and the white master. I told you Vasilia was up to something.¡±


    ¡°I am inclined to believe you, but what? I don¡¯t see what purpose this Tyrian has served her, nor how his actions could have benefitted her. Unless she has some personal grievance with the dead mageknight and used the bard as a weapon.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know of any connection between her and Salvius,¡± Cora admitted. ¡°I could attempt to break the wards to the white wing. Undoubtedly there¡¯s evidence in her chambers.¡±


    Atreus shook his head. ¡°I doubt we can. And just the attempt would see her retaliate, as would be her right.¡±


    ¡°What then? The Tyrian is in chains. Has her plans failed or already finished?¡±


    The spellbreaker did not hear; he looked out the window. This far up, it gave a magnificent view of the city; those with keen eyes could see as far as the sea to the west. ¡°This is not about Aquila or Vasilia.¡±


    ¡°How do you mean?¡±


    He turned to look at her. ¡°Before I came here, I was at the Archean outpost in the northern wastelands. The masters gave me no welcome and were only glad to see my heels. And the other year, the fiend that ravaged Morcaster¡­ We never learned where it came from. It could have been the outpost north of the city.¡±


    Cora frowned. ¡°You think all of this is connected?¡±


    ¡°Like a spider¡¯s web with Archen in the centre. Whatever secretive affairs the masters of the different outposts may be up to, it will be coordinated from Archen.¡± He began moving towards the door. ¡°I have to return!¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± She jumped up from her chair. ¡°What if you¡¯re wrong, and the only danger is here in Aquila?¡±


    He halted and looked at her over his shoulder. ¡°The responsibility falls to you, in that case. Forgive me, but if there is any risk that Archen is in danger, my place is there. Not anywhere else.¡±


    She hesitated a moment before she bowed her head. ¡°I¡¯ll help you on your way.¡±

 Chapter 49: The Chains That Bind Us

    The Chains That Bind Us


    For several days, nothing disrupted the monotony of imprisonment in the dungeons. Meals consisting of slop or stale bread were served, and a trickle of daylight shone through the tiny windows; beyond that, the prisoners had no thread to life outside the dungeons.


    The compound was primarily underground and had two wings. The smaller had cells meant for solitary prisoners; those kept for longer periods, awaiting trial, or simply considered particularly dangerous. The other wing had large rooms where greater numbers could be kept together; useful during festivities, where the city guard might round up troublemakers or rowdy drunkards and keep them contained for a while.


    In the largest cell, all the gladiators of House Ignius were kept. Hearing the rattling of keys in the lock, they exchanged questioning looks; it was not mealtime. The door swung open to allow a nun entry, and all the men hurried on their feet, though the chains around their ankles kept them back.


    ¡°Sister Helena!¡± they exclaimed.


    Veiled as always, she unwrapped a bundle in her arms to reveal several loaves of fresh bread. ¡°I brought this. All I could get, sadly.¡±


    The smell alone made stomachs growl, and the men tried once more to crowd her. ¡°Step back!¡± Mahan barked. ¡°You¡¯ll all get yours.¡± He took one of the loaves and began tearing pieces from it to distribute it around the cell.


    ¡°Bless you, sister,¡± came the tearful response from Marcus receiving his portion.


    ¡°Sister, do you know what¡¯ll happen to us? The guards won¡¯t tell us anything,¡± Hector asked.


    She hesitated, and they stared at the black veil that hid her face. ¡°Next fiveday, there¡¯s a conjunction of the stars and the moon. An auspicious event. There¡¯ll be extra games and festivities held. You¡¯re to take part of them.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll go back to the arena?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not the worst, is it? A little out of shape, but still, we¡¯ll get a chance.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be fools,¡± Sigismund growled as he tore off a bite with his teeth. ¡°We go there to die, nothing else.¡±


    ¡°What of Arn?¡± asked Domitian, and the others looked at him.


    ¡°Why do you care? He¡¯s the reason we¡¯ll be sent to our deaths!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I never liked that Tyrian bastard!¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± Sigismund cut through. ¡°What was he to do? A prisoner of the ludus with magic gifts ¨C he played the game they forced him to.¡±


    ¡°Curious words from you, given you volunteered. You had a choice, at least,¡± came a bitter voice from within the cell.


    ¡°Aye, I entertained the crowds Solday after Solday, year after year, and this is my reward,¡± the former champion retorted. ¡°The Northman made the best of his circumstances, as we all did. And now we all die.¡± Sigismund sat down, chewing on his bread.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t answer my question, sister,¡± Domitian remarked.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t seen him. But his fate must be expected to be the worst,¡± Helena considered.


    ¡°Good,¡± several mumbled.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. When he fought that other mage, he stopped the spear from hitting me. You remember? After it broke, the tip of it came flying straight at my face, but the Northman stopped it. Even in a desperate fight, he still did that,¡± Andrew chimed in.


    ¡°Yeah, because he wanted the weapon,¡± someone argued.


    ¡°Well, he did it before it split my face open, which is a distinction I can appreciate,¡± Andrew retorted.


    ¡°Sister, have you seen Ignius?¡± Mahan asked, finishing up his division of the bread.


    Her hesitation made them all turn their attention on her. ¡°I was told that he died, trying to escape.¡±


    ¡°Good riddance!¡± Cornelius spat in front of him, making his neighbours recoil and curse him out. S§×arch* The n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Yeah, argue what you want about the Northman, but Ignius definitely knew!¡± Hector looked at Mahan. ¡°Did you?¡±


    The question made the cell become silent. ¡°I eventually discovered the truth,¡± the weapons master admitted. ¡°Not long before solstice when it felt too late to do anything.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not to blame,¡± Sigismund declared. ¡°Ignius, yes, for he was the lanista, and I won¡¯t mourn his death. Man never spent a moment of time with us in the training yard, yet our sweat and blood kept him in silk.¡±


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    ¡°How did you find out?¡± came a question from within the cell.


    Mahan sank down on the floor, leaning against the wall. ¡°When you were injured,¡± he revealed, gesturing at Domitian.


    ¡°Me?¡±


    ¡°Yes. You were dying, my friend. Yet overnight, you recovered. Within a day, barely a trace of sickness left in you.¡±


    Suddenly restless, Helena moved slightly backwards, standing up against the door.


    ¡°Huh? The Northman did that? I figured I was just strong.¡±


    For once, laughter resounded through the bleak room.


    ¡°Not that strong,¡± Mahan told Domitian. ¡°The change was obvious, and since it happened right after he visited you, everything suddenly fell into place. His own swift recovery, his powerful performance in the arena against stronger opponents. When I confronted him, he confessed the truth.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised he didn¡¯t try to place the blame on others,¡± Helena muttered, making the weapons master look up at her.


    ¡°Not at all. I¡¯ll say this for him at least. He admitted it straight away.¡± Mahan gave her an embarrassed look. ¡°For a brief moment, I suspected you, as I didn¡¯t think a gladiator could have escaped discovery.¡±


    ¡°Oh. What an amusing thought.¡±


    ¡°Sister? Will you return?¡± Marcus asked.


    ¡°If allowed, I¡¯ll be back before ¨C you all leave.¡±


    ¡°Gods bless you, sister, for all you¡¯ve done for us.¡± The sentiment was reiterated by all of them, and the nun crossed her hands on top of her heart.


    *


    Arn watched the ray of sunlight slowly creep across the floor. The first days, he had passed time by recalling every song he had ever learned. After that, he recounted each rune, the history of the tribes, and everything else he knew.


    At some point, it all seemed to fade. He could do it again, but his mind saw no purpose to it. Thus, he watched the sliver of light from early morning until late evening, appearing from the window up high. When it disappeared, he closed his eyes and slept in such a position that when it returned, it fell upon his face and woke him up, allowing him to resume his observation.


    The door opened. He did not bother looking. He never ate his meals until the door had closed again.


    ¡°Arn?¡±


    The voice shattered him. He became aware of how filthy he had to be. How reduced he must appear in both body and spirit. The door closed again, but the presence stayed; he felt her, and he averted his eyes.


    ¡°It¡¯s me.¡±


    Still looking away, he signed, ¡®Leave.¡¯


    ¡°I will. I just ¨C I had to see you.¡±


    Why? To gloat over his deserved misfortune, or worse, to pity him? He dared not ask. ¡®Now you have.¡¯


    ¡°I didn¡¯t bring you anything. I¡¯m sorry. I gave it all to the others.¡±


    ¡®They¡¯re still here? Alive?¡¯


    ¡°Yes. For now.¡±


    That surprised him. He imagined the Aquilans had a particular fate in store for him, but not the gladiators. Galleys always needed strong men at the oars. ¡®Why? What will they do to them?¡¯


    ¡°There¡¯s a celestial event happening with extra games. They¡¯re to be the entertainment. You too, I suppose.¡±


    Arn exhaled. He had expected as much for himself, yet he had held out hope that his brothers would be spared death and sentenced to the galleys or the mines. Distraught, he shook his head and ended up looking at her. He saw only the black veil, which calmed him; he could handle that.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. None of you deserve this.¡±


    ¡®They don¡¯t. I do. I wanted vengeance no matter the risk, the cost. If I had let go, I¡¯d never be discovered, and they wouldn¡¯t be facing death.¡¯


    She knelt down in front of him. ¡°You didn¡¯t pass judgement on them. If justice could be found in this Empire, they¡¯d be free.¡±


    He breathed deeply. ¡®It doesn¡¯t matter anymore. We¡¯ll all be dead soon enough.¡¯ As his mind became clearer from the fog that the solitary imprisonment had imposed, a question came to him. ¡®Why are you here? You meant to leave for the islands.¡¯


    ¡°The expedition was delayed. Someone killed its leader, after all. We¡¯ll depart the day after the celestial event ¨C it is considered a good omen that will bless our efforts.¡±


    He did not respond but simply looked at the veil hiding her face from him. He recalled their last conversation before now, standing on either side of the gate in the ludus. The only time nothing had separated them had been in her cell at the convent. By then he had slain Salvius and set this chain of events into motion; by then any revelation had come too late, and he could not change his fate.


    Perhaps it was for the best. The thought that it could have gone another way, that he could have reached out and found her, it seemed too difficult to bear. Intuitively, he raised his hands towards her until the heavy sensation of his chains reminded him of his situation.


    ¡®Mahan told me something.¡¯ She switched to gestures. ''That he guessed I had healed Domitian, but you told him it was you.¡¯


    Perplexed, Arn blinked a few times until he remembered the conversation with the weapons master. ¡®Yes.¡¯


    ¡®Why did you claim responsibility? He could have turned you in and probably saved himself.¡¯


    He stared at the dark where her face should be. ¡®How could I betray you?¡¯


    ¡®Maybe it¡¯s not too late. Tell them you wish to make a deal. You¡¯ll tell them of a nun with a rare gift for healing in exchange for your life,¡¯ she suggested, her movements growing eager.


    ¡®No. I killed a mageknight. I made a mockery of their games. They¡¯ll never let me live.¡¯ He stared at where her eyes should be. ¡®I¡¯ve caused enough disruption. Leave this city as you intend, and when you think of me, remember one thing only.¡¯


    ¡°What is that?¡± Her voice sounded frail.


    ¡®They taught you to hate yourself. They tried to dim your light. Yet it shines with such strength, it pierced even the dark surrounding me.¡¯ A mirthless smile appeared on his face. ¡®What greater magic could there be than that?¡¯


    He saw her veil flutter before she buried her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook for a moment before she composed herself and stood up straight, lowering her hands to use them to sign instead. ¡®I hate the things you¡¯ve done, and I wanted to hate you. I¡¯ve tried. But when I heard you were taken, my heart broke. Why do I care when you should be everything I despise?¡¯


    He had no answer; he was too overwhelmed to think.


    With slow, deliberate movements, Helena removed her veil. In the faint daylight, he caught a glimpse of her face before he looked away, into the ground.


    He felt her kneel again before him. ¡°Why do you hide?¡±


    ¡®I don¡¯t deserve to see you.¡¯


    Her hand extended to touch his cheek and turn his face towards hers. ¡°We are beyond what anyone deserves.¡±


    Her eyes staring into his felt like a punch knocking the wind out of him. ¡®Don¡¯t torment me with thoughts of what could have been.¡¯


    She did not see his gestures; her gaze stayed above his hands, locked into his. ¡°You were right. I should have learned to wield my power. I would have been strong enough to save you.¡±


    He had no response; not that she would have seen that either. He only felt her other hand joining the first to frame his face, and as she kissed him, a glow illuminated his being.

 Chapter 50: The City of Wonders

    The City of Wonders


    Nestled in the foothills of a mountain chain lay Archen. For centuries, the city had been known as the centre of magic across the continent. While the Tyrians were content with their knowledge and the Khivans considered magic a religious pursuit, the Archeans went deeper and further than any others. They excelled in enchantment, and all knew to respect the prowess of an Archean mage.


    Of their kind, few held such fame as Atreus the Spellbreaker. He had faced a fiend of the Nether and survived, banishing the fell creature back to whence it came. Arriving from Aquila, his return to Archen happened under an auspicious sky, where the stars approached each other to meet under a full moon; magic lay in the air. Others of his order had likewise read the signs; a handful of spellbreakers had come together and delved into the conspiracy that perfused the city and all of its strongholds on the continent. Together, they prepared to fight for the soul of Archen.


    *


    In a vaulted chamber far underneath the hall of the Conclave, nine mages stood spread out, surrounding a host of magic symbols inscribed onto the ground. An outer ring encircled several smaller, inner rings. Already, many of them glowed with strange light that changed colours.


    ¡°That¡¯s all the outposts connected, mistress,¡± one remarked, seeing the last, hitherto dormant glyph become illuminated as well. In distant Aquila, the corresponding ritual was finally underway.


    A woman, their leader by the deference the others showed her, held out her hand towards the glowing circle, letting her skin become illuminated. ¡°Time?¡±


    Another of her cohorts looked over his shoulder at a water clock. ¡°A few more hours until Malac reaches his zenith.¡±


    The woman in charge nodded. ¡°Begin channelling your power. Slowly. We don¡¯t want to finish before the conjunction is at its strongest.¡±


    ¡°Yes, mistress,¡± they responded. All of them held out their hands, standing at the edge of the circle, and began to pour their magic into the symbols that glowed more and more.


    *


    Watching from a perch that overlooked the vaulted chamber, a spellbreaker looked down to see the ritual begin. As the power flowed and flooded the room, she crawled backwards on her stomach through the narrow tunnel behind her until at last, she could drop down on her feet and walk the rest of the way to where three others of her kind awaited her, including Atreus. sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°It¡¯s started. There¡¯s a circle with symbols like those we discovered,¡± she related, ¡°and more magic than I¡¯ve ever felt in one place. They must have prepared this for years.¡± She hesitated, looking at Atreus. ¡°Elena leads them.¡±


    ¡°How many?¡± he simply asked.


    ¡°Nine.¡±


    He nodded a little. ¡°Three times three.¡±


    ¡°And only four of us,¡± another spellbreaker pointed out. ¡°The numbers are stacked against us. We should get help, alert the Conclave ¨C¡±


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    ¡°Elena is a member of the Conclave,¡± interjected the last of their company. ¡°Who else may be compromised?¡±


    ¡°How long until the conjunction reaches its zenith?¡± Atreus asked.


    ¡°A couple of hours, give or take.¡±


    ¡°If we go in, four to nine, we¡¯ll die.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll be done by the time we¡¯ve found any trustworthy reinforcements.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t even fully understand what they¡¯re doing!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a portal to the Nether, what else could it be?¡±


    The spellbreakers argued onwards, except Atreus, who remained silent. In the end, they all looked to him. Their order had no hierarchy; they were all held to be of equal position, entrusted to take measures as they saw fit. Yet he was senior among them in experience, if not years; his achievements outshone theirs.


    Atreus bowed his head, and the silence continued breath after breath until at last, he looked at his brethren. ¡°If they complete that ritual, there¡¯s no telling what abominations and aberrations may come through. It¡¯ll be the end of Archen, and after that, the continent.¡± He held their gaze, one after the other. ¡°This is the oath we took. We stand ready to die that others may live.¡±


    Nobody spoke.


    ¡°We do what we must. For Archen.¡±


    ¡°For Archen.¡± The others repeated his phrase, with enthusiasm or with a mumble, but none argued against.


    *


    The entire vaulted chamber lay bathed in the light from the symbols inscribed into the ground. Still, the maleficars continued, maintaining the connections of power between themselves and the circle.


    Suddenly, Elena jerked her head up. ¡°The wards! We are discovered!¡±


    All nine ceased their activity and turned towards the entrance. Stealth no longer possible, the four spellbreakers ran into the chamber, spreading out, and the air became filled with magic.


    Elemental powers struck. Streaks of fire met rays of ice. Stones flew out from the walls to strike the wizards with howling gales pushing them back.


    Attempts of mental domination followed, maleficars locking eyes with spellbreakers. They availed nothing against the defensive spells of the mage slayers, and the corrupt wizards unleashed attacks of pure harm meant to shatter their minds instead. One spellbreaker fell to his knees while his brethren retaliated in kind, making two enemies cry out in pain.


    A maleficar released a tendril of magic to latch onto a spellbreaker and leech her power directly; trained to subvert such, the defender of Archen poisoned the bridge between them, and the fell wizard began to tremble uncontrollably, foaming around the mouth.


    Standing at the far back, Elena watched and waited, her cold gaze sweeping over the battle. As a spellbreaker came within range, she unleashed soulfire that made her target scream and collapse. Before the unfortunate wretch could stand up, other maleficars fell upon him with blades made of pure magic, glittering green; they stabbed him, causing wounds that would not close nor heal, leaving him to bleed out.


    Injured, Atreus pushed past one enemy and seized another standing in his way, lifting her up with a magical grip only to slam her into the wall. He leapt forward to face Elena, and she laughed.


    ¡°Atreus! You really think you can stand against me?¡±


    He made no reply besides raising the wind with as much force as he could muster; a powerful gust that blew past him. It pushed the leader of the maleficars several steps backwards, deep into the circle of power that still glowed on the ground, but that was all it accomplished.


    Again, she laughed. ¡°Is that all?¡± With a sneer, she unleashed her soulfire upon him, and Atreus fell to the ground, trembling in agony.


    ¡°No,¡± he mumbled. ¡°I just needed you out of the way.¡± White flames surrounded his fists. Summoning every scrap of magic left in his body, he slammed down to crush the stonework, disrupting the circle.


    ¡°Fool!¡± Elena screamed, and she bound a terrible curse to inflict upon the weakened spellbreaker. While she released her malevolent spell, all the restrained power of the ritual was released from the broken circle. Uncontrolled, reacting with all the magic permeating the city, it exploded.


    In the blink of an eye, Archen was consumed, with nary a stone left upon stone. And through all the connections established by the ritual, spreading like tendrils across the continent to all the outposts, utter destruction rained down upon city after city.

 Chapter 51: The Maleficar

    The Maleficar


    No sunlight had fallen on Arn¡¯s face to wake him up when armed guards entered his cell. They unfastened his chains from the walls, threw a hood over his head, and dragged him out to a waiting carriage. Dazed, Arn tried to figure out what was afoot. This seemed far too early for them to be hauling him to the arena. He could not know it, but the conjunction of the stars and the moon was slowly rising to meet each other; hundreds of miles away, Atreus gathered his brethren to do battle for the fate of Archen.


    Arn wondered if his moment to act had come, but a guard on either side of him kept him in place, and he could hardly move. The carriage continued for a long while, traversing a good distance of Aquila. When the door opened and they pulled him out, still blinded by the hood. He felt an iron grip on his shoulders leading him away. The sounds of a surrounding neighbourhood, dogs barking and the like, disappeared. Eventually, his foot smashed against stone, hurting his toes; he realised he was on a staircase, and he cursed at his escort for not giving any warning.


    As the hood finally came off, Arn squinted and unwittingly raised one hand to shield his eyes against the dawning light coming through an open window, though his chains made it awkward. He found himself in a large chamber with adjoining spaces. He noticed an area serving as bedroom, and another section had worktables for alchemy with tools lying around. S~ea??h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Strangely, everything was decorated in white. A woman stood in front of him, clad in the same colour. Behind him was a large, hulking man ¨C his guard for the last stretch of the journey, presumably.


    ¡°What is that?¡± exclaimed Vasilia, staring at a sword and a feather in her servant¡¯s hand. ¡°Why did they give you his belongings? What possible use could I have for those?¡±


    He gave only a shrug.


    She drummed her fingers against her chin. ¡°I suppose they wouldn¡¯t know what use I have for him either. Still, I hate the feeling of useless, old items just piling up. A sword, so barbaric! As for that ragged old thing, the enchantment is so crude, I feel insulted by its mere presence.¡±


    Her servant glanced around questioningly.


    She sighed. ¡°Oh, just toss it in the corner. I suppose they can serve as mementos for when all this is an anecdote.¡±


    All her words had been spoken in Archean, leaving Arn unable to understand any of it. He just watched the big fellow walk over and place his sword and feather on a drawer.


    Vasilia stepped forward and turned his face back towards her with a grip around his face. ¡°As for you, allow me to welcome you to the Tower of the Arcane,¡± she said in the local language.


    Arn had seen it on the journey from the arena to the ludus, in the distance; Domitian had explained it to him once. The seat of the Archean mages in the city. Considering the might that one of their spellbreakers had shown, Arn felt all his instincts awaken in him, warning him of danger. But he let none of it show.


    ¡°If you have any questions, feel free to ask.¡±


    She smiled at him, and he wondered if he could pick her up and throw her out the window in the far end of the chamber before the lout would intervene.


    Seeing his intense stare, she laughed. ¡°I do like them silent. No interruptions, and they¡¯re much better listeners. Should I cut out your tongue, do you think?¡± Vasilia leaned to the side to look at her servant behind Arn. ¡°A jest, darling, calm yourself.¡± She turned her attention back on the Tyrian. ¡°As for you, I¡¯ll have that back.¡± She touched the metal band around his arm, muttering a word, and it opened up, letting her remove it. ¡°Did you ever figure out what it did? I¡¯ve been keeping a good eye on you, darling. Every time you took a scrap of power back, I felt it, watching your progress.¡± She glanced at her servant. ¡°Put him on the table.¡±


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    Arn barely had a moment to process this knowledge before the giant pushed him towards a table, eventually grabbing him to throw him onto it, flat on his back. He squirmed and tried to resist, but his captor simply held him in place with a heavy hand pressing down on his chest.


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t believe my stroke of luck when I came across you,¡± Vasilia muttered, stroking his hair, which had grown longer in captivity. ¡°All the sacrifices I made to build the circle, I never thought I¡¯d have enough power to complete it. But here you are. Oh, you did just as I had hoped. Clawed every bit of magic back that you lost, making yourself the perfect vessel. I¡¯ll remember you fondly.¡±


    It dawned on Arn why he had been brought to this place; the fate that awaited him. He was to be sacrificed for his power, just as he had sacrificed others to feed his own. The gods showed their final jest, but perhaps it could still be played on this white-clad mage rather than him. She would need to remove the golden chains from him before she could leech his magic; that would be his moment to strike.


    She took out a vial and uncorked it. ¡°Time for your medicine. Hold him, darling,¡± she added to her servant, who used both hands to keep their prey in place.


    Thoughts raced through Arn¡¯s head. A mixture to knock him out, presumably, so they could safely remove his shackles for whatever ritual she had in mind. While he had learned to respect Archean arts, it could not be a magical elixir; his chains would suppress the effect. It had to be an ordinary sleeping draught; potent, no doubt, but mundane. An effect that could be resisted.


    Vasilia grabbed his chin to hold him still. Arn struggled against the hands that held him, knowing it was in vain; yet it distracted them while his own hands fumbled around his belt. Finally, she managed to pour the concoction down his throat, and he was forced to swallow.


    ¡°There we are, darling. No more pain or tribulations for you. Just peaceful sleep.¡±


    She stroked his hair again, and he struggled to keep his eyes opened. A few moments passed, and they closed by their own accord.


    ¡°Watch him for a moment,¡± Vasilia commanded in Archean. She got rid of the empty vial and rummaged through her possessions, digging out a bronze knife. Her thumb touched the edge slightly, and she smiled. ¡°Is he docile?¡± The servant nodded. ¡°Good. Get rid of those awful chains and place him in the circle.¡±


    The brute did as told, fishing out a key to remove the manacles and collar around Arn. This done, he easily picked up the lithe Tyrian and carried him to the adjacent room. On the ground, numerous glyphs had been inscribed onto the floor; the servant put Arn down inside their circle and returned to the main chamber.


    ¡°Go watch the spare. In case I need more than what this little fellow can provide,¡± Vasilia commanded him. He bowed his head and hurried out the door. Turning her head towards her ritual room with a smile, the white master of the tower readied her knife as she walked towards it.


    She looked down at the Tyrian, surrounded by her work. Even dormant, the symbols seemed to radiate power. Extending her open hand, Vasilia muttered words of a forgotten tongue, making the glyphs glow one by one.


    Laughing, she exhaled. ¡°The connection is open. Now I just need every drop of power released into it, and our plan is complete. The mistress will reward me surely. Ten long years labouring in this tower, preparing this day.¡± She knelt next to Arn and brushed hair away from his face. ¡°Thank you,¡± she whispered in Archean, raising her dagger.


    Arn opened his eyes; seeing her so close, he smashed his forehead against hers and followed up by grabbing her by the collar and throwing her against the wall. He pulled out his sewing needle from his leg, having used the pain to keep him awake; a tiny weapon, but sinking it into her throat should do it.


    Before he could attack, she seized him with her magic and tossed him out of the room, back into the main area. He landed against the side of the table, grimacing with pain. She emerged from the ritual chamber with a contemptuous smile. ¡°I am a wizard of Archen,¡± she sneered, speaking Aquilan now. ¡°You think you stand a chance against me? A mutilated savage?¡±


    Arn returned her smile. Using the tongue that Helena¡¯s healing had restored to him, he spoke, ¡°You¡¯d be surprised.¡± As her eyes widened in shock, he raised his hand and summoned a major rune, glowing in the air between them, and he uttered a single word in Tyrian. The symbol of repulsion activated, and pure force blasted Vasilia back into the ritual chamber, slamming her against the wall once more.


    Seeing his sword carelessly discarded into a corner, Arn summoned another symbol, the rune of attraction, and the weapon flew through the air into his hand. Removing the scabbard and tossing it aside, the spellblade turned to face the wizard of Archen.

 Chapter 52: The Spellblade

    The Spellblade


    With a face twisted by anger and derision, Vasilia strode into the main chamber once more, unleashing soulfire upon the Tyrian. His body shook, tremors of pain overtaking him, but he had tasted it before and knew to expect it. Regaining control of himself, he reached out with his magic to seize every item he could and hurl all of it at his enemy. Chairs, tables, cups, jars, clothing, all of it came like a hurricane against her.


    Vasilia shielded herself, a shimmer surrounding her, to protect against the onslaught. Arn noted she did not use elemental magic like the spellbreaker had; they fought in different ways. Perhaps that left her susceptible to such attacks. He grasped the sword in his hand, fuelling wrath into the rune blade, and spoke a single word in Tyrian.


    Fire erupted to wreathe around the steel, and he leapt forward to strike at her. Still in the air, she seized him with a magical fist like before and threw him against the wall. Groaning with pain, Arn realised he needed to weaken her first. He called upon the part of himself that had been buried the deepest since his capture. He called upon the strongest power that a sk¨¢ld possessed. He called upon his galdr.


    A song came from his lips, and into it, he wove his words of fire and fury, revenge and retribution. To him, it sounded sweeter than mead on the tip of his tongue; to any other listener, it was a cacophony. Shrieking, Vasilia fell to her knees, clutching her ears. Blood appeared between her fingers.


    Seizing his opportunity, Arn leapt forward once more and attacked with his sword wreathed in flames. In the last moment, Vasilia shielded herself, pure magic surrounding her, to protect against the attack. S§×arch* The NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Arn struck again and again, knowing she would run out of spellpower. He kept up the pressure, a Tyrian spellblade unleashed at last, and a match even for the mages of Archen.


    Crouching with a sudden drop, Vasilia grabbed the golden chains that her servant had left on the floor, and she flung them at Arn. They could not harm him, but they disrupted his magic and the flow of his movements. As he cast them aside, he saw a long blade consisting of pure magic, shimmering green like a venomous snake and wielded by her hand, and she thrust it into him.


    Arn had no defensive spells to protect against this, and the sorcerous dagger pierced his flesh. As she pulled back, the wound began to bleed profusely, far greater than the severity of the injury would suggest. Stepping back, Vasilia smiled with disdain.


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    Magic of an unknown nature coursed like poison through Arn. He staggered back a few paces, and the flames on his sword became extinguished. Despite the tremors of pain in his body, his mind remained clear. He was weak after many days imprisoned; being chained by gold had not helped either. He did not need to kill this wizard ¨C but he did need to survive that he might rescue his brothers, still incarcerated.


    Summoning another rune of repulsion in the air, Arn blasted Vasilia back, hurling her away. His decision made, he ran clear across the chamber and leapt out the open window.


    As he descended through the air at full speed, the ground approaching at an alarming pace, Arn called upon the runes on his body, granting him swiftness and strength to slam his sword into the stonework of the tower, arresting his fall. The sudden stop nearly tore his arm off, but his magic proved sufficient to save him, allowing him to keep his grip. One hand digging into the cracks between the stones, the other pulled out the blade and stuck it awkwardly into his belt, and he began his climb down.


    *


    Everything hurt. The damage done to his shoulder pulsated with pain. His rune of recovery burned with effort, but it could not help, as all its power was spent on the wound in his stomach that would not close. Arn imagined that without the rune, he would have bled out by now; while being alive was preferable, it left him weakened. Still, he ought to have enough strength left in him to deal with ordinary guards and see his brothers freed.


    Reaching the ground, Arn noticed stares, but nobody accosted or approached the bleeding man who had just climbed down the Tower of the Arcane. It was daylight, and he was going to attract attention ¨C nothing to be done about that. He set into motion. The dungeons lay central in the city, and thus not far from the arena; a route he knew well.


    Trying to avoid the main roads, Arn hastened through alleys. After a while, he felt strong enough to run, despite his oozing wound. He marvelled at his own constitution until he realised something else was afoot. The fight with the spellbreaker many days ago had left him drained, and he had been chained with gold since, preventing his power from rejuvenating. Yet he had used both galdr and runes fighting against the white-clad wizard. Unlike those of the minor kind inked on his body, using the major runes demanded spellpower, which he should be empty of.


    All the pieces fell into place. The reason his magic was so strong, and the reason that the Archean madwoman wanted to do the ritual today. The conjunction in the sky. The stars aligned, the moon moved into place, and magic overflowed onto the lands.


    This had saved Arn¡¯s life, replenishing power he otherwise did not possess, but he remembered what Helena had told him. The day of the conjunction would be celebrated with games. His brothers were not in the dungeons. Hoping he would not arrive too late, the Tyrian ran towards the arena. Even from afar, he could hear the shouting and clamour of countless spectators.


    In the sky above, the sunlight concealed from human eyes Malac ascending, slowly approaching his zenith to complete the conjunction with the other stars; in faraway Archen, a fateful battle was being fought.

 Chapter 53: The Gladiators

    The Gladiators


    Judging by the sound, the games had or were about to begin. Arn found the entrance used by gladiators, descending into the tunnels underneath the great construction. A guard got in his way; Arn seized his spear by the haft, tore it away, and threw the man aside.


    Reaching the preparation area, he found it empty other than cages holding beasts and the animal keeper. ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing down here?¡± he growled, and he lashed out with a whip.


    Arn summoned a rune in the air, blasting the keeper far away. He looked at the tunnels that led up into the arena, but his eyes caught the lions in their cages. Chaos and confusion would serve him well; in addition, his tolerance for living creatures being locked up and used for entertainment had become low. He walked over and ripped the locks away, allowing the cages to open.


    The lions wandered out, their heads looking in every direction. One in particular, with only one eye, stared at Arn. Whether they understood the danger that surrounded him or had some sense of gratitude for their freedom, the Tyrian could not say, but the lions let him be. Some ran deeper into the complex; others fell upon the animal keeper.


    Hurrying along on his own path, Arn reached the portcullis that led into the arena, guarded by two sentinels. He drew his sword and used his bladesong, striking them down. Quickly, he used the mechanism that raised the portcullis, and he ran onto the sands.


    *


    Twenty or so gladiators stood huddled together. They did not wear leather or iron to protect them, but only simple rags of cloth, and their weapons were rusty and dull. In the other end of the arena, the same number of fighters awaited them, properly armed and equipped.


    ¡°We form ranks,¡± Sigismund growled. ¡°Those with anything resembling a spear, take the flanks.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s pointless,¡± Andrew complained in a shrill voice. ¡°We don¡¯t stand a chance!¡±


    ¡°At least we die with a weapon in hand,¡± Mahan barked. ¡°Listen to Sigismund!¡±


    ¡°Lads, who¡¯s that? Aren¡¯t we all here?¡± Domitian pointed at a sole figure that came running out of a tunnel wielding a proper sword, though his clothes were not just ragged, but bloody.


    ¡°Stars, it¡¯s the Northman!¡±


    ¡°Guess we were missing one after all.¡±


    All present, whether the audience, the officials, the fully armed gladiators, or those sentenced to die, they all watched in confusion as a Tyrian crossed the sands to join his house.


    ¡°Northman! You¡¯ve come to die with us!¡± Domitian shouted with jubilation.


    ¡°Not if I can avoid it,¡± Arn replied. If he had their attention before, it was nothing compared to when they heard his words. Several curses in various languages were exclaimed.


    ¡°You can talk?¡± Domitian dropped his weapons and shook him by the shoulders, almost impaling himself on Arn¡¯s sword. S§×arch* The N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Not the time! We need to flee.¡±


    Mahan looked around. ¡°The whole point of this place is to prevent that.¡±


    ¡°Boys, too late! They¡¯re coming!¡±


    Across the arena, a band of gladiators charged, spurred on by the howls for bloodshed coming from the audience. Given the difference in equipment, the outcome seemed given, and the spectators only made bets on how many breaths before all the condemned had died; the magistrate had already announced no mercy would be given to the blasphemous law-breakers.


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    ¡°Friends, cover your ears. This will hurt,¡± Arn warned them. None heeded his command; some stared at him, but the rest took position, ready for fight.


    The sk¨¢ld stepped forward past their ranks; as the enemy came close, he called upon his galdr again. This time, a perfidious pattern traipsed down his tongue to make kinsfolk slay kindred. Friend seemed foe, and brother became bane. The opposing gladiators fell upon each other.


    Around Arn, his own band followed his warning belatedly, throwing weapons aside to cover their ears. While he channelled the galdr only on those he deemed hostile, restricting the confusion to them, it caused pain to all who could hear. While in discomfort, the gladiators formerly of House Ignius watched in wonder and terror as their enemies slaughtered each other.


    It lasted less than ten breaths, but half of their adversaries lay dead, and the rest ran to the other side of the arena, terrified to discover their own slaughter. Several of Arn¡¯s own fellows looked to share the sentiment, though some had the good sense to quickly pick up the better weapons from the fallen.


    ¡°We have to get out,¡± Sigismund growled. ¡°They know something¡¯s wrong.¡± He looked up at the stands, in particular the covered section where the magistrate officiating the games and other dignitaries sat.


    ¡°They¡¯ll be calling for the guards, the city watch too,¡± Mahan mumbled. ¡°Can we get out through the tunnels? Can your magic remove the portcullis?¡±


    It probably could, but going down the tunnels would leave them trapped like rats. Arn had no knowledge how long the conjunction would last or when he might exhaust himself, magically speaking. Best to use his power now and make it worthwhile, creating further chaos. ¡°Get behind me,¡± he warned the others as he stepped towards the stands hosting the luminaries of the city.


    Kneeling down, Arn placed both hands on the ground. He felt the sands, absorbing the blood of countless sacrifices. The hewn stone, taken from the living land to build this monument to suffering. More importantly, he felt the tunnels that ran underneath the arena.


    Closing his eyes, Arn took the power granted from above and poured it below. From the sky to the earth, magic flowed. Clenching his fists in the sand, he slowly moved his hands apart. Underneath, the ground itself shook and followed, tearing itself asunder. The silent cry of the land, stained by so much blood, was finally released. An earthquake created by the sk¨¢ld, it ripped everything open. The people screamed in fear, as the stands collapsed, debris falling into the cracks exposing the tunnels below.


    Panic ensued as tens of thousands began to flee, all stampeding towards any way out they could see. ¡°Follow!¡± Arn commanded, his spell at an end, and he ran towards the rubble his own magic had caused, creating a new exit from the arena. Fearful, the gladiators nonetheless heeded his words.


    *


    It took them a while to climb through the destroyed part of the arena and make their escape, but eventually, they could cross the open streets that surrounded the enormous, though damaged structure, and they huddled together down an alley, twenty gladiators wedged in between the houses.


    ¡°What now?¡± asked Mahan. ¡°We¡¯re rather conspicuous.¡± All of them wore the dirty rags from the dungeons, now further torn by their journey through the rubble. The weapons in their hands only added to the impression.


    ¡°They¡¯ll send runners to lock down the gates,¡± Andrew said. ¡°We¡¯ll have to fight our way through that. Unless you can do to the walls what you did to the arena?¡±


    They looked at Arn, who gave it brief consideration. ¡°I doubt it. The arena stood on tunnels ¨C I imagine the city walls to be far sturdier.¡±


    ¡°We wouldn¡¯t get far anyway,¡± declared Sigismund, the former legionary. ¡°They¡¯d send an entire mounted cohort to chase us down.¡±


    ¡°We disperse,¡± Cornelius suggested. ¡°Together we¡¯re easy to catch, so we should all hide where we can.¡±


    ¡°I have a better idea,¡± Arn claimed. ¡°In the harbour, ships are prepared for an expedition to the Western Isles. They must be filled with supplies.¡±


    ¡°We aren¡¯t sailors,¡± Domitian protested. ¡°We¡¯ll sink before we clear the harbour!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve sailed,¡± the Tyrian replied. ¡°I¡¯m from an island tribe.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Domitian threw up his hands. ¡°He uses magic, he talks, he sails, he does everything!¡±


    ¡°Quiet,¡± Sigismund growled. ¡°The Northman is right. We flee over land, we get hunted down. We stay in the city, we get hunted down. To the docks!¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± Arn exclaimed, arresting their movements. ¡°There¡¯s someone I must find. Go ahead without me, and I shall join you.¡±


    Domitian frowned. ¡°Who? Everyone you know is here.¡±


    ¡°Sometimes, I wonder at you.¡± Mahan shook his head at Domitian and looked at Arn. ¡°Go, then, and fetch your woman. The rest of us will choose a ship.¡±


    ¡°Hold on,¡± protested Hector. ¡°I got a wife and two children in the city. I¡¯m not leaving without them!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, what about my family?¡± another asked.


    ¡°I can¡¯t go without Iolana and her brother,¡± Domitian interjected.


    ¡°Fine!¡± Mahan declared. ¡°Everyone, get your people to the docks. Hurry! Don¡¯t waste time. Take too long, we leave without you!¡±


    Every man in agreement, the gladiators dispersed, and Arn ran south towards the convent belonging to the Maidens of the Moon.

 Chapter 54: The Maiden of the Moon

    The Maiden of the Moon


    The building beckoned Arn, familiar to him. He went straight towards the gate, and upon approach, he drew upon his rune to jump clear across the wall.


    His landing was less graceful, and he rolled around in the dust of the courtyard, giving himself a nick in the leg from his own sword. Not the wisest thing he had done today, but between the battles, the exhaustion and his injuries, his skill in decision-making was hard pressed.


    Several nuns screamed, seeing a man drop from the sky to land in their midst. Some of them ran while others grabbed their staves.


    Dazed from blood loss and his exertions, Arn got back on his feet, gasping for breath. ¡°Helena,¡± he croaked.


    ¡°Arn?¡± The voice cut through the haze, and he turned, his balance still unsteady.


    He recognised her from the few times he had seen her without a veil; her features were etched into his memory. He managed a smile, but trying to speak, he ended up coughing instead. As for the other nuns, they began to circle him, holding their staves ready.


    In that moment, a powerful force tore the gate open, leaving both halves twisted on the hinges. In strode Vasilia, followed by her servant. ¡°Grab the spare, since we¡¯re here anyway,¡± she commanded in Archean. ¡°I¡¯ll deal with our little fugitive.¡±


    She smiled at Arn, who fumbled to draw his sword. To his horror, he saw the brute run straight for Helena. He realised that they knew about her magic, probably from watching him; he had placed her in the same danger that pursued him. Thinking quickly, he summoned the rune of repulsion in the air between him and Vasilia. He would blast her away and kill her servant first, giving Helena an opportunity to escape while he held the Archean witch back, buying her time. Sear?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    His rune faded, accomplishing nothing. Vasilia smiled again and pulled out a small necklace with a lump of metal as a pendant. ¡°That won¡¯t work, darling. I cooked up this little enchantment quickly. Very crude, and I¡¯m positively embarrassed to be seen in public with it, but it¡¯ll do.¡± Her expression turned to a sneer as she unleashed soulfire on him.


    Pain seared his being, and he struggled to remain standing. But he had his own powers he could bring to bear. Once more, the sk¨¢ld used his galdr. A melody of misery he sang into sorrow, a lamentation to leave a trail of tears. He stared triumphantly at Vasilia, expecting to find her stunned; instead, her laughter resounded.


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    She touched her ear. ¡°Beeswax, darling. All it takes to defeat the famed power of the northern bards. I can¡¯t hear a thing.¡± Her smile turned cruel, and once more, soulfire tore his essence apart, leaving him writhing on the ground.


    Regaining some semblance of control, though tendrils of pain still moved through him, Arn picked up his sword and got back on his feet. Calling upon his wrath, he engulfed the blade in flames.


    ¡°Darling, please just surrender. I don¡¯t want you to be too damaged.¡±


    Arn leapt forward and struck, but despite his speed, she reacted with the same swiftness, activating defensive spells that held his sword back from hurting her.


    The green blade made of pure magic appeared in her hand again. ¡°Well, if you can handle one phantom wound, you can handle another, I reckon.¡± She licked her teeth and lashed out, forcing him to defend.


    Parrying her attacks, Arn raised his empty hand to summon a rune in the air between them again.


    ¡°Darling, you already tried that. It won¡¯t work.¡±


    With a smile, Arn muttered the activating word. Vasilia was partly right; the rune of attraction did nothing to her. Instead, it exerted its power on the broken gate behind her, tearing one half from the hinges to fly through the air and hit her in the back. Taken by surprise, she did not have time to activate her defences as it pushed her into Arn¡¯s awaiting blade, impaling her heart.


    She opened her mouth, but no words came. Dumbfounded, she died.


    Arn caught the gate piece as it fell forward, shielding himself and pushing it away. Placing a ragged sandal on Vasilia¡¯s corpse, he pulled out his sword and turned towards her servant, only to see a horde of nuns battering him with staves. The final blow struck his chin, sending him to the ground.


    Immediately, all of them but one turned their weapons towards Arn. ¡°Hold!¡± he called out, planting his sword in the ground to raise empty hands.


    ¡°You¡¯re alive!¡± Helena exclaimed, throwing her staff aside to run at him. She caught him just as he fell forward.


    ¡°For now,¡± he mumbled, pulling up his shirt to reveal the wound received at the Arcane Tower, still refusing to heal. He had taxed his magic so much, his rune of recovery no longer could keep up replenishing the blood loss.


    Letting him gently fall, Helena positioned him on the ground and placed one hand on the oozing wound. A glow came, and as her sisters watched in confusion, she healed him.


    ¡°You saved me,¡± he mumbled hoarsely. ¡°Is that three times now? I¡¯ve lost count.¡±


    ¡°Your voice,¡± she spoke with misty eyes. ¡°It¡¯s beautiful.¡±


    The sk¨¢ld smiled, knowing he sounded like a rusty wheel. His elation lasted a moment until he recalled the current circumstances. ¡°We¡¯re escaping. The docks.¡± He pushed himself back up to stand and reached down, giving her a hand to help her up as well. ¡°I came to get you ¨C if that¡¯s what you want. But we must leave Aquila this very moment.¡±


    She stared at him for a lingering moment before she reached down and tore the hem of her dress up to her knees. She looked at him with half a smile as she straightened her back. ¡°You can¡¯t run in this thing.¡±


    Arn felt his heart swell, but now was not the time to indulge emotions. ¡°Get your staff. Danger¡¯s not over yet.¡±


    Helena cast a look at her sisters and the convent that had been her home for most of her life. The nuns all stood speechless. Her decision made, she followed the Tyrian out of the courtyard.

 Chapter 55: The Tribe

    The Tribe


    As the pair reached the harbour, they encountered what could best be described as a brawl. Ragged gladiators fighting the city watch and local guards from the trading houses along with dockworkers and sailors. The former were outnumbered, but they excelled when it came to giving battle surrounded by chaos, and some lay dead on both sides. Glancing down, Arn saw Andrew motionless, his eyes empty of life.


    Pushing thoughts of grief aside, Arn threw himself into the fight. He spared his magic, fearing it to be near its end, though he did call upon the runes of his sword. Seeing a crazed Tyrian wielding a flaming blade, more than one dockworker threw their improvised weapon away and ran. The guards had more discipline, and Arn engaged them, seeking to quickly incapacitate them and move on, pressed for time. A cut across the leg or a disarming manoeuvre ended their involvement in the fight; if they somehow persisted, a strong blow from Helena¡¯s staff to break their nose or knock them out settled it.


    ¡°Northman! Finally!¡± Domitian called out, fighting his way to the Tyrian. ¡°We¡¯re here, but none of us got saltwater in our veins!¡±


    ¡°Get everyone aboard!¡± Arn commanded.


    ¡°We figured that much!¡± the other gladiator yelled in return. ¡°They¡¯re all aboard, except for us still fighting!¡±


    Arn realised that only a handful of his brethren remained on the pier, fighting off the guards. He parried a spear and moved one way to get the soldier¡¯s attention, allowing Helena to attack him from the other side. ¡°Unmoor the ship!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, we guessed that as well!¡± Domitian retorted indignant. ¡°What else?¡±


    ¡°Raise the anchor!¡± Though Arn had never crewed aboard an Aquilan warship, his journey to the city had taken place on such a craft, and he remembered how the sheer size necessitated a whole contraption for this. ¡°The wheel!¡±


    The burly fighter blinked before a light appeared in his eyes. ¡°The anchor, right!¡± He leapt aboard the ship where the last sailors were being thrown off the vessel, though one chose to jump into the harbour himself. ¡°To me, lads!¡± Domitian yelled, reaching the great wheel that would raise the anchor. He threw himself against it and began pushing while two of his brothers helped.


    ¡°Get aboard,¡± Arn told Helena in between gasps for breath. The last soldier had thrown his weapons and abandoned the fight, leaving the pier empty of enemies for now, but it would not last. Besides all of them being condemned fugitives, the Aquilans would not stand idle as they stole a warship. S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°What of you?¡± she asked, looking anxious with grime and specks of blood upon her face as she held her staff, a vision to rival any goddess.


    ¡°I¡¯ll follow,¡± he promised. He looked around the harbour as she walked onto the ship; he ought to damage the other vessels, preventing any pursuit. But it would take time, especially with his magic near exhausted, and any moment, reinforcements would appear from the city guard.


    Perhaps a greater man would have stayed behind and dealt with the other ships, allowing his brethren to escape, but looking at Helena on the deck, Arn knew he was not that man. He had risked everything again and again since arriving in Aquila; it was time to make his final play and be done with this city.


    Calling upon the last drops of magic he had left, he summoned a rune of repulsion in the air, giving it as much power as he possibly could. As it activated, it pushed the entirety of the warship away from the pier.


    Dark spots in front of his eyes, Arn gave himself a running start and leapt. His own magic became a snare; already, the ship had placed such distance between itself and the docks thanks to his rune, his jump fell short, and he landed in the water.


    *


    The cold shock woke him up, and he began swimming, blessing his island childhood for this skill. He had barely made two strokes before he heard as much as saw a splash. Going under the water only to appear above it with a roar, Sigismund showed himself and threw his arms around Arn.


    The Tyrian felt a powerful pull; his comrade had a rope tied around him, and the others were hauling them aboard. As they came up the side of the ship, several more grabbed them and helped them over the railing. Lying flat on his back, Arn coughed and kept blinking, trying to get the dark spots gone from his vision.


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    ¡°Run out the oars,¡± he gasped, hoping someone was listening. ¡°Wind¡¯s not right for the sails yet.¡±


    ¡°You heard him! Man the oars!¡± shouted the voice of Mahan, and a scramble of feet across the deck could be heard.


    As his mind became clear, Arn saw a beautiful face lean over him. ¡°Are you hurt?¡± Helena asked.


    He shook his head, smiling at the sight until another head appeared above him, that of an old greybeard. ¡°Aye, you¡¯ll be fine, Bladesinger. Don¡¯t worry ¨C I¡¯ve sailed plenty before I settled here. I¡¯ll make sailors of these dry-foot Aquilans yet!¡± The loremaster cackled.


    Raising one hand to shield his eyes from the sharp sun, approaching the horizon, Arn squinted. ¡°Helgi? Why are you here?¡±


    ¡°Well, good seeing you too,¡± the old Tyrian snorted. ¡°Can¡¯t you feel it? All the magic in the air?¡±


    ¡°Is that what it is?¡± Helena asked, sounding nervous. ¡°My skin feels like it¡¯s been crawling all day.¡±


    ¡°Pretty sure that¡¯s the only thing that¡¯s kept me alive,¡± Arn admitted. He felt and saw the vessel begin moving properly as the strong gladiators took to the oars. Glancing over his shoulder, he found Mahan at the helm, steering them towards the opening of the harbour walls.


    ¡°It won¡¯t stay that way,¡± Helgi claimed with a grim expression. ¡°This morning, it was simmering, but now it¡¯s boiling. Doom is on this city, I tell you! So when I saw a bunch of ragtag gladiators moving to the docks, I figured that was a sign for old Helgi.¡±


    ¡°Not that you cared to warn us,¡± came the indignant voice of a woman.


    ¡°Iris? What are you doing here?¡± Arn tried to get up, but the sudden exertion was too much, and he had to sit back on the deck, supported by Helena.


    ¡°Cornelius fetched us ¨C those of us who dared. Glad to see you got your sword back.¡±


    ¡°Who is this?¡± Helena asked pointedly.


    ¡°A friend,¡± Arn mumbled, looking around. A handful of other women along with several children had spread out across the deck. ¡°They should get below. We¡¯re not safe until we¡¯re out of the harbour. Help me up.¡± He reached out a hand, and Helena helped him to stand.


    ¡°Trouble ahead!¡± Mahan shouted. ¡°They¡¯re raising the chain!¡±


    Along with the others, though he moved more slowly, Arn made his way to the stern. Ahead, they saw the towers that lay on either side of the harbour opening; between them, a great chain was being raised, blocking their escape. ¡°I ¨C I can¡¯t,¡± Arn mumbled. He already tasted blood in his mouth at the thought of using his magic for a spell of sufficient power to remove the obstacle. ¡°I¡¯m not strong enough,¡± he confessed, reaching out to grab Helena¡¯s shoulder for support.


    ¡°What about me?¡± she asked. ¡°Can I help?¡±


    Helgi patted her other shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t trouble yourself. Metal is from the ground, and we Tyrians know the earth. Old Helgi can do more than make a few runes.¡± The old loremaster walked to the very tip of the warship, shooing a child away. He extended both hands towards the enormous chain ahead, and Arn could feel the magic flow. Making two fists, Helgi yanked his hands away from each other, and the great chain broke apart, sinking into the water.


    ¡°Impressive, old man,¡± Arn admitted.


    Helgi bent over and coughed several times. ¡°Well, I won¡¯t be doing it again. Get those oars going!¡± he added with a shout. ¡°Keep pace, you mutton heads! This ship is circling around itself like a diseased goat!¡±


    He was right, Arn noticed; with none to keep the rhythm, the gladiators pulled the oars at their own speed, making for irregular momentum. Still, the ship advanced, albeit much slower than it should, and without the chain, nothing stood in their way.


    A great stone landed in the water next to them, splashing water up on the deck. ¡°Catapults!¡± Mahan yelled. ¡°The defences! Pull those oars all you got, men!¡±


    Those on deck looked up to see another rock flying through the air, this time smashing one of their two masts. It came from one of the towers that were built as part of the harbour fortifications.


    Arn turned every thought in his mind, but no ideas came. Even if he had magic to spare, he could not imagine what to do. The distance alone made it difficult for his spells to accomplish anything. The sea between him and the tower kept him from affecting the foundation it stood upon, as the water would interfere with any earth spell. ¡°Helgi?¡±


    ¡°Sorry, friend, this is beyond me,¡± the loremaster mumbled.


    Helena grabbed his arm and clung to it tightly. ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± she whispered. ¡°Better here, together, than watching you on the sands.¡± Arn reciprocated her touch and closed his eyes.


    *


    Hundreds of miles away, in the city of Archen, a ritual was disrupted. The magic, built up with endless labour and sacrifice, became released without control and exploded in every direction, including through the connections to the different Archean outposts.


    In the white wing of the Arcane Tower in Aquila, a neglected and abandoned ritual circle glowed for a moment. Next, the entire structure exploded. Every stone was flung outwards to cover the city like an infernal hail strike. Wherever they hit, the projectiles smashed through buildings and people alike. In an instant, every spire or palace, every great monument in the Imperial capital was crushed, turning Aquila to a city of rubble.


    One stone burst straight through the tower at the harbour, leaving nothing but rubble. The pressure of the magic unleashed turned the waters to storm, pushing a vessel out onto the open sea. Leaving destruction behind, the ship of fugitives turned refugees set a course northwards, leaving the Empire of Aquila behind as it sank to ruin.