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.

"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 skáld 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."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

For once, Arn took out his tablet and wrote a reply. Surprised you care.

"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 – 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.

Mindless undead. Accidental creation. Three serfs killed. Markings on door. Witness at tavern across street. Small boy.

"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 – 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 – 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 – 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. Scar down his face. "That's good. Anything else unusual about him?"

"His eyes were blue."

"Very good, lad." Tyrian. Berserker? Skáld? Witch? "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.