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 skáld’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 skáld 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 skáld 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 skáld 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 skáld 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 skáld 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 skáld 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 skáld 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 skáld, 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 skáld 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 skáld 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 skáld; 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 skáld, 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.