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. Sword.

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.

*

The bell rang in the distance from the tower of the nearest temple – 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 – 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 skáld 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 seiðr-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 seiðr-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.