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 skáld 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 skáld 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 – 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 skáld 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.
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. Our deal?
“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 – 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 – 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. They’ve done nothing wrong. 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.