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. How to be chosen?

"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 skáld 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.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

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 skáld, 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.

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 – 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 skáld 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.