The Lair of the Lindworm

A pure white tunic was prepared for Arn, leaving the only colour on him the green leaves of his laurel. He would have preferred to throw it far away, as it made him feel like a painted juggler at a marketplace, but it was the crown of a champion and thus necessary for him to wear.

It had struck him as odd that something so cheap and fragile as leaves were used to mark the champion of Aquila; Sigismund, veteran of the legions, had explained that in older times, warriors on the battlefield had been crowned this way after particularly heroic deeds as a mark of respect. This was no longer done, as the legates and mageknights frowned on ordinary soldiers deciding who deserved such honours.

Once ready, having quickly eaten something from the kitchen as he doubted anyone at the feast would consider his needs, Arn was taken to the courtyard. A carriage stood ready as last time, and he waited a while until Ignius and his family appeared. Soon after, they were underway.

*

Arn noticed that they passed by the convent for the Maidens of the Moon and afterwards its neighbour, the mansion of the magistrate Flavus. He had assumed their host would be the same as last time, but evidently not. Standing on the back of the carriage, holding on as they drove through streets filled with revellers, Arn felt the wind against his face; he would almost have enjoyed the moment if it did not carry the stench that inevitably arose when so many people not only lived clumped together in this overcrowded city, but also went outside on the streets at the same time.

The carriage drove into the courtyard of a palace that exuded splendour, though it looked eerily similar to the other Arn had seen, as if built by the same mind and hands. It was all ostentatious with great columns upholding a roof in front of the main entrance, and it rose many floors high; yet Arn knew that if he placed a hand on the stonework, it would feel dead and dry. They could build, these Aquilans, but their halls seemed cold and empty; Arn wondered if they made their abodes so great to have an excuse for why they appeared so small.

Arn followed Ignius and his family inside, still ignorant about their location. He had been told to leave his tablet and its leather pouch behind, as it would look unseemly, so he could not communicate with any; he only had his sewing needle and a few coins on the inside of his belt, neither of which would help him much.

“Master Ignius, the dominus of our new champion! Welcome to my halls.”

Before he turned towards the voice, Arn recognised it. His head moved slowly until it stared upon the visage of Salvius. He thought about all the people he had killed since coming to Aquila, and how he had done it; momentarily, his fingers fumbled for an absent sword hilt. Another breath passed, and Arn regained control of himself; he could not kill a mageknight with his bare hands, and it was too soon. He was not ready yet to make his escape from this city.

“I thank you, Lord Salvius, for your invitation and the honour shown to my house.” Ignius bowed with a servile expression.

The mageknight laughed in a condescending manner. “How could I not, given your man’s victory in the arena. Your family is awaited outside in the gardens, where refreshments are served.”

“I thank you, milord.” Ignius beckoned for his wife and small son to go in that direction as indicated by a servant.

“Some of my fellow magistrates and other luminaries are in the trophy room,” Salvius continued. “I am certain they should like to see the champion of Aquila for themselves. And the lanista who trained him, of course.” He declared all this with an affable voice, though no actual warmth lay in his tone, and he turned around and began walking without bothering to look if they followed him; they did, Ignius moving with hurried steps to keep up.

Their host led them through corridors into a large room with reclining couches, though the guests already present were standing. Some wore velvet doublets and silken shirts, while others were dressed in the traditional, old togas worn by higher magistrates in the Imperial administration. While the size of Salvius’s home already suggested this, his social circles spoke of his influence; he was not merely another mageknight from the legions, as Arn had initially believed.

“Good lords of Aquila, we are graced by the presence of a champion!” Salvius declared dramatically as he entered, causing polite laughter. The guests turned to look at the Tyrian in their midst, while Ignius stood to the side, failing to hide his nervous disposition. Servants were also at the ready, offering cups and pouring wine as needed.

“Unbelievable that one so lithe could take the wreath! Usually, these gladiators that win are built like boulders!” one remarked.

“It’s not about the size of your sword, but how you use it!”

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Raucous laughter followed, and Arn had to work hard to keep his eyes from rolling out of their sockets. He felt how they stared at him, evaluating him like a heifer at market. Yet their interest quickly waned, it appeared, as they turned their gazes elsewhere.

“Sir Salvius, we could not help but note the unusual decorations in this room.”

“Ah, just a few knickknacks brought home from my travels,” their host replied, as if he had herded his guests to this particular room by accident.

While reluctant to concede anything to the mageknight, Arn nonetheless glanced around as well. He saw what had awakened the curiosity of the others. Strange items, like a tall and thin glass container, stood on a drawer.

“This is from Sindhu, made of crystal. They use it for their alchemy,” Salvius explained as he led his guests around the room. “This is a painting of the eternal flame in Khiva. They refused us entry to their temple, of course, so this was the best we could do,” he smirked. “Ah, and this is my latest acquisition, obtained last year.” He gestured towards the wall. A sword hung, unsheathed, to show runes marked on the blade itself, with the scabbed hanging below. Strangely, next to the weapon and its scabbard, a brown feather had been tied to a nail with a leather string.

Seeing the items, the colour vanished from Arn’s face; fortunately, being pale, it made little difference. He also stood at the back, so nobody witnessed his reaction.

“Ah, from when you went to Tyria? Yes, those barbaric scribbles look like something those savages would make,” a guest in toga declared.

“Who has need of such little markings? Certainly not our Aquilan wizards.”

“Especially not while we also have access to Archean magic,” a nobleman in a doublet chimed in. “They use writing too, don’t they?”

Nobody answered him; Arn sensed their unease at being reminded that Aquilan magic fell so far short of Archean, and he had to hide a smile. His mirth vanished the moment he looked at his sword again. Forged by iron he had collected himself from a mire, with the crushed bones of a bear mixed in, and enchanted by the best loremaster in Tyria. The weapon felt holy to him as a spellblade, and now it served as a conversation piece for bored Aquilans.

“I will take a good gladius with Aquilan enchantment any day over this barbarous blade,” Salvius proclaimed, breaking the brief silence. “Though perhaps our champion disagrees.”

They all turned to look at him, and the thought struck Arn, belatedly, that he was discovered. His hair was short, his face scarred, and his beard gone, but perhaps Salvius had seen through it all to recognise the Bladesinger standing in front of him, and now he had brought Arn here to taunt him.

If so, Arn had just one moment to react accordingly. He could unleash his magic to tear the floor asunder and send all the Aquilans flying on their backs before leaping forward and seizing his sword. He would have to kill the witnesses first to keep them from raising the alarm – quickly done, all of them lacking weapons and magic – before turning on the mageknight. Those trained in that art were well defended against physical attacks, but Arn could use other kinds of magic.

But it was too soon. The Archean armband made flight impossible. Killing Ignius kept him from using it to track Arn down, but the Tyrian did not trust that would set him free; the lowly lanista had not acquired an artefact like this by chance.

All of these thoughts whirling through his head, Arn decided on the simplest course of action; he pretended he did not understand Aquilan. He stared straight ahead, as if oblivious to the entire conversation.

“I know your man is mute, but is he also deaf?” Salvius asked.

“He speaks little of our tongue,” Ignius replied, grasping for the same excuse.

“It hardly matters if he understands your question, Sir Salvius. It’s not like he can give us an answer,” one of the magistrates pointed out, and they all laughed a little.

“I suppose.”

“How did you obtain this blade?” asked the nobleman from before. “Did you buy it?”

“Hardly,” the mageknight scoffed. “It was won in battle. I bested one of their skálds and took it from him. Had him thrown to the lions upon our return.”

“Ah yes, I believe I saw that. An excellent spectacle,” another guest spoke.

“Were your travels to Tyria met with success?” came the nobleman again, leading to a moment of awkward silence.

“No,” Salvius finally admitted. “The barbarians refused to give assurances for any settlements in Nordmark, and the emperor is unwilling to risk more lives until we get them. Perhaps next year at their primitive assembly, they will be more amenable to cooperation with the Empire.”

Arn clenched and opened his hands, trying to keep a calm head.

“Will you lead the delegation again, do you think?”

The mageknight shook his head. “The emperor has already given me my next assignment. I am sent to the Western Isles, and possibly Cathai beyond, if our embassy on the Isles is well-established. In fact, I leave in a few days.”

Arn did not hear what was spoken after that. Salvius’s final words echoed in his mind. The mageknight was leaving. It was a journey of numerous fivedays to the Western Isles with a mage aboard to work the wind. If Arn were to follow later, he would have to stow away on an ordinary merchant ship that made the same journey in months. By the time he arrived, Salvius might already be on his way onwards to Cathai.

Trying to track down the mageknight across oceans to realms completely unknown to him… Arn realised he was out of time. The gods had placed him in this room with his sword and his enemy both in close reach for a reason. Salvius had to die now, and damn any thoughts of escape.

A pity that the servants had to die as well, being innocent in their master’s crime, but Arn did not wish to risk help coming; there could be other mages among the guests.

Letting his magic seep into the floor below his feet, Arn prepared to tear it asunder and send every person prone. The ground told him of footfall approaching the door from the hallway, and he waited a moment, to let them enter his web.

“Master, forgive the intrusion,” a servant spoke, gaining Salvius’s attention. “You said to bring the prioress to you straight away when she arrived.”

As he stepped aside, two nuns entered the room. Veiled, the one in front walked with the signs of age upon her movements. The sister who followed – Arn recognised her, despite all the fabric hiding her. He swallowed, wondering why the gods would taunt him so as he looked at Sister Helena.