The Soul of a Skáld
As expected, Arn barely felt better when he woke up. Besides being tired, his magic had only begun to replenish itself, and while he did not anticipate needing it, it made him feel vulnerable and therefore uncomfortable. In the end, after a gruelling morning of sparring, he approached the weapons master. ‘Could I get a brief respite? After solstice games and Ignius’ celebration yesterday, I’m tired.’
Mahan looked him over. “Fine. You may rest one bell. That is all the favour your status as champion buys you. Be back after the noon meal, and no further complaints.”
Better than nothing. Arn nodded in agreement and returned to his cell for sleep.
*
Feeling more rested in the afternoon and ready to train, Arn was intercepted by a guard. “The sister’s here to see you.” Wondering why, Arn followed the watchman. Helena appearing in the middle of the day did not bode well. They soon reached the bars that served as a gate between the ludus and the inner house, where she stood in her typical garb, veil covering her face.
Seeing them approach, she turned her head towards the guard. Even with the fabric covering her expression, he understood. “I’ll leave you to it, I guess,” he mumbled and walked away.
As soon as his back was turned, Helena began signing. ‘Sister Joanna is dead.’ Taken aback, Arn did not know what to respond, and she continued, ‘You did this.’
As her hands became still, he knew he had to reply. ‘Yes,’ he finally admitted.
Despite the veil, he believed that he could see her fuming. ‘How could you! I sheltered you, breaking the most fundamental rules of the convent! I lied to my sisters, I betrayed their trust, and you killed one of them!’
His own anger became stirred, and he no longer had trouble giving answers. ‘For you! She tormented you!’
‘She also spent her mornings feeding orphans and washing the sick at the infirmary,’ Helena retorted. ‘It’s more complicated than you think!’
‘Her good deeds don’t excuse her ill deeds,’ Arn argued.
‘And what of yours? Have you left anything but death in your wake? Who are you to judge the acts of another?’
His temper flared, but this time, it clouded his mind, and he could not think of any retaliation.
‘We are done. I’ve taken Sister Joanna’s place on the expedition, whenever it leaves – who knows, since you also murdered its leader.’ Her veil fluttered. ‘Yes, she was going to leave Aquila, and I’d never have to see her again. Instead, I’ll place that same distance between us.’ Her parting blow delivered, she turned on her heel and stalked away.
Arn wanted to shout for her to stay, to listen to him, to change her mind, but he lacked both the tongue and the words for such an accomplishment. Instead, he grasped the bars separating the nun from the skáld and shook them in anger. For a moment, he imagined calling upon his supernatural might and twist them apart.
The thought passed. No feat of strength, no display of magic could convince her to return. And why did he care? Soon, they would both be far from Aquila, going their own way. Letting this thought calm him down, he released his grip on the bars and walked away to begin sparring.
*
The afternoon waned; the evening meal would be served soon. Some of the gladiators slackened their efforts in anticipation of the day’s work coming to an end, while others kept up the pace regardless. Less motivated to train than the others, Arn raised a hand to signal his desire to stop, and Marcus stepped back, grinning. “Had enough, champion?”
Arn wondered if he would miss any of this. He longed to have his freedom back, with nobody issuing commands on his time or presence. Even so, comfort was found in routine, and these months in the ludus had built up his strength as nothing else could have; while he certainly liked some of the gladiators better than others, he would not deny that he felt like a part of their band as a whole. The disconcerting thought appeared in his head that by escaping, he was abandoning them. But he could not see any other way.
His musings were interrupted by commotion, loud enough to attract the attention of everyone. Across the yard, the gladiators ceased fighting and looked towards the building. From the house issued soldier after soldier, clad in the colours of the city guard, wielding spears. Leading them was an ordinary-looking man, dressed like any other traveller might be.
Unrest spread through the fighters; some gripped their wooden weapons tighter, and murmurs could be heard everywhere. As the weapons master, Mahan stepped in front of his men to ask, “What is going on?”
Arn had cast a single look at the fellow leading the soldiers, and he knew. Not due to recognition; they had never met before. But he could only think of one person who would come to this place, leading guards, and look so confident without even a dagger in his belt. This had to be the spellbreaker. Holding on to his wooden sword, Arn slipped backwards into the crowd of twenty gladiators.
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“I am Atreus of Archen. Under the treaty between your realm and my city, I have full authority to investigate claims of maleficus and illegal acts done by magic. I have come seeking a Tyrian in your house. He is known by the scar down his face. Where is he?”
Shocked mutterings spread through the men. Realising that fighting would only harm his companions of the ludus, Arn dropped his sword, turned around, and ran for the back wall.
His movement caught the attention of everyone, gladiators and guards alike. Empowering himself with his rune, Arn leapt into the air, tall enough to clear the enclosure in a single bound.
Extending his hand towards the fugitive, Atreus clenched his fist in the air and made a throwing motion.
As if seized by a giant yet invisible grip, Arn’s jump was interrupted, and he fell into the wall instead, tossed against it.
“The Tyrian in question, I assume,” Atreus remarked dryly. “No doubt either that he possesses magic. Surrender, northerner,” he called out. “There’s no need for this to become violent.”
“What will happen to him?” asked Sigismund, standing closest to the spellbreaker.
“The fate of any maleficar. Stand aside – if there’s to be a battle of spells, none of you want to be caught in between,” Atreus warned them all.
Sigismund looked at his fellow gladiators, clenching the training sword in his hand. “He’s one of us,” he mumbled. Without warning, he surged forward and swung his weapon at the spellbreaker with sufficient force to crack his skull.
Atreus made a swiping motion with his hand, and the burly gladiator was flung aside. Seeing the strongest among them laid low, the other gladiators looked cowed, and nobody else moved.
Arn, realising there was no comparison between the power of an Archean spellbreaker and an Aquilan mageknight, knew he was doomed. He caught Mahan’s gaze and signed to him, ‘Tell them all to step aside. They’ll just get killed fighting.’
“What’s he saying?” Atreus demanded sharply. “What do those signs mean?”
“He’s telling us to stand down,” Mahan interpreted, raising his voice. “Do as he says, lads. Nothing we can do here.” He glanced at the guards, who held their spears ready, and dropped the wooden sword in his hand.
“Good. Are you prepared to surrender and come peacefully?” Atreus asked, staring at Arn. “Let me say it again. I command you to surrender!” Magic filled his words. This was no simple suggestion, but pure mental domination that would leave ordinary people trembling and throwing themselves to the ground.
Arn grimaced; he thought his ears might bleed at the assault upon his mind. But he was a skáld; his own galdr, if he still could sing, worked much the same, and experience with such magic gave him the strength to resist. Exhaling, the Tyrian bent down and picked up his training sword. It availed little, but it was a blade, of sorts, and he was a spellblade. If he were to die, better with a fake weapon in hand than none at all, better on these sands than in the arena, and better among the only people he respected than as entertainment for the Aquilan masses.
The spellbreaker sighed. “So be it.”
Understanding what was about to take place, the gladiators all hurried away to stand against the sides of the yard, while the guards moved further back behind Atreus.
Once again, the Archean mage reached out with his hand and his magic to seize Arn and throw him about like a ragdoll, but this time, the skáld stood ready. His own seiðr rose up in him, resisting the effect, and he broke free of the invisible grip.
As he sprinted forward with empowered swiftness, Arn extended his magic to grab all the discarded training weapons on the ground and hurl them as projectiles against Atreus.
In response, the spellbreaker raised a powerful wind behind him, sweeping away all the spears and swords harmlessly. Intensifying the strength of the gale, he halted Arn’s momentum, until the latter raised the sand in front of him into a wall; where air met earth, both elements faltered, as did the spells commanding either.
Once again, Arn rushed forward, and he struck with his bladesong to smash Atreus across the face with the wooden blade. With a swift gust of wind, the spellbreaker simply pushed the weapon out Arn’s hand, and he followed up with a spell that required no movement, no words, yet it struck the skáld like being run over by a horse.
Pain, greater than he could have imagined, coursed through him. It did not run through his body, it did not assault his mind; his very soul felt on fire, and Arn fell to his knees in agony. He tried to scream, but only guttural sounds escaped his mouth. He thought his eyes might explode in his skull; he suddenly recalled with extreme clarity his first time in the arena, being mauled by lions.
The torment ended. “Surrender!” Atreus repeated with his dominating voice.
Gasping for air, Arn looked up. Beyond the spellbreaker, he saw the city guards engrossed in the fight. With his magical reach, Arn grabbed hold of a spear from one of them and flew it into his own hand. Back on his feet, he thrust it against his enemy, and it struck against the chain shirt that Atreus wore under his clothing.
With a burst of magic, a flame erupted to burn through the spear haft, breaking it. Throwing the back half away, Arn gripped the top half and wielded it as a knife. He aimed a blow at his adversary’s head with enough force to split his skull open.
Another powerful gust pushed him back, and Arn released his mute scream, struggling to advance against the gale that held him away from his adversary. Even his weapon slipped from his hand, and the ensorcelled wind sent it flying straight towards a gladiator’s face. In the last moment, Arn seized it with his magic and hurled it back at Atreus.
The spellbreaker simply evaded the incoming assault, taking a step back. Ceasing his air spell, Atreus once more cast his soulfire.
As before, Arn felt pure torment seize the essence of his very being, and he fell to the ground, limp. He made no further movement other than to tremble in pain. When the spell ended, he became still.
“Chain him up,” Atreus declared with a tired voice. “He’s done.”
Cautiously, though still obeying the Archean mage, the guards approached the fallen Tyrian with golden manacles in their hands. Quickly, they chained his wrists along with a collar around his neck, suppressing his magic. “Can’t wait for you to explain to the lieutenant how you lost your spear,” mumbled one of them as the other, bereft of his weapon, grabbed Arn by the shoulders.
“I’ll journey back with this one to the dungeons,” Atreus declared to the princeps of the guards. “The rest fall under your responsibility. Unless you happen to discover others using magic in this ludus,” he muttered.
“Let’s pray we don’t,” came the reply. “Alright, drag him out, and get chains for the others!”