The Gladiators

Judging by the sound, the games had or were about to begin. Arn found the entrance used by gladiators, descending into the tunnels underneath the great construction. A guard got in his way; Arn seized his spear by the haft, tore it away, and threw the man aside.

Reaching the preparation area, he found it empty other than cages holding beasts and the animal keeper. “What do you think you’re doing down here?” he growled, and he lashed out with a whip.

Arn summoned a rune in the air, blasting the keeper far away. He looked at the tunnels that led up into the arena, but his eyes caught the lions in their cages. Chaos and confusion would serve him well; in addition, his tolerance for living creatures being locked up and used for entertainment had become low. He walked over and ripped the locks away, allowing the cages to open.

The lions wandered out, their heads looking in every direction. One in particular, with only one eye, stared at Arn. Whether they understood the danger that surrounded him or had some sense of gratitude for their freedom, the Tyrian could not say, but the lions let him be. Some ran deeper into the complex; others fell upon the animal keeper.

Hurrying along on his own path, Arn reached the portcullis that led into the arena, guarded by two sentinels. He drew his sword and used his bladesong, striking them down. Quickly, he used the mechanism that raised the portcullis, and he ran onto the sands.

*

Twenty or so gladiators stood huddled together. They did not wear leather or iron to protect them, but only simple rags of cloth, and their weapons were rusty and dull. In the other end of the arena, the same number of fighters awaited them, properly armed and equipped.

“We form ranks,” Sigismund growled. “Those with anything resembling a spear, take the flanks.”

“It’s pointless,” Andrew complained in a shrill voice. “We don’t stand a chance!”

“At least we die with a weapon in hand,” Mahan barked. “Listen to Sigismund!”

“Lads, who’s that? Aren’t we all here?” Domitian pointed at a sole figure that came running out of a tunnel wielding a proper sword, though his clothes were not just ragged, but bloody.

“Stars, it’s the Northman!”

“Guess we were missing one after all.”

All present, whether the audience, the officials, the fully armed gladiators, or those sentenced to die, they all watched in confusion as a Tyrian crossed the sands to join his house.

“Northman! You’ve come to die with us!” Domitian shouted with jubilation.

“Not if I can avoid it,” Arn replied. If he had their attention before, it was nothing compared to when they heard his words. Several curses in various languages were exclaimed.

“You can talk?” Domitian dropped his weapons and shook him by the shoulders, almost impaling himself on Arn’s sword.

“Not the time! We need to flee.”

Mahan looked around. “The whole point of this place is to prevent that.”

“Boys, too late! They’re coming!”

Across the arena, a band of gladiators charged, spurred on by the howls for bloodshed coming from the audience. Given the difference in equipment, the outcome seemed given, and the spectators only made bets on how many breaths before all the condemned had died; the magistrate had already announced no mercy would be given to the blasphemous law-breakers.

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“Friends, cover your ears. This will hurt,” Arn warned them. None heeded his command; some stared at him, but the rest took position, ready for fight.

The skáld stepped forward past their ranks; as the enemy came close, he called upon his galdr again. This time, a perfidious pattern traipsed down his tongue to make kinsfolk slay kindred. Friend seemed foe, and brother became bane. The opposing gladiators fell upon each other.

Around Arn, his own band followed his warning belatedly, throwing weapons aside to cover their ears. While he channelled the galdr only on those he deemed hostile, restricting the confusion to them, it caused pain to all who could hear. While in discomfort, the gladiators formerly of House Ignius watched in wonder and terror as their enemies slaughtered each other.

It lasted less than ten breaths, but half of their adversaries lay dead, and the rest ran to the other side of the arena, terrified to discover their own slaughter. Several of Arn’s own fellows looked to share the sentiment, though some had the good sense to quickly pick up the better weapons from the fallen.

“We have to get out,” Sigismund growled. “They know something’s wrong.” He looked up at the stands, in particular the covered section where the magistrate officiating the games and other dignitaries sat.

“They’ll be calling for the guards, the city watch too,” Mahan mumbled. “Can we get out through the tunnels? Can your magic remove the portcullis?”

It probably could, but going down the tunnels would leave them trapped like rats. Arn had no knowledge how long the conjunction would last or when he might exhaust himself, magically speaking. Best to use his power now and make it worthwhile, creating further chaos. “Get behind me,” he warned the others as he stepped towards the stands hosting the luminaries of the city.

Kneeling down, Arn placed both hands on the ground. He felt the sands, absorbing the blood of countless sacrifices. The hewn stone, taken from the living land to build this monument to suffering. More importantly, he felt the tunnels that ran underneath the arena.

Closing his eyes, Arn took the power granted from above and poured it below. From the sky to the earth, magic flowed. Clenching his fists in the sand, he slowly moved his hands apart. Underneath, the ground itself shook and followed, tearing itself asunder. The silent cry of the land, stained by so much blood, was finally released. An earthquake created by the skáld, it ripped everything open. The people screamed in fear, as the stands collapsed, debris falling into the cracks exposing the tunnels below.

Panic ensued as tens of thousands began to flee, all stampeding towards any way out they could see. “Follow!” Arn commanded, his spell at an end, and he ran towards the rubble his own magic had caused, creating a new exit from the arena. Fearful, the gladiators nonetheless heeded his words.

*

It took them a while to climb through the destroyed part of the arena and make their escape, but eventually, they could cross the open streets that surrounded the enormous, though damaged structure, and they huddled together down an alley, twenty gladiators wedged in between the houses.

“What now?” asked Mahan. “We’re rather conspicuous.” All of them wore the dirty rags from the dungeons, now further torn by their journey through the rubble. The weapons in their hands only added to the impression.

“They’ll send runners to lock down the gates,” Andrew said. “We’ll have to fight our way through that. Unless you can do to the walls what you did to the arena?”

They looked at Arn, who gave it brief consideration. “I doubt it. The arena stood on tunnels – I imagine the city walls to be far sturdier.”

“We wouldn’t get far anyway,” declared Sigismund, the former legionary. “They’d send an entire mounted cohort to chase us down.”

“We disperse,” Cornelius suggested. “Together we’re easy to catch, so we should all hide where we can.”

“I have a better idea,” Arn claimed. “In the harbour, ships are prepared for an expedition to the Western Isles. They must be filled with supplies.”

“We aren’t sailors,” Domitian protested. “We’ll sink before we clear the harbour!”

“I’ve sailed,” the Tyrian replied. “I’m from an island tribe.”

“Of course.” Domitian threw up his hands. “He uses magic, he talks, he sails, he does everything!”

“Quiet,” Sigismund growled. “The Northman is right. We flee over land, we get hunted down. We stay in the city, we get hunted down. To the docks!”

“Wait!” Arn exclaimed, arresting their movements. “There’s someone I must find. Go ahead without me, and I shall join you.”

Domitian frowned. “Who? Everyone you know is here.”

“Sometimes, I wonder at you.” Mahan shook his head at Domitian and looked at Arn. “Go, then, and fetch your woman. The rest of us will choose a ship.”

“Hold on,” protested Hector. “I got a wife and two children in the city. I’m not leaving without them!”

“Yeah, what about my family?” another asked.

“I can’t go without Iolana and her brother,” Domitian interjected.

“Fine!” Mahan declared. “Everyone, get your people to the docks. Hurry! Don’t waste time. Take too long, we leave without you!”

Every man in agreement, the gladiators dispersed, and Arn ran south towards the convent belonging to the Maidens of the Moon.