The Tribe
As the pair reached the harbour, they encountered what could best be described as a brawl. Ragged gladiators fighting the city watch and local guards from the trading houses along with dockworkers and sailors. The former were outnumbered, but they excelled when it came to giving battle surrounded by chaos, and some lay dead on both sides. Glancing down, Arn saw Andrew motionless, his eyes empty of life.
Pushing thoughts of grief aside, Arn threw himself into the fight. He spared his magic, fearing it to be near its end, though he did call upon the runes of his sword. Seeing a crazed Tyrian wielding a flaming blade, more than one dockworker threw their improvised weapon away and ran. The guards had more discipline, and Arn engaged them, seeking to quickly incapacitate them and move on, pressed for time. A cut across the leg or a disarming manoeuvre ended their involvement in the fight; if they somehow persisted, a strong blow from Helena’s staff to break their nose or knock them out settled it.
“Northman! Finally!” Domitian called out, fighting his way to the Tyrian. “We’re here, but none of us got saltwater in our veins!”
“Get everyone aboard!” Arn commanded.
“We figured that much!” the other gladiator yelled in return. “They’re all aboard, except for us still fighting!”
Arn realised that only a handful of his brethren remained on the pier, fighting off the guards. He parried a spear and moved one way to get the soldier’s attention, allowing Helena to attack him from the other side. “Unmoor the ship!”
“Yeah, we guessed that as well!” Domitian retorted indignant. “What else?”
“Raise the anchor!” Though Arn had never crewed aboard an Aquilan warship, his journey to the city had taken place on such a craft, and he remembered how the sheer size necessitated a whole contraption for this. “The wheel!”
The burly fighter blinked before a light appeared in his eyes. “The anchor, right!” He leapt aboard the ship where the last sailors were being thrown off the vessel, though one chose to jump into the harbour himself. “To me, lads!” Domitian yelled, reaching the great wheel that would raise the anchor. He threw himself against it and began pushing while two of his brothers helped.
“Get aboard,” Arn told Helena in between gasps for breath. The last soldier had thrown his weapons and abandoned the fight, leaving the pier empty of enemies for now, but it would not last. Besides all of them being condemned fugitives, the Aquilans would not stand idle as they stole a warship.
“What of you?” she asked, looking anxious with grime and specks of blood upon her face as she held her staff, a vision to rival any goddess.
“I’ll follow,” he promised. He looked around the harbour as she walked onto the ship; he ought to damage the other vessels, preventing any pursuit. But it would take time, especially with his magic near exhausted, and any moment, reinforcements would appear from the city guard.
Perhaps a greater man would have stayed behind and dealt with the other ships, allowing his brethren to escape, but looking at Helena on the deck, Arn knew he was not that man. He had risked everything again and again since arriving in Aquila; it was time to make his final play and be done with this city.
Calling upon the last drops of magic he had left, he summoned a rune of repulsion in the air, giving it as much power as he possibly could. As it activated, it pushed the entirety of the warship away from the pier.
Dark spots in front of his eyes, Arn gave himself a running start and leapt. His own magic became a snare; already, the ship had placed such distance between itself and the docks thanks to his rune, his jump fell short, and he landed in the water.
*
The cold shock woke him up, and he began swimming, blessing his island childhood for this skill. He had barely made two strokes before he heard as much as saw a splash. Going under the water only to appear above it with a roar, Sigismund showed himself and threw his arms around Arn.
The Tyrian felt a powerful pull; his comrade had a rope tied around him, and the others were hauling them aboard. As they came up the side of the ship, several more grabbed them and helped them over the railing. Lying flat on his back, Arn coughed and kept blinking, trying to get the dark spots gone from his vision.
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“Run out the oars,” he gasped, hoping someone was listening. “Wind’s not right for the sails yet.”
“You heard him! Man the oars!” shouted the voice of Mahan, and a scramble of feet across the deck could be heard.
As his mind became clear, Arn saw a beautiful face lean over him. “Are you hurt?” Helena asked.
He shook his head, smiling at the sight until another head appeared above him, that of an old greybeard. “Aye, you’ll be fine, Bladesinger. Don’t worry – I’ve sailed plenty before I settled here. I’ll make sailors of these dry-foot Aquilans yet!” The loremaster cackled.
Raising one hand to shield his eyes from the sharp sun, approaching the horizon, Arn squinted. “Helgi? Why are you here?”
“Well, good seeing you too,” the old Tyrian snorted. “Can’t you feel it? All the magic in the air?”
“Is that what it is?” Helena asked, sounding nervous. “My skin feels like it’s been crawling all day.”
“Pretty sure that’s the only thing that’s kept me alive,” Arn admitted. He felt and saw the vessel begin moving properly as the strong gladiators took to the oars. Glancing over his shoulder, he found Mahan at the helm, steering them towards the opening of the harbour walls.
“It won’t stay that way,” Helgi claimed with a grim expression. “This morning, it was simmering, but now it’s boiling. Doom is on this city, I tell you! So when I saw a bunch of ragtag gladiators moving to the docks, I figured that was a sign for old Helgi.”
“Not that you cared to warn us,” came the indignant voice of a woman.
“Iris? What are you doing here?” Arn tried to get up, but the sudden exertion was too much, and he had to sit back on the deck, supported by Helena.
“Cornelius fetched us – those of us who dared. Glad to see you got your sword back.”
“Who is this?” Helena asked pointedly.
“A friend,” Arn mumbled, looking around. A handful of other women along with several children had spread out across the deck. “They should get below. We’re not safe until we’re out of the harbour. Help me up.” He reached out a hand, and Helena helped him to stand.
“Trouble ahead!” Mahan shouted. “They’re raising the chain!”
Along with the others, though he moved more slowly, Arn made his way to the stern. Ahead, they saw the towers that lay on either side of the harbour opening; between them, a great chain was being raised, blocking their escape. “I – I can’t,” Arn mumbled. He already tasted blood in his mouth at the thought of using his magic for a spell of sufficient power to remove the obstacle. “I’m not strong enough,” he confessed, reaching out to grab Helena’s shoulder for support.
“What about me?” she asked. “Can I help?”
Helgi patted her other shoulder. “Don’t trouble yourself. Metal is from the ground, and we Tyrians know the earth. Old Helgi can do more than make a few runes.” The old loremaster walked to the very tip of the warship, shooing a child away. He extended both hands towards the enormous chain ahead, and Arn could feel the magic flow. Making two fists, Helgi yanked his hands away from each other, and the great chain broke apart, sinking into the water.
“Impressive, old man,” Arn admitted.
Helgi bent over and coughed several times. “Well, I won’t be doing it again. Get those oars going!” he added with a shout. “Keep pace, you mutton heads! This ship is circling around itself like a diseased goat!”
He was right, Arn noticed; with none to keep the rhythm, the gladiators pulled the oars at their own speed, making for irregular momentum. Still, the ship advanced, albeit much slower than it should, and without the chain, nothing stood in their way.
A great stone landed in the water next to them, splashing water up on the deck. “Catapults!” Mahan yelled. “The defences! Pull those oars all you got, men!”
Those on deck looked up to see another rock flying through the air, this time smashing one of their two masts. It came from one of the towers that were built as part of the harbour fortifications.
Arn turned every thought in his mind, but no ideas came. Even if he had magic to spare, he could not imagine what to do. The distance alone made it difficult for his spells to accomplish anything. The sea between him and the tower kept him from affecting the foundation it stood upon, as the water would interfere with any earth spell. “Helgi?”
“Sorry, friend, this is beyond me,” the loremaster mumbled.
Helena grabbed his arm and clung to it tightly. “It’s alright,” she whispered. “Better here, together, than watching you on the sands.” Arn reciprocated her touch and closed his eyes.
*
Hundreds of miles away, in the city of Archen, a ritual was disrupted. The magic, built up with endless labour and sacrifice, became released without control and exploded in every direction, including through the connections to the different Archean outposts.
In the white wing of the Arcane Tower in Aquila, a neglected and abandoned ritual circle glowed for a moment. Next, the entire structure exploded. Every stone was flung outwards to cover the city like an infernal hail strike. Wherever they hit, the projectiles smashed through buildings and people alike. In an instant, every spire or palace, every great monument in the Imperial capital was crushed, turning Aquila to a city of rubble.
One stone burst straight through the tower at the harbour, leaving nothing but rubble. The pressure of the magic unleashed turned the waters to storm, pushing a vessel out onto the open sea. Leaving destruction behind, the ship of fugitives turned refugees set a course northwards, leaving the Empire of Aquila behind as it sank to ruin.