Blood Eagle

Champion

On the eve of the fourth day, Mahan gathered those gladiators of House Ignius still in the games. Three in total. Arn, Sigismund, and Domitian. Seated on a bench in the common room, they looked up at the weapons master. “Sigismund has tried this before, and I suppose you’ve heard about it, Domitian, but for the sake of our Northman, I’ll explain,” he began by saying.

Arn made sure to listen intently. While he did not care about becoming champion – his goal of returning to his former strength had been reached – he knew that if defeated, the other gladiators would kill him out of spite. Any words of wisdom offered by the weapon master he would gladly receive.

“Tomorrow is all for all, ostensibly, until the last man is standing. But the fighters from every house stick together, helping each other to eliminate the rest and decide the championship among themselves.” He took out a small tablet with a variety of notes. “Ten ludi still have gladiators in the fight tomorrow, but not evenly distributed.”

“Last year we were only two fighters,” Sigismund growled.

“Yes. Some, like House Petrus, has six, while most have one or two. They’ll be your most dangerous rivals, but the other houses know this as well and may help you go against them. Or they’ll pretend to and strike at you once you turn your back to them,” Mahan admitted. “Trust only each other, and help each other.” He looked straight at Arn. “Anyone fighting isolated will go down immediately.”

“And if two or three of us make it to the end as the last ones?” asked Domitian. “We just fight it out?”

“You do. I wish I didn’t have to say this, but either of you kill one of your fellow fighters from this ludus, I’ll gut you myself the moment you leave the sands.” Mahan’s eyes swept over them to once again rest on Arn. The Tyrian felt a little insulted at the insinuation. “We’re fortunate that you’re each a different fighter. Triarius, legionarius, veles. You can cover each other’s weaknesses.”

“But we’re not trained to fight together,” Domitian muttered. “It might not be as simple as you make it sound.”

“Of course not,” the weapons master conceded. “But just covering each other’s blind spots will help. Don’t let the rage of battle tear you away from the others. If you move forward to strike an enemy, move back in line. Separation means you’ll be surrounded and cut down, understood?”

“Discipline will carry the day,” came another growl from Sigismund. “But we can talk about it as much as we want. We’ll only know how we’ll fight come tomorrow.”

“Yes. Get the sleep you can,” Mahan commanded, and they separated.

*

Tomorrow came soon. They returned to the arena, fifth day in a row, and equipped themselves with their regular arms. Mahan bade them farewell to take a place among the stands and watch them fight; left alone, the three gladiators looked towards the opening portcullis, beckoning them onto the sands.

Before they walked through, Sigismund turned to the other two. “One triarius. One legionarius. One veles. One volunteer. One damnatus. One prisoner of war. I rarely pay the gods much heed, but our small trio feels ordained.”

“If it means we’re blessed to win, I’ll take it,” Domitian mumbled. He seemed muted, having barely spoken so far this morning.

“We are both soldiers of the legion,” Sigismund continued before looking at Arn. “And you, Northman, have you fought in battle alongside warriors of your home?”

Arn nodded. He had.

“I imagine you hold no love for Aquilans in your heart,” he continued; he was usually brief in speech, and Arn wondered where he aimed to go with this. “And tomorrow, I won’t argue or ask what you feel. But today, we are three, and we may face twenty-two.”

Arn repeated his gesture.

“I would ask that for one day, one hour, you set aside ill feelings. When we step onto the sands, we are your tribe, and you are ours.” The burly gladiator looked from one man to the other. “We see each other through. Will you agree to this?”

The Tyrian exhaled. He appreciated good oratory, and while this was not the most stirring speech or song, it was spoken from the heart. He returned the gaze that the other gladiators gave him. He had not known them for long, nor gone through the kind of dangers that formed unbreakable bonds between survivors.

But he trained with them each day for hours. Ate together and shared the same home and circumstances, however involuntary. Once or twice, even laughed with them. His body had been broken, and they had helped him find a way back, encouraging him to fight harder when needed and telling him to rest when required. If he had anything that resembled family just a little, by the strange twists of fortune, it was the men from the ludus of House Ignius.

Arn leaned his sword against the wall and placed one hand on each of their shoulders. He gave a third and final nod. Sigismund responded in kind. “Very well. Let’s go.”

*

All the platforms had been removed from the arena except the one in the centre, which had been expanded. Still, with twenty-five gladiators standing along the outer ring, it seemed small. No railing guarded them from falling down, which was purposeful; if a fighter fell down on the sands below, they were done.

The gladiators were spread out, facing each other in a circle. Those from House Ignius had arraigned themselves to have Domitian in the middle, with his spear giving him longest reach. Sigismund and his great shield anchored their right flank; Arn, more lightly armed and swifter on his feet, took the left, meant to be the one striking out from their formation while the others protected him.

On the other side, the six fighters of House Petrus had placed themselves. They had a mixture of every fighter and likewise had their legionarii on the edges as defensive towers, with triarii and velites in between. They stared with naked fury at Arn, who had killed their champion, Cassian. If he had been in the fight, armed with magic same as the skáld, Arn realised that he might very well die; fate had shown him kindness, letting them meet beforehand. Now he stood stronger, assuming nobody else from House Petrus had the gift.

“Fight!” cried the official, and the roar from fifty thousand spectators rose in response.

The world became a maelstrom of noise and steel, but Arn kept his head cool; he had been in battle before. Together with his fellow fighters, he took two steps forwards, giving them space to manoeuvre backwards without falling off the edge.

The other gladiators who fought alone or in pairs did as could be expected and went against the only groups bigger. Most of them clashed against those of House Petrus; the remainder came against House Ignius.

Arn defended himself, keeping his magic in reserve for now. Despite the difference in numbers, the restricted area kept their attackers from using this advantage; all of them were trained to fight alone rather in formation, with weapons and moves that required space.

Seeing an opportunity, Arn advanced a single step and struck, calling upon his rune of swiftness. It allowed him to slash an opponent across the leg, cutting through leather greaves, and retreat before any could retaliate. He dared a look to his right and saw his compatriots standing tall, only defending themselves and trusting him to thin the enemy numbers.

A spear came against him; Arn parried with his buckler and grabbed the haft thanks to his empowered speed before hacking at it with increased strength, his sword cutting through the wood. Dumbfounded, the other gladiator stared at his broken spear before throwing it away, picking up a gladius from a fallen fighter.

Slowly, the enemy numbers dwindled. They still had half a dozen to contend with, and House Petrus after that, but Arn began to see the end of the road. Their opponents crowded to attack him, judging him the easier mark; without magic, they would have been right. Instead, his buckler constantly intercepted strikes or thrusts.

A legionarius came close, attacking with his short sword while using his big shield to protect himself from Arn’s comrades. He chose an opportune moment when Arn was already defending himself, but the skáld evaded with supernatural speed and gave a kick, forcing his assailant back.

With a triumphant roar, Domitian took advantage of this to strike at an otherwise well-protected enemy. Wielding a short sword himself, he stepped forward twice to get close enough, which also placed him in Sigismund’s way, preventing the latter from protecting him.

Arn would have shouted a warning if he could, but only a mutilated yell left his throat. Another enemy slashed Domitian across the arm, causing a deep gash. Immediately, his sword hung low, and despite his large shield, he could not properly defend himself, his right side now vulnerable. As a gladiator came at him, he could only raise his wooden ward. In an incredulous move, another attacker launched himself feet first against the shield, and the sheer force of his momentum pushed Domitian several paces back – falling over the edge.

Arn dared not look over his shoulder; he trusted the sand had softened the blow and his friend was otherwise unhurt. His own position was not immediately changed, as he still had Sigismund to his right, but he in turn would be far more vulnerable now and less able to defend Arn.

Calling on his bladesong, Arn risked a surge forwards. He wove through steel and strikes, the sword in his hand fighting on its own to find a way through and eviscerate two enemies. The lust of battle threatened to overwhelm him, the taste of blood heavy in the air, but Arn restrained himself and fell back. Immediately, Sigismund’s shield came forward to halt a spear and keep him safe.

The sortie had worked; the attacks lessened. Arn prepared to strike again when the gladiator in front of him fell to the ground, spitting blood before he died. Beyond him, the Tyrian saw why. The fighters of House Petrus, five remaining, had dealt with all their attackers and now moved forward. Only two remained between them and their victory. Glancing at Sigismund out of the corner of his eyes, Arn prepared himself.

*

Arn did not fear five warriors, however well-trained. He had plenty of spellpower to use his abilities; he could summon the bladesong several times more. In addition, his minor runes lay ready as ever to lend him speed and strength no human could match.

But the moment he moved forward, Sigismund would be surrounded and struck down. No matter his magic, Arn could not attack fast enough to kill and hold them all back unless he used such powers that revealed himself to all who watched.

His mouth dry from exertion, nourished only by blood sprayed into it, Arn chose patience. An opportunity would come, as long as they defended themselves.

It did moments later, but not for him. As one enemy came at Sigismund from the side, he defended well, but it forced him to parry with his shield, and another threw his spear like a javelin, striking the great man in his leg. He fell to one knee with a wounded roar before struggling back up.

Time was against them now, Arn knew. His companion’s strength would be sapped sooner than that of the others. He could only think of one thing to do. Swinging his sword in a wide arc to buy himself a moment, Arn followed up by grabbing Sigismund by the back of his collar and throwing him off the platform.

The fighters of House Petrus laughed, seeing a lithe Tyrian remain, surrounded by five. Arn smiled in return and called upon his bladesong. With astonishment, they watched their blades and spears strike only air, every parry turned aside, and the skáld’s sword cut into them with impossible force. One by one, they died.

When the last remained, Arn looked at him through the red haze of battle fury. A bald fellow who looked familiar. He dove low and slashed the man’s leg open below the knee, forcing him down.

Kneeling, the gladiator looked at Arn. “I knew it would end this way. I knew.”

The Tyrian finally recognised him. The gladiator from the garden when the champions of the different houses had been brought together to perform for the magistrate and his guests. The condemned man closed his eyes, awaiting death. Inside of Arn, the hunger for power awoke, calling him to spill blood and seize the life within before it ebbed away, feeding his magic further.

Arn struck with the pommel of his sword and sent his adversary to the ground. He had all the power he needed, and his task today was done. Seeing no enemies left standing, he let his sword drop. He began to breathe with greed, like a man surfacing from a deep swim. He felt the blood on his face, slowly drying yet becoming wet from his sweat.

He was done. No more fighting in this place of pain. Arn raised his hands in the air, hailing Thunraz in the sky. He had been through the crucible and survived. Soon, he would be free of this prison.

All around him, the crowds screamed in excitement, mistaking his gestures as a sign to them, and it made Arn wish he was deaf rather than mute. He would tear down this entire arena if opportunity ever presented itself. Still with ragged breath, he sat down on the edge of the platform and let himself fall the final distance.

Both Sigismund and Domitian awaited him, and for a moment, Arn wondered what they would say. If they would congratulate him or be envious; if they would applaud his actions or feel spited by them.

Sigismund lowered his head. “Well done, champion.”

Domitian laughed and flung his arms around Arn. “You did it, you mad northern dog!”