Blood Eagle - 43. The Blood Eagle
The Blood Eagle
Arn had considered if going elsewhere in the mansion was some kind of ploy, but Salvius made no attempt to call for help or raise the alarm. No matter his faults, he was a mageknight who had been challenged; honour demanded that he replied in kind. After a long walk down different flights of stairs, they reached the promised gymnasium.
It was little more than a circular room, but the walls were heavy stone surrounded by earth; Arn could feel it as he placed a hand against them. A sturdy place where those with magical gifts could train without destroying their surroundings.
Salvius placed the lamp in the middle of the chamber and stepped back, drawing his sword. “Do you stand ready?”
Arn mirrored his movements and nodded. All his attention flowed together to focus on his adversary on the other side of the flickering light; only one of them would emerge from this cauldron of rock embedded into the ground.
The mageknight burst into action; defensive spells layered themselves around his body while he leapt over the lamp with quickened speed and struck. Empowered by his own runes, Arn defended himself.
As they circled around the chamber, Arn knew his adversary was trying to get him trapped against the wall with limited ability to manoeuvre. Deciding to turn it against the mageknight, Arn willingly stepped back and placed his free hand on the wall behind him. The stonework trembled briefly before a rock came flying out, aimed straight at Salvius.
The mageknight leapt away, barely evading the attack, and in his haste, he kicked over the lamp. Seeing the light flicker, he immediately stepped back and raised his empty hand. “We should not fight in the dark like beasts.” He bent down and picked up the lamp to place it on the lowest step of the stairwell. “Much better.”
Turning around, he showed his teeth in an unsettling smile, and as before, he leapt forward to launch another assault. Getting in close served Salvius better with his short sword, and Arn called upon his bladesong to parry the onslaught of blows from a mageknight of the Aquilan legions, buying him a moment to think. Conscious of his dwindling spellpower, Arn sent a tremor through the wooden floorboards, cracking them.
Salvius staggered backwards, trying to regain his balance, and Arn unleashed his own display of swordsmanship, making full use of his longer blade. He let his magic flow into the runes upon the steel, and at last, he felt like a spellblade again. There was no hesitation, not a breath wasted. Every step and every move came to him without the need for thought. Now, he pressed the mageknight back, and he relished besting the Aquilan at his own game.
At last, his blade found its way past the gladius and it struck against Salvius’ shoulder with an edge sharpened by magic to cut through flesh and bone.
Pure magic swelled to serve as armour, and Arn did not even cut a thread on the mageknight’s clothing. With a disdainful smile, Salvius struck back before the skáld could recover his stance, using the opening created by his own feigned vulnerability. The gladius cut across Arn’s chest, who had no such defensive spells, and he felt it draw blood.
Salvius swiftly pressed his advantage, once more on the offensive. Pushed back, forced to defend as before, Arn knew he would run out of spellpower long before the mageknight, whose magic had never suffered debilitation. It was time to change tactics and finish this.
He stamped his foot, cracking the floor again. Ready for such a move, Salvius simply stepped to the side with a scornful smile, but Arn accomplished what he needed. The interruption and distance allowed him to move away, opposite the entrance and the lamp, and draw the shadows of the room around him.
Squinting his eyes, Salvius laughed. “Such tricks! But you cannot escape.” He swung his sword in a wide arc in front of him, taking a step forward.
Arn had no such intentions. Magic pulsing through his sword, he gathered water to cover the steel and turned it frozen. As the mageknight’s blade swung through the air, Arn leaned backwards to evade, immediately following up with a deep thrust.
Sensing the danger, Salvius summoned his own magic to shield him from steel and blows. Shock filled his face as the rune blade, coated in magical ice, pushed through his defensive spells that only protected against steel. Smoothly, the magic edge stabbed into his chest.
Arn withdrew his blade and moved alongside the wall. The mageknight clutched his wound, blood gushing out between his fingers, while his other hand feebly swung his sword around.
With swiftness, Arn circled around to slash both of his hamstrings, and Salvius fell to his knees. He tried to speak, but no words issued from his mouth. Standing behind him, one hand atop his head, Arn prepared himself before he swung his sword to cut skin, flesh, and spine, decapitating the Aquilan.
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He seized the release of energy that accompanied the mageknight’s death, considering it only fitting that his own magic should be strengthened by the man who had destroyed it. His entire body trembled feeling the rush of power from the dead wizard, much greater than from any ordinary man. Arn’s sword fell from his hand, and his legs failed to keep him standing, sending him to his knees as well. He felt the magic infuse him, growing his seiðr, spellpower, and control over the elements.
The pain from the backlash felt worse than the last time, much more akin to when he first began leeching. He tasted blood in his mouth, his vision grew dark, and the gash across his chest burned. Perhaps the penalty matched the seized power, or maybe Arn had exhausted his magic in the fight, causing such repercussions.
Regardless, it was done. Slowly, Arn felt control return. He saw the flickering shadows caused by the lamp behind him, his body obeyed him again, and the sensation of blood in his mouth was replaced by bile, though he did not purge his stomach.
Getting back on his feet, Arn looked at the headless corpse, slumped over. It was done; his vengeance had been carried out. But one last thing remained to do. He grabbed the body and returned it to a kneeling position, pushing earth through the floorboards with his magic to keep it steady. Grabbing the gladius – he would not desecrate his own sword with this work – Arn cut open the leather tunic and clothes of the dead body, exposing the back. Then, he began to carve the blood eagle.
*
Soon after, the grisly task was completed. Looking down at the bloody corpse, Arn felt no particular joy at this final deed, not even grim satisfaction, but rather like a burdensome chore had been dealt with. It was a message to the Aquilans of the fate that awaited them in the far North.
Done with the gladius, Arn picked up his own sword and cleaned it before sheathing it. As he turned towards the stairs, he saw light beyond the lamp already in the room. A pulse of fear going through him, Arn pulled shadows around him – though even this small spark of magic made his body tremble again – and he faded into the dark.
“Forgive me, master, but I noticed you sparring this late and thought you might like a cup of wine.” An old man, dressed as a servant, reached the foot of the stairs and stepped inside the gymnasium. It took him a moment to see the headless, mutilated corpse in the frail light present; when he finally did, he dropped the cup in his hand, spilling the liquid inside to wash over the blood, red against red. “Help! Murder! Gods, the dominus!”
Arn broke into a run. He shoved the old servant aside without losing his stride and sprinted up the staircase, all the while pursued by more shouts and yells. All around him, as he ran through the corridors, the house began to wake.
*
“Over here!”
“He ran that way!”
“To the gardens!”
“Everyone, follow!”
The yells came from different directions, making Arn feel like a chased rabbit. He might fight and probably best one or two, but by the sounds of it, they had ten times those numbers, wielding spears. If he could just get a little distance, get over the wall, and retreat into the shadows, he would be safe. So Arn ran, through the kitchen doors to the outside yard behind the mansion, past stables and other buildings, and into the wild gardens that lay between the main structures and the outer wall. Around him, the hounds closed in.
“We got him cornered!”
“No way out! Everyone, get here!”
“Spread out, don’t let him get past you!”
Sprinting at full speed, Arn called on his rune of force and leapt up the wall. Pain wracked his body at being taxed yet again; he was making greater demands on his magic than it could sustain. He barely managed to reach the top with his hands and slowly pull himself over, his arms bursting from the tension.
“He’s getting away!”
“Fetch the horses! Now, now!”
Letting himself fall down on the other side, Arn glanced around. He stood on a large, open street with only other walled mansions around. No small alleys or such shadowed places to hide in, assuming his runes still obeyed him. As if the Aquilan goddess herself disagreed with his actions on this night, the moon suddenly seemed to shine stronger, dispelling any darkness nearby. With a silent curse he could not utter, Arn began to run down the street.
Behind him, he heard the sound of hoofbeats against paved road. His breathing came in ragged fashion, his feet hurt from getting down the wall, and his legs burned like the wound on his chest. If he could get to the ludus, nobody would think to search for him there. Just a few miles.
Glancing over his shoulder, Arn realised he would not get that far. Several riders came galloping against him. The wide streets afforded no place to hide nor a direction where the mounts would be prevented from pursuit. Only the walls of other mansions lay ahead.
Through the fear that threatened to overtake him, clouding his mind, Arn recognised his surroundings. To the left lay the estate he had visited long ago, belonging to the magistrate who ran the games. To the right lay – possibly a place to hide.
Arn had no choice; his pursuers gained on him with every step. They would reach him within moments.
Calling on his rune of force yet again, ignoring the waves of pain it caused, Arn leapt up the wall that surrounded this particular building. As before, he only barely managed to grab onto the top, pulling himself over. This time, he fell with the same grace as an apple leaving a branch, and agony shot through his ankle upon impact with the ground.
Terrified, he wondered if it was broken. His hands against the wall, he pushed himself up to stand and tentatively placed weight on the injured limb. It hurt, and the ankle protested against being used, but no sharp pain that usually accompanied a break. A sprain, perhaps, but he could walk. Looking around, Arn realised he was in an orchard; besides the trees, he could smell the scent of fruit. No doubt his presence here would anger Luna, but the goddess already seemed set against him, so he would risk her wrath. Catching his breath, Arn looked towards the buildings inside the compound; tonight, the Maidens of the Moon would have an unbidden guest in their convent.
