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The Bloodied Eagle The guards removed the golden chains from his wrists and gave him a push in the back, sending him through the open portcullis. Going from the dark tunnel into the daylight nearly blinded him, and deafening roars hurt his ears. Despite having only a stump left for a tongue, he could still taste the vile concoction they had forced down his throat; the effect left him dazed, and the sharp sunlight and clamour of the crowd did not help with his confusion.

Something hit his lower leg, and he looked down to see a short blade had been tossed at him. With a loud noise, the portcullis slammed down, leaving him trapped outside. He had the wherewithal to bend down and pick up the sword, his fingers feeling the sand on the ground before clasping the hilt. He had no armour to match, just the rags of his tunic, through which his dyed skin could be seen; runes filled his limbs and torso, and a great eagle spread its wings across his back.

Staring at the weapon in his hand, his burdened mind slowly made the connections. This was a gladius, the short sword used by Aquilan legionaries. He stood on sand. Around him, he heard the shouting of people, though he could not tell the words apart. He struggled his way to understanding through the fog induced by the potion fed to him; he was in the grand arena of Aquila. Judging by the state his jailers had left him in, he was not here to fight, but to die. He would not give them the satisfaction so easily.

He was a skáld, trained as a spellblade. These southern bastards might have stolen his tongue and much of his magic with it, but with a blade and the spells he could wield through the steel, he remained more dangerous than most. Through the haze that dulled his senses, he saw other people issuing from different tunnels into the arena. He wondered whether he was meant to fight them; if so, he favoured his own chances. They moved in a panic, some of them not even taking note of the weapons thrown at their feet.

A roar, this time coming from an animal, cut through the noise of the crowd, and he realised that the other people in the arena were not his opponents, but fellow sacrifices. He swung around to face the outer edge of the arena while stepping backwards. A beast with yellow hide bared its fangs at him. He had never seen this creature before, but he remembered hearing descriptions. A lion. Judging by panicked screams from elsewhere in the arena, more than one. He kept his head cool and positioned his feet.

The short blade in his hand put him at a disadvantage when it came to reach, but with magical speed, he could overcome that. He mentally prepared to activate his minor rune of swiftness, inked on his skin – and felt nothing. No connection, no tingling sensation, no energy ready to be unleashed. It took him a moment to understand. The elixir they had force-fed him; not only did it blunt his senses and mind, but it also crushed his spellcraft.

He had never heard of such alchemy that could in this manner cripple a man's gift. It was not enough that they cut out his tongue, depriving him of his song, whether mundane or magic. They wanted him reduced to a shell, impotent in his last moments. He ran his thumb against the edge of the blade given to him, pressing his flesh against the metal. Nothing. The sword was duller than his senses.

It had not been provided to him that he might defend himself, but only so that he would provide better sport for the spectators to watch. Looking up, he saw four hundred pounds of muscle barrelling straight for him. Seeing no better way, the Tyrian bard released a dissonant scream from his mutilated mouth and leapt forward, aiming to stab the tip of his sword into the eye of the beast. Around him, his fellow prisoners died accompanied by horrified sounds of flesh ripping and terrible agony.

* One after the other, the bodies were carried from the bloodied sands back into the tunnels and piled up before a furnace. The crowd had long since gone; it was night, and nobody remained in the arena beside those working to prepare it for the next spectacle. With one exception. A woman with a dark cloak covering a colourful robe entered the room filled with corpses, resembling a butcher's shop. The smell of blood and human filth overpowered any other odour in the air, but the visitor did not seem bothered.

She pulled down her hood and began examining the bodies. The two workers hauling the dead did not interfere or speak with the robed woman, whose clothing proclaimed her a mage; on the contrary, while they continued their labour, they made sure to stay out of her way and stack the corpses elsewhere in the room. A soft groan caught the attention of the wizard, who whipped her head around. Stepping over a few bodies, she reached the skáld and grabbed his chin in a strong grip, causing him to emit another pained moan.

"This one is still alive," she remarked in a flat tone while looking up at the labourers.

"Apologies, mistress!" exclaimed one of them, and he quickly looked around until he caught sight of a saw, which he picked up.

"I'll quickly handle that!"

"Quiet." The short command was enough to arrest the worker's movement while the mage continued her examination.

"He must be hardy to have survived such a mauling." She looked down at his limbs, where claws had torn through both fabric and flesh. Her gaze turned from his hair, blond beneath the dirt, to the runes marked on his skin, now ruined by deep wounds, before forcing one of his eyelids open to see the blue colour beneath. Only one orb retained that hue, though; on the other half of his face, a bloody wound ran from his brow down his cheek, having cut the eye open as well.

"A Tyrian. A berserker or skáld." If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"The latter, mistress," muttered one of the workers, the one not holding a saw. The mage raised her eyes to regard him coldly.

"Knowledgeable about Tyrian magic, are you?"

"They – they cut out his tongue, mistress. So he couldn't use his heathen songs on us." She forced his mouth open and stuck two fingers inside, digging around for a moment. Pulling out her hand, she placed the other on his forehead and closed her eyes briefly.

"A pity. They have all but destroyed his magic. He could have been of great use to me." Perhaps wisely, neither of the workers replied to this; they stood entirely still, making not a sound.

"But maybe that is still possible," she continued her musings.

"If he can survive this, who knows what else his will might drive him to do? If he could be made whole, especially if I help him along a little…" Silence followed for a while until she finally stood up. She took a purse from a pocket and emptied it on the same table where the workers kept their tools for dismembering bodies, making the pieces small enough to fit into the furnace.

"I will take him. Toss the rest of them." Both of them bowed their heads and muttered in agreement, eyeing the silver with greed. Swiftly, the mage strode out of the room; moments later, a brute of a man entered and picked up the Tyrian bard, still hanging onto life by a thin thread. As he left with the wizard's prize, the labourers divided the coins between them. * With a gasp for breath, consciousness forced itself upon him, and he woke up.

Looking around wildly without recognising his surroundings, he finally tried to move. The attempt alone sent tremors of pain through his body, and a groan escaped him. An old man with an unkempt, grey beard and no hair on his scalp entered his field of vision, bending over him.

"Your fever is broken – light of Luna, I didn't believe it could happen. And here I thought the master was a fool for wasting silver on you, not to mention my time." The skáld raised his right hand in front of his eyes, both unharmed, to see his arm bandaged up. He was lying on a slab in what looked like the room of a physician, using that term generously. Jars with medicine, presumably, lined the shelves on the wall ahead, and the tools of a surgeon for amputation lay on a small table.

His memory returned, albeit in fragments. Visions of travelling through forests intermingled with recollections of terrible pain, and he realised that the former had happened long ago, while the latter was a recent event. The physician had spoken in the Aquilan tongue, which was another clue. The arena. The lion, tearing him to shreds. His magic, all but gone, just like his tongue. His heart felt the need for lamentation, but he could not remember the right words, nor could he utter them.

He had no song, no magic, and no weapon. He was neither a skáld nor a spellblade except in memory. He should have died.

"I better fetch the master," the physician muttered and ambled away. * Left alone, the Tyrian wanted to jump up and run to make his escape, but it seemed optimistic to assume his legs could hold his weight. In addition, he would undoubtedly rip open all of his wounds; it felt like a miracle that he had not bled to death in the arena, and he should not spite the gods by forcing it to happen. In between the pain, he noticed something on his left arm.

Raising it with some difficulty, he saw a metal band upon it, above the elbow. It looked to be made of different strips of metal, hammered together to a single, smooth surface with the colours remaining separate. He moved his right hand over in an attempt to remove it and found that it resisted his efforts. While he might be weakened, he should still be able to pull an arm ring off, but it remained as if glued to his skin. It was some kind of magical trinket, though he could not guess its purpose.

At least it was not gold, suppressing his gift; he felt no burning sensation as he always did when touching that accursed metal. Unless of course his magic was permanently lost, and gold no longer had any effect on him. A horrifying thought. When he had been discovered to possess the gift as a small child, his parents had given him to the seiðr-wives, who had planted the seed of seiðr in the soil of his magic and awakened it. Had all his powers been destroyed, leaving him as feeble as any common man?

Closing his eyes, focusing until the pain became a distant drumming, he entered a trance to sense his magic. Deep within him, at the core of his being, the seed remained. The tree was burnt down, the roots hacked over, but an acorn remained; it could be regrown. That seemed the extent of the good news. The damage done to his body had destroyed the permanent runes on his limbs.

His reservoir of spellpower had been drained empty, silencing his bladesong – he could not cast any major runes or proper spells, or even the smallest magical effect. Together with the loss of his tongue, he had not the slightest bit of true power available to him. But all of this could be healed, in time. He would see himself restored in full, physically and magically. The seed remained; the tree could be regrown.

* The physician returned, along with a sinewy man, bald and cleanshaven, leaving no hair on his face except for his eyebrows. His clothing had at one time been expensive, but the colour looked faded.

"You, Tyrian. Do you understand me?" The northerner looked at him and made a throat sound.

"You are in a ludus, and I'm the lanista, Master Quintus Ignius." Seeing a lack of understanding, he added with a displeased expression, "I train gladiators." In a previous life, the skáld would have laughed. He had survived the arena only to be sent back in. In this life, he kept a blank demeanour. Ignius held out a hand, and a servant placed a wax tablet and stylus in it, which he extended towards the Tyrian.

"I need your name." The skáld stared at the items. Names held power, in more ways than one, and he would be damned if he revealed anything to these Aquilan dogs. He thought about the eagle tattooed on his back, declaring him a member of that tribe. That would serve as a name. He grabbed the stylus and shakingly scratched three letters in the Aquilan alphabet. Arn.

"Tell me when his condition is better," the master of the house commanded the physician, slamming the two halves of the tablet shut. He turned and left swiftly while the healer bowed and mumbled to himself. The newly named Arn leaned back on the slab. A smile spread across his face briefly before he extinguished it. He had been destined to die on the sands, and now he would stand upon them again.

It might seem a cruel jest played by fate, except he knew better; the gods had intervened, keeping him alive and providing him a path forward. If he were to regain his magic the natural way, it would take years and years, if possible at all. But should he turn to darker methods, it could be accomplished far more swiftly. Knowing this, the skáld looked forward to his return to the arena.

With each battle, with each kill caused by a blade in his hand, he would reclaim his powers, using death to feed the seed of magic lying dormant in him. And once he was ready, he would have revenge.