The tension of the crowd was understandable. Sweat was visible on a lot of the faces of the audience. It felt like their lives were threatened by his presence. Badeur Smith stepped fully into the light of the arena. His dark skin gleamed under the pale winter sun. His black trimmed hair was close-cropped and neat. His muscled body moved with the quiet certainty of a man who had never doubted his strength. He wore grey pants tucked into black polished shoes that caught faint reflections from the sand. Over it all hung a white robe that gave off the feeling that he was a priest who had come to save souls. In the middle of the robe lay a white dove facing toward the ground, embroidered in fine silver thread. The garment hung loose yet somehow accentuated the breadth of his shoulders and the power in his arms.

  He stood in position, facing Gerik. He smiled.

  "Accept the Lord into your life and you shall be saved."

  Gerik readied his weapon. The longsword came free of its scabbard with a soft rasp. He held it low and loose in both hands, feet planted wide, weight balanced forward. His broken rib from the Mikos fight still ached with every deep breath, but he pushed the pain aside. Eyes locked on Badeur.

  The announcer climbed the platform again, voice booming through the horn.

  "From Thornvale, the Huntsman who felled the Beloved, Gerik Grimholt!"

  The crowd regained their vigour. Cheers rose sharp and ragged, mixed with stomps and whistles. The Huntsman moniker had taken root. They remembered the blood on Mikos's face.

  "And his opponent, the enigmatic foreigner whose path has been unchallenged, Badeur Smith!"

  The cheer grew even louder. Some spectators pounded the railings. Others leaned forward, eyes wide. Details on Badeur's abilities had remained hidden because his last opponent had not shown up. Many thought he had something to do with it, whispers of threats or worse circulating in the taverns. Badeur did not care what others thought. He stood serene, hands loose at his sides.

  The bell rang.

  The fight began.

  Gerik bent and picked up a small pebble from the arena floor. He tested his arm strength with a casual flick. The rock flew at full speed toward Badeur's face. It sliced his cheek open in a thin red line. Blood welled immediately.

  The roars got louder.

  Gerik waited, expecting some sort of reaction. Badeur reached up with calm fingers, drew a white handkerchief from inside his robe, and dabbed at the cut. While his attention was diverted, his other hand slipped into his pocket. Gerik lunged. The longsword came down in a slicing motion, aimed to open Badeur from shoulder to hip.

  Something weird happened.

  The blade met resistance as though it had struck polished stone. No give. No tear of flesh. The edge skidded harmlessly across Badeur's robe and skin beneath. Not a scratch appeared.

  The audience were in awe. The noise was off the charts. They wondered what might be his ability. Some shouted it was metal skin. Others claimed he performed sacrificial magic to some mysterious being. Gerik leapt a few distances back, sword still raised.

  "Your blade cannot harm me," Badeur said. "But if you quit now, I will show you the mercy of the Lord."

  Gerik increased his speed. He circled fast, boots kicking up dust, then appeared at Badeur's back. The longsword flashed toward the exposed neck.

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  "Thou shalt not harm thy neighbor."

  Gerik's grip loosened. His fingers opened against his will. The sword fell to the dirt with a dull thud.

  "What?" Gerik was shocked.

  In the stands the young man with the star tattoo smirked. "It seems like Badeur isn't your everyday mage. He has an interesting ability."

  A spectator beside him leaned closer. "Interesting, how do you mean?"

  "Watch and see."

  On the battlefield Gerik recovered from the shock. He snatched up his sword and retreated, giving himself several paces of distance between him and Badeur.

  Badeur smiled. A devilish smile. Then he spoke in a low voice.

  "Thou shalt lose to the elements."

  Gerik's reinforced leather vest caught fire. Flames licked up the seams in hungry orange tongues. With speed and years of experience Gerik tore the burning armor free, ripping laces and straps in frantic pulls. He tossed it aside. It smoldered on the dirt. Now he stood unprotected, tunic clinging to sweat-slick skin, bruises from earlier fights dark against his flesh.

  "Thy blade shall become thy burden."

  The longsword plunged into the ground as though driven by an invisible hammer. The hilt refused to leave the earth no matter how hard Gerik pulled.

  Gerik was not impressed. He charged without a weapon. He grabbed Badeur by the collar. The move even surprised Gerik. Badeur's gaze met his. Calm. Unblinking. Then Badeur punched Gerik in the mouth. The blow split his lip. A second punch drove into his gut. Air rushed out of Gerik in a sharp grunt.

  As Gerik reared back to return the favor,

  "Thou injuries shalt worsen twofold."

  Gerik's wounds from the two punches worsened. The cut on his lip extended upward to his cheek in a fresh tear. Blood flowed freely. Inside, something shifted. Pain bloomed deep in his abdomen from the gut punch, far more than the force should have caused. Internal bleeding. He staggered back.

  "That will need a healer's touch," he thought.

  Gerik quickly ran back and picked up his sword. The blade came free now, the effect faded. He thought fast.

  "It seems like he can manipulate things with speech alone. But it does not last. Judging from how I lost my sword till now, it loses effect in two minutes. But I don't think injuries inflicted heal."

  Badeur smiled wider.

  "I see you won't be easy to beat. But I have important matters to attend to and alas, I must end this swift."

  "Thy heart shalt..."

  Gerik moved like a demon. He closed the distance in three strides. His left hand clamped over Badeur's mouth. He slammed the man to the ground.

  "Boom!"

  The impact shook the dirt. The crowd yelled.

  "He did it!"

  "He won!"

  Gerik moved back, staring at Badeur. The man lay on the ground facing upward, eyes dull toward the sky. Then Badeur stood quickly. He dusted his robe with calm hands. Composure unbroken.

  "Thou shalt bow and speaketh surrender."

  Gerik forced himself to ignore the command. But Badeur's word was law. And Gerik was not above the law. His weapon plunged into the ground again as though gravity had increased tenfold. Pressure crushed down on the hilt. Gerik struggled. His first knee began to buckle. His teeth showed in a grimace. He exerted every ounce of will to resist. Veins stood out on his neck and forearms. Sweat poured down his face. It was taking everything he had to keep from kneeling.

  The crowd held its breath.

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