Free Tides of Faith: Travail of The Dark Mage Book Two by Brian S. Pratt

of the Cystak!”
    From across the way, the Empire
contingent of onlookers exploded in a rowdy hurrah, though less
intense than what Tinok had received.
    Aknor stepped forward two steps, drew
his sword and emitted a guttural cry. His gaze settled upon Tinok,
sword lowering until its point was directed at the smaller man
standing across the pit. There was sheer malevolence in the look
the two men exchanged.
    James leaned closer to Jiron as he
asked, “Think Tinok can take him?” Long ago, James had come to the
realization that it was more than size and strength that allowed
combatants to prevail.
    Jiron nodded. “Of course. And with
this Aknor being from the Empire, Tinok will rip him to shreds. His
death will not be quick.”
    The prospect of blood
didn’t sit well with him and James looked out over the pit wishing
he could be anywhere else. Seeing the hungry expressions of those
round him, he almost expected them to begin chanting, “Two men enter, one man leaves.”
    Below, the herald raised his hands
again for quiet. Once the murmuring subsided to a tolerable level,
the hands were lowered. He then motioned to the pair of
halberd-bearers that had accompanied each combatant to depart. Each
pair turned about smartly and left the pit.
    After they left, the herald turned his
attention to the onlookers. “No quarter shall be given. Last man
standing will be the victor. Anyone interfering with the match will
be dealt with harshly.”
    At that, the crowd off to James’ right
parted and a man stepped forward. Just under six feet in height and
dressed all in black, the man strode to the railing. His head roved
back and forth. When it turned James’ way, it was revealed the man
wore a black metal mask that concealed everything from the nose
up.
    “Ti-ke-Orgatha!” he shouted while at the same time throwing his
right hand outward. Above the pit, a fireball exploded in a
spectacular flash of light and sound.
    The crowd ooh’d and ah’d. James on the
other hand recognized the man as the “Dark Mage” doppelganger Scar
and Potbelly trotted out to increase the notoriety of the Pits. He
was also quick to realize that what he had just witnessed held
nothing magical. Not only had the tingling sensation that
accompanied active magic not been present, but the air filled with
the unmistakable odor of sulfur. He couldn’t help but grin. The man
was definitely a fake.
    Below in the Pits, the man waved the
two combatants to approach. When they came within ten feet of each
other, the man signaled for them to stop. A few words were then
spoken in a hushed voice to the combatants.
    “He’s asking who to notify in the
event of their death,” Jiron explained. “It’s a mere formality, a
holdover from the previous Master of the Pit. There was a time when
unknown challengers would appear, but Scar and Potbelly did away
with that. They want to know who it is their people
face.”
    James nodded. “Sensible.”
    “I suppose.”
    The sound of steel being drawn from
scabbards silenced every voice. The herald took two steps forward
and gazed up to a scantily clad beauty at the railing. Her position
placed her between Tinok and Akron.
    “When the ‘kerchief strikes the sand,
the combat will begin.”
    As he began returning to the exit
beneath where James and Jiron stood, the woman held aloft a bright
yellow scarf.
    “She works here.” Jiron chuckled.
“Scar thought beauty went well with mayhem.”
    James cast his gaze to those
encircling the pit. Every eye was fixed on the scarf. Below, the
two combatants faced each other, their eyes locked in the
beginnings of a contest of wills, each trying to break the other’s
spirit by sheer force of their presence.
    The ‘kerchief was let go. Billowing
out, it began its slow, almost lethargic descent. As it came near
the ground, the anticipation in the air was so thick, one could
practically cut it with a knife.
    Jiron nudged James in the side.
“Tinok’s right foot,” he whispered.
    Taking