It was the Typhonian way.

The Master of Ceremonies drifted closer to begin the ritual inspections, his waddling steps made dainty by the suspensor spells that let him carry his weight easily. He smelled of money and blood and sweat.

The handlers forced Ulrik to his knees in the prescribed fashion, holding him there in the dust before the Master of Ceremonies. He did not fight them. He would need all his strength for the combat to come. The Master of Ceremonies’ flabby hands touched his face. Enchantments flowed from his rings, deactivating the slavestone so that all suspicion of interference might be removed from the fight.

The shackles fell away.

Moth stepped forward and presented the Master of Ceremonies with the elemental blade. He inspected it, sliding it from the scabbard. Runes glowed along the crystal, lit by sparks of the universal fire. The fat man nodded and raised his hand. The crowd shouted with pleasure, knowing they were going to see something special, when fighters clashed with magical weapons.

The blade was placed in the dust three paces in front of Ulrik. The handlers held him in position as the Master of Ceremonies waddled over to where Lem stood.

He had his first good view of his opponent now. Lem was even bigger than Ulrik. His upper body had the inverted pyramid shape of one augmented by muscle grafts. His hair was dyed black. His skin was marked by the black patches of dermal armour grafted to flesh. A bronze demon mask covered his face. He fell to one knee before the Master of Ceremonies before he could be forced down, making it a grand gesture, a courtier presenting himself to a king. The crowd murmured their approval. From the red section came some hissing and some jeers but it was subdued. Even the people who were supposed to be on Ulrik’s side were impressed.

Ulrik caught sight of the wizard Valerius and his cat-girl. They were seated in the front row elevated booths reserved for the wealthiest and most well-born. The cat-girl gave him a wink. A gasp from Moth brought Ulrik’s attention back to Lem’s sword which the Master of Ceremonies held before him, holding it at arm’s length, between two fingers, as if afraid of being contaminated by holding it closer.

Dread kicked Ulrik in the pit of the stomach. The sword was of black steel. Red runes glowed along its length. It was a thing of dark legend, a demon weapon, a soul-eater.