When he arrived at Diago’s room during the second break, the room was full of people. The arbiter, Lau, the Ambassador, and a doctor who was examining Diago’s wounds.

“Congratulations,” said the Ambassador. “You won in an authentic d’Ornian way, with sheer ingenuity and spitting in the face of fanciness. Well done!”

“Fantastic fight!” exclaimed the spy. “I thought you were done for!”

“To be honest, I thought it too,” admitted Diago. “That level of fencing was… unexpected. You were right, Istainn; it was a trap. He was the best duelist I ever met. Truth is, I never liked the rapier very much, but he was a splendid fighter nevertheless. A pity I had to kill him… I could have spared him, but letting such an opponent live is inviting trouble later. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Can you fight on?” asked the arbiter.

Diago raised his shoulders.

“I have too. I’ll choose some one-handed weapon and use my left arm.”

“He had lost a lot of blood,” said the doctor. “You might faint if you go back now. I need at least half an hour to stitch the wounds properly. I suggest you abandon.”

“Never!” refused Diago.

“Lau can fight in your place for next round,” proposed the archer. “I do good with sabers or dao.”

“What’s a dao?” asked Diago.

“This is a dao,” pointed Lau to a weapon.

“Ah, a falchion! I don’t know what to say… the few times when we spared in the Forest, you showed skill, that’s true. Are you sure?”

“Sure!” affirmed Lau.

“Then thank you, my friend. Try not to get killed. If you are in danger, just jump over the fence, it’s considered a surrender, and you’ll be safe.”

“I’ll be safe when I reach home and civilization,” replied the archer. “Where justice is dispensed by the brain, not by violence. But worry do not, I’ll be fine.”

“So, Mister Lau, what will it be?” asked the arbiter. “Falchion or saber?”

“Saber,” chose Lau.

“I have to go back,” said the Ambassador, patting the spy on the back and winking. “There are quite a lot of youngsters in my lodge who are sweetly eyeing the ladies, and we don’t want them to do that, am I right?”

“Errr….” tried to reply the spy, totally surprised, but the politician had already left.

When the spy managed to get back near the ring, Lau and the next adversary were already there.

“Who is he?” resounded the major-domo’s voice. “Where is Diago Guerrefido?”

Lau replied instantly.

“Tell your master, King Moron the Last, that in Lau’s country, rulers are intelligent enough to speak for themselves. I’m Diago’s friend; that’s all you need to know.”

A roll of laughter covered the stalls.

Good boy, Lau! the spy thought.

And the fight began. The third adversary, whose name Istaìnn had already forgotten, was a real d’Ornian this time. A tall guy with a long reach and good technique, but Lau was more skilled. Yet, every time he tried to cut the other, the opponent’s reach impeached him. The fight dragged on and on, for almost fifteen minutes, an incredible length for a duel. Lau looked like he had lost his stamina at some point; his attacks and parries were much slower.

What is he doing? asked himself the spy. No way he’s tired. He’s strong as an ox; he carried me on his back for hours when I was hurt!

But Lau’s strategy and plan became evident soon. He had toyed with his adversary, prolonging the fight so Diago could recover. Now his opponent believed he was exhausted, while he was not. A lightning-fast counterattack made the adversary drop the saber. The d'Ornian was at his mercy. Putting his foot on the fallen weapon, Lau made an invitation to his adversary.

“This fight is over. Please abandon; your king is not worthy of sacrificing your life for him!”

The two looked in each-other eyes, then the d’Ornian bowed and jumped over the fence, conceding victory.

The applause and cheers in the arena were deafening.

Lau has a lot of charisma. I’d be not surprised if he’ll become a politician one day.

Returning to Diago’s room, he complimented the archer sincerely, but silently, by hugging him.

“Boss, you’re making me cry, please stop!” asked Lau, and it was not a joke; the archer had a few tears in his eyes.

Diago was already equipping his armor, helped by the Ambassador.

“Good job, Lau!” he said in his turn. “I will be in your debt!”

“Friends do not need to count debts,” answered the archer.

Something was bothering the spy. When the Ambassador and Lau left the room, he remained on.

“Diago, are you in shape to fight?” he asked.

“I’ve been worse,” his friend replied. “Why are you asking? Don’t you trust me?”

“It’s just… I do not think the king would have put his life on the line without an ace up his sleeve. Be careful.”

“Goodness, Istaìnn, you worry too much. The simplest explanation is always right, don’t you spies say that? He didn’t expect me to get through that Karul devil, that’s all. It’s an armored fight in an enclosed space. I will go to grappling distance and break his neck; it’s simple..”

“I don’t know, just be careful.”

“You sound exactly like my mother. She used to say that to me all the time.”

The spy remained silent because he didn’t know if it was a sensitive subject or not, but Diago saw his silent question and explained things himself.

“No, she’s not around anymore. Providence takes care of her soul; she and father drowned in a shipwreck when I was fifteen.”

“Well, she was right. You are a hot-head! If you are in trouble, look toward me and wink or something, I’ll try to help.”

“My friend, I’ll have the visor on; how do you expect to see if I blink? If I don’t kill him in the first minute, that would be plenty of a sign that something is wrong. Proceed accordingly, not that I think you can do much.”

The arbiter had arrived back, calling Diago to the ring.

“Let’s go; the clown is waiting!” said the man. “He looks quite confident; that’s strange.”

A much-beloved king, I see! thought the spy. Let’s hope he’ll become be a regretted king soon enough.

The way back to the ring was painfully crowded. The word about the four-pronged duel had spread into the city, and each round had attracted more spectators. When he arrived near the ring, the fight had already begun, and there was not a single place available in the first row. He gathered his courage and tapped a tall solid man on the shoulder.

“What?” asked the man abruptly, looking at him.

“My friend is the one fighting the king. Can you please give me your place? I need to cheer him up.”

His tone had been sincere, or maybe the other understood the value of friendship because he nodded and moved, taking a seat in the second row, just behind the spy, looking over his head.

Immediately, Istaìnn understood that things were not going the way they were supposed to go. Diago’s sword was in a low position, trailing its tip on the ground, and he was jumping all around.

“What’s happening?” he whispered to himself.

“He tried to grapple, and it went bad,” explained the solid man. “He must be hurt from the previous fight.”

The spy looked into the ring, searching Diago’s eyes. Despite Diago’s previous dismissive attitude, he saw him clearly blinking through the visor, and actually, he was winking like there was no tomorrow. His friend's eyes had in them something he didn’t think was possible: desperation and a cry for help. The latter made the spy gasp, and his heart started beating like mad.

He nodded toward Diago, gesturing with his eyes, shoulders, and hands, while forming words only with his lips, so his friend could understand them:

“What’s up?”

Diago nodded, and he jumped forward, trying to grapple the king. Suddenly he was thrown away like a rag doll, barely managing to land on his feet. The hair on the spy’s arms and head rose, his skin tingling. Something was very wrong. He could swear that the king had barely touched Diago. There was no way he could have thrown his friend away so easily. And as he shivered and tingled, he uttered a word without thinking.

“Clearsight!”

The light changed, and he saw things in a new, more straightforward way. Over the king’s armor, waves of greenish light were undulating, extending into the armor's inside, penetrating the king’s body like a net of filaments.

“What the bloody hell is that?”

It was the man behind him.

It looks like I can do magic when I’m under stress or when hostile magic is around. And my spells work for those around me too.

“Dark magic!” he hissed, turning toward the other. “The king is cheating. He has some magic shielding and a strength enhancer at the same time.”

“Curse him!”

Seeing the man’s angry reaction, he had an idea.

“Can you cover for me, so I’m not seen? I will try to dispel that damn thing!”

The man nodded and made a sign. In a second, four more solid men arrived and just shoved off the persons to the spy's left and right and the left and right of him. Now, Istaìnn was cocooned in a human shield.

“Thanks!” he whispered and turned his attention to the ring.

There, Diago was trying to keep his distance.

Discreetly, he pulled out his automatic crossbow from its sheath and activated the loading mechanism. A small bolt, more like a thick needle, lodged itself to the groove. Now, all that he needed was a spell. He frantically searched his memory for every book or story he had ever read. Purgation had a bad connotation, and a king emptying his bowels in his armor but still able to fight was not the best solution. So he tried to keep it simple.

Dispell, he thought, and he whispered the word to the bolt.

He fired. The bolt went true and through the magic field, hitting the back of the king’s helmet. The green force field vanished, and the king raised his hand to the helmet, confused.

“Go, Diago, GO!” he shouted.

Diago grabbed his sword by the blade with both hands, raised it over his head, and hit the king’s helmet with all his force, using the guard like a hammer. A murder-stroke.

Istaìnn didn’t even look. The noise of the hit and the noise of the armor hitting the planks were enough proof. The king’s head was now a pulp of brain, blood, bones, and metal. He rose when the applause and the cheers were still going on, intending to reach his friend’s room before the crowd began to get out. A hand grabbed his arm.

“A moment, please!”

It was that solid man again. He looked into the spy eyes, scrutinizing him.

“My name, or rather nickname, is Johnnatan Malus. I’m ruling the biggest smuggler group in this neighborhood. And you are?”

An interloper. A useful contact.

“Istainn Quevedo, a spy from Ohst,” he took the path of sincerity. “I’m in your debt if you ever need a service. Ask anyone in any restaurant in Ohst for me.”

“Until the pleasure to see you again!” nodded the man, releasing his arm.

He nodded back and hurried on his way.