Calix let go of the spear.
He came in empty-handed, faster than the fist, and put both palms flat on Brakka's chest, right on the plates of grey hide.
The plates went hard.
A grey shine ran out from Calix's hands across that whole huge body, down the arms, into the joints. Brakka's fist stopped a finger's width from Calix's ear. It stopped because his elbow wouldn't bend any more.
Brakka tried to move. Nothing moved. He was kneeling in the middle of the arena like a statue of himself, with his mouth open and his own skin holding him in place.
Calix bent down and picked up his spear. He put the tip of it, very gently, under Brakka's chin.
"Do you yield?" he said. He had to say it quite loudly, because there were sixty thousand people screaming.
Brakka's eyes moved. Only his eyes. They went down to the spear, and up to Calix's face.
He blinked twice.
Calix let go of his skin. Brakka sagged forward onto his hands, gasping, and Calix held out an arm and helped him up.
