by Dante King
“Can you sort anything out?” I asked. “Maybe a glass barrier, the type that you get round an ice hockey rink? Except this one would need to be invulnerable to magical spells.”
Barry gave me the blank stare of someone who has absolutely no notion as to what someone else is talking about. Then he rallied and said, “I confess I know nothing of this ice hockey, but how will this suffice?”
Barry waved his spindly, ghostly arms in a wide circle. A sheet of shimmering, translucent magic, which ringed the entire audience grew slowly up from out of the floor. It was like watching ice melt in reverse. In about eight seconds, there was a protective barrier, stretching all the way up to the ceiling, cordoning off the audience from the fighting floor. It was remarkable magic, and I was pleased to note that the noise of the audience remained undimmed.
As a combatant, as a warrior, I thrived on a bit of atmosphere.
“Thanks, Barry,” I said.
The poltergeist swept off his plumed hat and bowed.
“A pleasure, captain!” he said. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must check on a few little last minute preparations.”
I couldn’t help but be grateful for Barry, and not for the first time in the last few days since he had taken up residence inside the dungeon. Having a poltergeist, especially one as skilled and experienced as Barry, would be a real asset to the fraternity as a whole. Our training would go along much more smoothly, not to mention more quickly, now. Barry would act as a guardian, and ensure that no uninvited monster burst out of the magical world and into our basement, as they had done on numerous occasions before.
“Hey, Mauler!” someone yelled.
I looked up, my reverie broken by that delightful human skidmark, Qildro Feybreaker.
“What can I do for you, Feybreaker?” I asked with neighborly friendliness.
Qildro gestured around the underground cavern. The noise was ratcheting up now, as the last of the merrymakers from upstairs squeezed their way into the tightly packed crowd. Many were carrying goblets, bottles, tankards, skewers of meat, and burgers stuffed with slices of Bradley’s spit-roasted hippogriff leg.
“I’m very, ah, jealous of this bloody rathole that you call a dungeon, Mauler,” Qildro sneered sarcastically. Behind him, Ike guffawed like a good boy.
“And I’m jealous of people that don’t know you, Feybreaker,” I replied, smiling cheerily at the head douche.
“I don’t understand how you can live in a place like this. How you can train in a place that is just so embarrassingly basic,” the Dark Elf retorted.
I wanted to tell Qildro that this place was my home, that it was about twenty times better than spending the rest of my life in the dusty secondhand bookstore from which Enwyn had plucked me—though I did miss my uncle. I didn’t really think this was the time though.
I said, “Hm, yeah, well, I guess that does beg the question; why were you three trying to sneak into a frat party that you obviously think is going to be total shit?”
Qildro’s mouth worked. He looked at Dhor and Ike.
“It was, you know, to see how the other half lived,” Dhor said.
I snapped my fingers, chuckled, and nodded at the dwarf Earth Mage. “Nice save, Dhor. That was a good one!”
“We weren’t keen on actually attending your party!” Qildro scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh!”
“They do say that laughter is the best medicine,” I said, “which must be a comforting thought for you, as your face must be curing the world.”
There was a ripple of laughter at this, and I realized that many of the crowd were listening to this pre-fight exchange.
Qildro seemed to realize this too, because he blushed. His brows formed a deep V as he scowled at the gathered drunken spectators.
“Screw you, Mauler,” he hissed. “Are we going to do this thing, or are we going to stand around nattering all evening?”
“Hell no!” I said. “Let’s get this over and done with so that I can throw you three out on your faces, once I’ve used them to clean this dungeon floor.”
Qildro sneered again. He was really very good at sneering. His face took to it like a duck to water.
“How about a bet to make things interesting, huh?” he said. “Ten gold pieces?”
A murmur rose from the crowd. It was a lot of moolah to be wagering on a fight. It was certainly more money than I had. We’d discovered a small stash of coins elsewhere in the fraternity house, but all of that amounted to little more than 2 gold pieces. Still, when did not having enough money ever stop anyone from betting?
“I’m in,” I said, “if you’re happy to put your money where your mouth is.”
Qildro took out a purse and threw it into the center of the fighting floor. It landed with a heavy, satisfying clink of coins.
“‘Course I’m happy to put my money where my mouth is,” he said, loud enough so that most of the crowd could hear him. “I’ve got enough of the stuff.”
“Great,” I said, “because for my next trick I’m going to put my foot where your money is.”
The crowd roared and hooted its approval. The tension was thick in the air—as was the smell of The Lost Keys Tavern’s famous honeyed mead, a cask of which had been broached in a corner.
“Tough talk, Mauler,” Qildro said, “but where’s your coin, eh? You think that only one of us has got to show the ready money?”
I saw, then, what Qildro had done.
The sly asshole, I thought, vaguely impressed.
He had drawn me into the bet, knowing that I most likely didn’t have the cash on hand—or at all. Now, he was hoping that I would come up dry and embarrass myself, while giving him and his cronies the perfect excuse to wriggle out of a good old-fashioned square off.
A purse flew over my shoulder—it must have been tossed over the protective shield wall— and thudded down onto the dungeon floor.
I didn’t see who threw it, but I did see Qildro’s face momentarily drop. To his credit, he managed to hitch that supercilious look of derision back onto his face in no short order.
“What’s this?” he jeered. “Is your girlfriend bailing you out, Mauler?”
Ike and Dhor chuckled moronically.
I turned my head sideways and saw Cecilia Chillgrave motion to Barry and then slip through the magical barrier. She was no longer wearing her shoe-string bikini, which honestly was a little disappointing. Instead, she wore a rather fetching skin-tight ensemble that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.
The pale, blonde elf contemplated Qildro, Dhor, and Ike with such coolness that I was surprised they didn’t turn to ice where they stood.
“Bailing out?” she said disdainfully. “Hardly, Qildro, darling. This is our team’s collective money. One person shouldn’t be responsible for all three now, should they?” She looked hard at Dhor and Ike, who shifted uncomfortably.
“What’s a little gold between friends? Dhor and Ike are loyal,” Qildro said heatedly. He was almost shouting to be heard over the noise of the rowdy audience.
“Of course, darling of course,” Cecilia said, somehow managing to be soothing and disdainful at the same time. “And you can’t buy loyalty, can you?” She paused and raised a thoughtful finger to her lips. “Then again, I’m sure Arun Lightson probably thought the same thing. . .”
Ike colored, and Dhor shuffled his feet in his large square-toed boots.
Qildro colored and looked around. There were more than a few derisive whistles and drunken comments being slung in his direction. Everyone had seen Ar-undead tied up at the front porch. The poor bastard was a stark reminder of how quickly our exciting lives here at the Mazirian Academy, school for prospective War Mages, could fall apart.
Cecilia sighed, her chest rising and falling. The few men interspersed amongst the mostly female crowd sighed with her. There was something so regal, so commanding, so sexy about her. Outwardly, she was the very epitome of graceful femininity, but she was also as de
adly as a cobra with a hangover.
“Honestly, darling,” Cecilia said in a sorrowful tone that, although light, carried to every corner of the dungeon. “It’s dopey dull-wittedness like yours that makes me think how much better off Avalonia would be if the gene pool had a lifeguard looking after it.”
There was a chorus of appreciative jeers, some applause, and a great deal of laughter. The atmosphere was simmering up a storm now, but I didn’t want things to boil over just yet.
“All right, all right,” I said, striding forward and picking up the two purses. “Let’s leave the wagers with an impartial judge. How about…”
“How about me,” said Reginald Chaosbane from the edge of the crowd.
I had extended a party invitation to the Headmaster, but I hadn’t seen him arrive at the fraternity house. I couldn’t help but be glad to see him, if a little disappointed that I hadn’t gotten the chance quite yet to imbibe with him. Oh well, there would always be time after this little brawl was handled.
“As you say, Headmaster,” I said.
Chaosbane touched his fingers lightly to the forcefield that ringed the fighting floor and created a window in front of him. I tossed him the purses through the window, and he snatched them out of the air. He weighed them in his hand for a good few seconds. He muttered something to his cousin Igor beside him. I caught something about the purses containing almost exactly enough money to keep a man ticking along at the Nunnery for a good four days before he stowed them in his pocket.
“And you’ll be needing one more teammate, Mr. Mauler,” Chaosbane said as he closed the window in the forcefield.
From what I had seen of the state of my fraternity brothers, only Bradley was likely to be sober enough to fight, and he was presently in the kitchen, keeping the supply chain going. Janet was also in a rather drunken condition, as was Princess Alura. Neither of them seemed like they would do anything except trip over their own feet.
I was about to pluck a final team member at random from the crowd when a familiar voice asserted itself.
“And here I am,” Enwyn Emberskull said, stepping through the magical barrier, which gave way like a soap bubble around her, then sprang back into place.
I smiled as the Induction Officer of the Mazirian Academy padded toward me. She was wearing a leather jumpsuit, much like motorcycle leathers, unzipped at the neck. The snippet of red lace bra showing over the top of the zip got more than a few male—and a handful of female—necks craning in Enwyn’s direction. With her raven hair tied back in a tight ponytail and her black-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose, she looked like a spectacular cross between a secretary and Trinity from The Matrix.
Cecilia, Enwyn, and I all looked at each other. I grinned at the two women and gave them an appreciative nod.
“I’ll pay that loan back, Cecilia,” I muttered out of the side of my mouth to the elven Frost Mage.
“Loan?” Cecilia said, giving me a little smile in return. “Darling, that was no loan. That was an investment. I’ll be taking half the winnings when this is over.”
I laughed. “You did tell me that your father’s motto was that the only work that should be done in the Chillgrave family—”
“—should be done by the money, yes,” Cecilia finished. Her smile widened. “It’s not often that I agree with my father, but on this occasion, I believe he hit the nail on the head.”
“Which is, funnily enough, exactly what I plan on doing to these three penis noggins.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder at the opposing trio standing on the other side of the fighting floor.
Before things could dissolve once more into a slanging match, I motioned for Barry to get things underway. The poltergeist gave me a small bow and floated into the middle of the wide fighting floor. He cleared his throat once or twice, then pressed his fingers to the side of his spectral, be-ruffed neck. When he spoke, his piratical voice boomed out as if he had just grabbed hold of one of those mics that drop down from the ceiling in the middle of a boxing ring.
“Lovely ladies and lucky gentlemen!” Barry cried, his voice reverberating through the dungeon. “Thank you all for attending this evening's festivities! Before we begin, how about we raise a glass and a voice to our good hosts, Justin Mauler and his band o’ merry misfits!”
Barry Chillgrave might have been a dastardly old seadog, whose mind was so deep in the gutter that it was practically in the sewer, but he sure could capture a crowd. I supposed that it was a prerequisite of all captains.
A great cheer went up at his words. The approving roar made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My blood turned liquid adrenaline in anticipation of the combat to come.
The boozy cheering turned into a bout of foot-stamping and hand clapping, which Barry allowed to continue for a good thirty seconds. It turned the dungeon into a massive drum. The tension in the air grew, heightened into a frenzy.
“Aye,” Barry said. “Aye, I’m sure that every man jack of you here can agree that this is a party that ye’ll likely never forget!”
Another cheer went up.
“Now!” Barry boomed.
The noise of the crowd lowered from a full-throated roar to a burbling idle.
He continued, “We have here before us today two teams. On the far side of the dungeon are three challengers, fighting to gain admittance into this wee kegger pool party all of us here are enjoyin’! May I introduce, Qildro Lamemaker, Dhor Bouldertits, and Shite Frostfoot!”
There was a lot of laughing at that, as well as some polite cheering and many hearty boos.
“Hey, what the bloody hell, that ain’t my name!” Ike said. He paused and then glanced at his two companions who were looking furious. “Those ain’t your names neither!”
His protestation was lost in the noise, however.
“And on the other side of the fighting floor,” Barry continued, “we have our two lovely ladies; Cecilia Chillgrave and Enwyn Emberskull,” there was a veritable chorus of wolf-whistles then—and not just from the men, “and our one and only host, Justin Mauler!”
The dungeon rang with applause and adulation. For a guy who had spent most of his adult life at college or behind the desk of his uncle’s bookstore, it was heady stuff.
“Now, me hearties,” Barry continued, “it be a simple state of affairs this evenin’. We’ll be enjoyin’ a three-round Death Match. It won’t be best o’ three, it’ll be three no matter what—we didn’t all squash in here like a bunch o’ pickled sardines for only two rounds of mayhem now, did we?”
The crowd bellowed its collective agreement.
“So, combatants, if ye will do me the great honor of gettin’ yourselves ready…”
I touched my enchanted coat, and it became a white shirt. I went to roll up my sleeves, but they rolled up of their own accord. While white wasn’t exactly my choice of color for a death match, it’d certainly show off any blood I happened to acquire, whether my own or that of my opponents.
“I have the regeneration runes configured so that the teams will regenerate only once each round has been completely concluded!” Barry said. “That means that we have a last man, or woman, standing rule. This is a no holds barred contest. Any and all magic is allowed and,” Barry’s skeletal face lit up in a ghastly grin, “dirty and underhanded tactics are greatly encouraged!”
The volume of the crowd was building once again. I felt like I was trapped in a giant kettle, and the lid was rattling ominously.
Across from me, Qildro pulled a short baton out of his belt, which extended magically into a full-blown scythe. Dhor drew a lump hammer from a loop at his belt, while Ike stood behind the pair, hefting a large icepick.
“Now, before we get this tussle underway, allow me to say this,” Barry bellowed, and the dungeon rang with his voice. “We all of us came into whatever world we were born in, kicking and screaming and covered in someone else’s blood.” He paused. “And there ain’t no better way, in my mind, than goin’ out the exact same way!”
&n
bsp; Goddamn, you’re good, Barry! I thought as I summoned my black crystal staff into my hand.
Next to me, Enwyn patted the back pocket of her leather pants, where I knew she had her grimoire vector secreted. Cecilia had pulled her icicle necklace from around her neck and had breathed life into it, turning it into her formidable spear.
“Fight like the men and women you are!” Barry Chillgrave roared, holding his hands up high, “Or prepare to die like dogs!”
His hands dropped.
The crowd roared once more, then the fight was on.
The first round was a nervy affair—on behalf of Dhor, Ike, and Qildro that is. Clearly, the three members of Frat Douche, as the boys and I liked to call it, had been unprepared for the coming onslaught.
Barry had no sooner given the signal than I used Greater Flame Flight to propel myself and Enwyn into the air. I hadn’t told Enwyn of my intentions, but she was a sharp woman and went with it.
As I had predicted, all three of the Frat Douche boys’ eyes followed Enwyn and I as we soared into the air and flew toward them, wreathed in pale spectral flames. Just like when someone throws something to you and your automatic reaction is to catch it, so your eyeballs will follow a pair of flying mages of their own accord. Don’t ask me to explain it because I can’t.
While this was happening, Cecilia sprinted toward our stupefied enemy, a look of furious concentration on her face.
Surprisingly, Ike was the first to come to his senses. I could imagine one of his two brain cells elbowing the other and telling it to wake up. The Frost Elemental pointed his icepick toward us and opened his mouth.
“This is where you get off,” I said to Enwyn, and let go of her hand.
Torn between who he was going to hit, Ike’s Frost Drain spell fizzed between Enwyn and me and hit the dungeon ceiling.
As Enwyn dropped, I continued on my trajectory. I could feel my mana draining within myself, so I cut the flying spell and allowed momentum to bear me onward. As I flew through the air, I unleashed a Lightning Skink spell, as I knew that Qildro would be bound to summon some kind of entity, once he’d pulled his head out of his ass.
