The Ultimate Dragon Fighting Championship

by John P. Logsdon

  “Two years ago, my queen.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” She was clearly searching for options at this point. “Your wife, maybe?”

  “I remain single, your eminence.”

  “Excellent,” she said with hungry eyes. Then she glanced away. “Uh, I mean that saves me from the obvious follow-up question about children.”

  “None of those either, I’m afraid.” He then frowned and chewed his lip. “I don’t think so, anyway.”

  Zel was not the kind of fellow who would do anything untoward, but in his younger years he partook in drink and played the field some. That is until he’d joined the ranks of the military. From that point forward, his was a straight-laced life.

  “Right. May I ask the nature of your request, Sir Riddenhaur?”

  “I’ve a friend in need, my lady. He is the one who aided me when I had been changed during the battle where we helped the elves fight against Ikas.”

  “Whizzfiddle?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Hmmm.” She sat a little taller. “What does he require?”

  “I know none of the details as yet, my lady,” Zel replied apologetically. “I know only that he has requested my aid, and my honor obligates me to assist.”

  “Of course, of course. How long will you be gone?”

  “Five days at most, my lady.”

  She nodded as she glanced over a booklet that was on a stand next to her throne. Her quill moved rapidly for a few moments.

  “Travel well, Sir Zelbaldian. May your steed be swift and your sword be straight.” She then blanched. “I didn’t mean for that to sound like innuendo.”

  “Oh, no, of course not, my lady.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to think that I…”

  “I would never think such a thing, my queen.”

  She frowned at him. “Why not?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I am a lady, you know? Flesh and bones.” She looked somewhat miffed. “I’m the queen, yes, but I’m also a woman with desires just like any other woman.”

  “I…”

  It was clear that she’d just recognized her admission, because her skin went from white to nearly pure red. Her eyes darted about as well. Zel assumed she was checking the faces of those in chambers. Nobody was looking in her direction, which was wise, even if they did find what she’d said odd.

  “Uh,” Zel said, breaking the silence, “I was hoping I could use the portal system because I’m supposed to meet Master Whizzfiddle near Kesper’s this very evening...erm, my lady.”

  “Yes, fine,” she said with haste. “Just tell the guards I’ve approved it.”

  Zel pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to her. “They require written authorization, my lady.”

  “Since when?” she said, studying the parchment.

  “Remember when we had a bunch of dark halflings running through the town going door to door selling boxes of chocolates?”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied with a nod. “They were pretending to be school children who were raising money for new orchestra equipment.”

  “Correct, my lady. That’s when you closed down the portal and required a signed letter from yourself for any travel to and fro.”

  She nodded and dipped the quill in ink.

  “I shall make this a roundtrip ticket for you then, Sir Zelbaldian.”

  “My humblest thanks, my lady.”

  “And let’s just forget about those things I said earlier.” She handed him back the slip of paper. “That goes for everyone in here.”

  Bekner Diamondcrusher stood in front of key members of his clan.

  Ever since he’d fulfilled the prophecy of being the one dwarf who could break through the diamond wall known as “The Glittering Fortress,” he had been their king. To be fair, Bekner had been quite a bit taller on the day that he’d broken through that wall. This was because of the spell that was placed on him by the wizard known as Peapod Pecklesworthy. Instead of being a normal-sized dwarf, Bekner was made enormous. If it hadn’t been for the help of Master Wizard Xebdigon Whizzfiddle, Bekner would never had regained his dwarfish height.

  Now the wizard was asking for help from him, and a dwarf never turned his back on a friend in need.

  “Listen up, ye mangy bunch of mongrels,” he yelled out, silencing their yammering. “I’m leaving on a trip and will be after being back in a few days.”

  “Where ye after goin’?” asked Ozzabo, who happened to be Bekner’s mother.

  “I’m gettin’ to that, Ma.”

  “Well, hurry about it. I’ve got a loaf of bread in the kiln.”

  “Right, well, ye all may remember that before I was yer king, I was just simple old Bekner Axehammer.”

  “I remember,” said his mother.

  Bekner sighed. “Well, of course ye’d remember, Ma. Yer still an Axehammer!”

  “Which ain’t much after bein’ fair, now is it?” she pointed out while giving him a glare. “Why’d ye get to be gettin’ a new name when yer poor ma is left after bein’ stuck with her old one?”

  “Do ye gotta do this now, Ma?” Bekner said in a pleading voice. “People are watchin’.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just yer ma. It’s not like I brought ye into this world or nothin’.”

  Bekner groaned. “Here we go.”

  “It’s not like I scraped and clawed in order to keep hot food in yer belly after yer father went and got himself killed at that brothel,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air.

  “He what?” said Bekner, not wanting to have heard what he thought he heard.

  Ozzabo coughed. “Uh, I mean in that huntin’ accident near the town of Brothwell.”

  “Never heard of no town named Broth—”

  “And it’s not like I was the one who got yer high school teacher to look the other way when yer grades was barely passin’.”

  “I thought I was after bein’ a straight-C student?” Bekner stated.

  “Ye wish.” Ozzabo crossed her arms and grimaced. “Anyhoo, just forget about your old ma. I’ll make do…somehow.”

  Why was it that his ma always waited for these gatherings to speak her mind? They had dinner together nearly every night and she never said anything, but once Bekner stood on the stage, she opened her yap and let it all out. It was downright embarrassing.

  “Oh, for the love of The Twelve,” Bekner bellowed. “Fine, as king of the Diamondcrusher Clan, I hereby dub me ma with the name of ‘Ozzabo Diamondcrusher.’” He gave her a stern look. “Are ye happy now?”

  “Least you could’ve done,” she replied evenly.

  “Right. Well, I’m after goin’ now.” He then pointed at the woman who ran the day-to-day operations for the clan. “Reebo, you’re in charge whilst I’m away.”

  “Why’s she get to be in charge?” Ozzabo complained. “She’s not a Diamondcrusher!”

  “Don’t push me, Ma!”

  Orophin Telemnar finished up his last appointment for the day. It was a bouffant hairdo for one of his oldest customers. Meaning that she was really old, not that she had been coming to him for a long time.

  He cleaned off his station and then checked his TalkyThingy for messages. He wasn’t supposed to have a TalkyThingy, and he had to keep it quiet, but since his foray into the Underworld during his quest of undoing, he had become somewhat technically savvy.

  There was a message from someone named Murray and it mentioned that Whizzfiddle needed help.

  “Galania,” Orophin said as he approached the owner of Salon DeHairdo, “I need a few days off.”

  “Sure, sweetie.” Galania raised her eyebrow. “New boyfriend?”

  “You know I only have eyes for one,” Orophin said wistfully.

  “Winchester Hargrath III,” said Galania while rolling her eyes. “I know. But you know that’s impossible. It’s been a long time, honey. Let him go already.”

  “I’m sure I will, but not just yet.”

  “Just remember that life is short.”


  “Not for us,” countered Orophin. “We’re elves, remember?”

  “True. Anyway, how long will you be gone?”

  “Just a few days, it seems. I’m helping out a friend in Kesper’s.”

  “Oooh!” Galania reached into her purse and pulled out some coins. “Can you pick me up a bottle of Kesper’s Red nail polish while you’re there? Nobody makes a red like they do!”

  Pep Talk

  Crazell had finally gotten some rest after bawling her eyes out. It was a solid nap, and she felt rather refreshed. No, she still wasn’t happy, but at least she wasn’t crying anymore.

  “Knock, knock,” bellowed Ricky Schmicky as he approached the mouth of her cave.

  “You know I don’t like anyone coming into my lair, Ricky,” said Crazell in a tired voice.

  Anyone else who approached would have been rather crispy by now, but she gave lenience to the Schmicky family since they’d been with her for years. In fact, she wouldn’t even have half the jewels she’d amassed if it weren’t for the Schmickys.

  “I know, I know,” said Ricky, tipping his hat. “But I’m a friend, yeah?”

  “What do you want, Ricky?”

  “I saw how down you were at training…” Ricky had taken his hat off now and was holding it respectfully. “Yeah, it’s my job to push you and all that, but I’m also here to give you an ear to chew on.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” she replied.

  “Aw, now, that’s not nice. I’m just doing my job, baby!”

  And he was. He was also profiting off everything that came from being her manager. T-shirt sales, hats, posters, and so on were all part of the shared revenue between Crazell and the Schmickys. It was fair, though she hated to admit that. Being a dragon caused an innate amount of greed. It couldn’t be helped.

  “I know you are,” Crazell replied with a sigh as she flicked a jewel casually. “It’s just not easy being me.”

  “You mean being revered and feared in the world of Dragon Martial Arts, having more money than most people could amass in ten lifetimes, and having a wonderful trainer and friend like good old Ricky Schmicky?”

  “Well, when you put it that way…”

  “Craz,” he said with passion, “you’re an inspiration to dragons everywhere. Knights dream about conquering you, orcs and ogres—the mean type—train for years to defeat you. You’re on top, baby!”

  “You don’t think I know this?”

  “Seems like you need reminding from time to time.”

  If she could do it all over again, she would have won a few bouts to build up her stash and then thrown a fight and retired in disgrace.

  She groaned at the thought because she knew damn well it wouldn’t have been possible for her to think that way back then. This was made obvious by the fact that she was still fighting now.

  Her perspective had changed quite a lot since she had matured to the point where she grasped her level of incredibleness. But when she started fighting, she was a nobody. She’d had to prove herself. Each win built her up, sure, but it only drove her to want more. At least until she started to understand that there were no real opponents out there. They were all piddly in comparison to her.

  She had nothing left to prove.

  But here she was, stuck going into the arena yet again.

  “What I want is to forget it, Ricky, not be reminded of it.”

  “Exactly, and…” Ricky frowned. “Huh?”

  “When this all started I had nothing. I was nothing.” She ran her talon over an emerald. “Your great-great-great-grandmother yanked me out of my cave, which contained little more than a handful of jewels at the time, mind you, and stuck me on this path. I’m grateful, sure, and everything you said is true, but while you’ve spent only a few tournaments with me, I’ve been doing this for a very long time.” She rolled over again. “I’m tired. I’m bored. The limelight isn’t fascinating for me anymore. I want to retire.”

  “And you can do just that, right after this bout.” Ricky put his hand on his chest. “Cross my heart, Craz. Just win number twenty-five during UDFC-100 and you’ve made a legacy that can never be replaced.”

  Crazell snorted at him. “And that’s when the real trouble starts.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because the moment I retire, the veil of protection comes off. I’ll no longer be covered under the UDFC "hands-off" rule.”

  “So?” Ricky looked quite perplexed.

  “So don’t you think that every single knight, orc, ogre, gnome, wizard, and anyone else who wants a chance at glory is going to want to challenge me?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Good point.”

  “I’ll never get any rest,” she said, slamming her tail against the back wall with a snap. “Never!”

  The thwack reverberated through the cave, silencing almost as quickly as it sounded. The only sound remaining was of Crazell’s gentle sobs.

  Ricky walked up on the jewels and put a comforting hand on her wing. If anyone else had done this, Crazell would have snapped him in two, but Ricky—faults and all—was an actual friend.

  “Honestly hadn’t thought about that,” he said gently. “I mean, I knew, I guess. You had mentioned it before.” He cleared his throat. “But maybe I just didn’t want to know, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know, Ricky. I know.”

  Production

  Corg Sawsblade was working with the Fate named Aniok on filming and post-production.

  There was always a lot going on for a perfectionist like Corg. People just didn’t seem to understand that, but the “it’s good enough” mentality didn’t sit well with the dwarf. He had a reputation to uphold. Though there was that one shoot for Barn Hunters that he would like to forget, and he hoped everyone else would as well.

  Aniok had started out being nearly as useless as everyone else that Corg had worked with in the past. Fortunately, the Fate was a quick learner. Once he’d let down his “I’m more powerful than you” attitude, they built a fine working relationship. If Corg were being honest, though, he’d admit that it was strange being the boss of a Fate. However, it would look great on his resume.

  “Ani,” said Corg, using the nickname he’d given Aniok, “we’re after needin’ somethin’.”

  Aniok looked back at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Some pop,” replied Corg in animated fashion. “Some zing. And this last bit needs to have pizza!”

  “I think you mean pizzazz.”

  “Aye.” His belly grumbled. “I could use some pizza, though.”

  “What did you have in mind?” asked Aniok, giving Corg a studious stare.

  Corg shrugged. “I dunno. Pepperoni sounds good.”

  “No, I mean what did you want to do with the last episode to make it different?”

  “Ah, right.”

  Corg thought about that for a moment. The truth was that he didn’t have a lot of ideas on the subject. This was mostly because Gungren wasn’t exactly superstar material. If Corg had been working with a leading man or a leading lady, this would have been simple. Alas, that wasn’t going to happen.

  He set his chin in his hand and studied the screen for a moment.

  They’d already done the majority of post-production work on the first two episodes of Unreal Makeover: Gift of the Fates, but now they were putting together film for episode three and it was moving slowly.

  Seeing as how the first two quests also lacked excitement out of the gate, Corg wasn’t too worried about it. He was certain that things would pick up, but he still had to plan ahead because this episode would be in post-production quickly.

  “Not sure,” he said, musing. “We’ve got a dumpy little guy getting his body all fixed up by you lot, and that’ll play well, but it won’t sell beyond that. There were some excitin’ bits in the first two quests, too, I suppose.” He then shook his head at the UDFC arena that was on the screen. “This last one, though, is gonna either be great or terrible. I doubt the lad wil
l be after lastin’ more than a minute in the UDFC. So what can we do to build tension?”

  “We could point out that he won’t last a minute in the UDFC?”

  “Aye,” agreed Corg, “but how do we go about sayin’ it?”

  Misty must have overheard their conversation because she lifted her head from her work.

  “Have you ever seen the movie Pebbly?”

  Corg glanced at her sideways. “Ye mean the one about the gnome who wanted to be a boxer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was a good flick. Tugged at me heartstrings, it did.”

  “So why not do something similar with Gungren?” she asked.

  Corg didn’t reply. He just squinted at her questioningly.

  “Based on the information I’m seeing from watching Whizzfiddle’s actions,” Misty explained, “it looks like Gungren is going to get some training.”

  “Right.”

  “So remember when Pebbly was preparing for her fight?” Misty started jabbing at the air. “She was shadowboxing, running, doing pushups and sit ups, and sweating it out while training for her big bout.” Misty’s face was glowing, and the memory made Corg think that his may have been too. “There was music and everything.”

  “Aye, there was.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “So yer after saying that Gungren should get a theme song?”

  “You got it.”

  He imagined the parts of the show where Gungren was preparing for the fight. Having a theme song playing during his training would definitely bring things to life.

  “It’s brilliant, lass.” Then, since he was trying to include Aniok more often in these decisions, he asked, “Whaddya think, Ani?”

  “I’ve never seen this movie you’re talking about, but it’s hard to go wrong with a theme song.”

  “Aye! Let’s do it.”

  The Inn of Sargan

  The town at the base of Kesper’s Range was stunning.

  There were rows of shops, taverns, pubs, and houses all around the area. If you stood back just enough and the lighting was right, you’d swear you were looking at a painting. It was one of Whizzfiddle’s most favorite places in all of the Upperworld.