The Ultimate Dragon Fighting Championship

by John P. Logsdon

  “Honestly,” Willowy said with a hint of remorse, “he was much more with it before the brownies, but he was more relaxed on them.”

  “You have brownies?” asked Sonic hopefully.

  “Why not just order more?” Whizzfiddle suggested.

  “Already had a heck of an adventure getting them through customs the first time.” Willowy winced, obviously replaying a memory. “I’m not sure if you’ve ever had a full cavity search, but they’re not exactly what you’d call fun.”

  Whizzfiddle winced too, recalling his own memory of having gone through it during Gungren’s prince-retrieval quest.

  “In fact, I have, and I would agree with your assessment.” He glanced over at Sonic, feeling sorry that the elf had to deal with an aggravated dwarf. “I know a guy who knows a guy who can get you a regular shipment, if that would help?”

  Willowy’s face registered hope. “Honestly?”

  “Sure. They can ship through UUPS, and they never go through customs checks. Too many shipments and not enough customs agents.” The elderly wizard shrugged. “They simply scan each box to make sure there are no Underworlders trying to stow away for a trip to the Upperworld. As long as there are no insects or lifeforms detected, it gets past.”

  “Perfect!”

  “What’s perfect?” said Sonic, squinting in a way that only dwarves could. “And who is that you’re after talkin’ to, Willowy? Are ye doin’ crazy voices again for some story yer plannin’ to read?”

  “Again, it’s a customer, Sonic.”

  Whizzfiddle spoke up. “Would it help if I purchased something?”

  “It’d help me,” announced Sonic.

  “Is there something particular you’re looking for?” Willowy asked a moment later.

  “Me?” replied Sonic. “Not really. I suppose a nice single-story cottage, a tolerable wife, and a bushel full of diamonds would be nice, but that’s not going to happen, now is it?” He grunted and then breathed out heavily. “If I were being honest, I’d settle for a brownie.”

  “I was speaking to our customer, Sonic,” Willowy pointed out.

  Sonic stood up straight again. “We have a customer?”

  Endurance

  Gungren was running behind a small carriage that contained Zel and Bekner. He was doing all that he could to keep up with them, but he didn’t have the longest of legs. Plus, he was already tired from punching and wrestling.

  “You’ve got to put your back into it, Gungren,” Bekner yelled from his comfortable position.

  “I are trying,” Gungren replied, mostly under his breath.

  “Maybe we’re pushing him too hard?” said Zel.

  “He’s only after having a couple of days before he’s in the ring,” Bekner countered.

  Zel nodded as Gungren kept sticking one foot in front of the other.

  “True,” said the knight, “but if he’s too sore to fight, it won’t do him much good anyway.”

  “That’s why they invented ice baths.”

  “That’s true, but his battle skills are more important than his fitness level.” Zel motioned at Gungren. “He’ll never outrun anything, so it may be best to just keep teaching him the ropes as it relates to fighting.”

  “Aye,” Bekner said with a critical eye. “Ye may be right. All right, then.”

  He called out for the driver to stop so that Gungren could get in, but the little giant saw a small hill that looked similar to the one that the fighter in Pebbly climbed. He had never watched a full movie before, but Zel and Bekner thought it would be motivational for him, so he viewed the entire thing. He had to agree with their assessment, too. It did motivate him. In fact, there was one scene in the movie that he wanted to reenact right now.

  “One second.”

  He turned and ran up the embankment. It made his legs burn, but once he got to the top, he felt elated and accomplished. He started jumping around like he’d won the day.

  A few moments later, he looked down at Zel and Bekner, finding that they were gawking at him as though he had lost a couple of screws.

  “We’ll work on punches again,” Bekner announced after they got Gungren’s gloves back on.

  “I know how to punch already,” Gungren complained. “I been doing it all day.”

  “All right,” Bekner said with measured defiance, “let’s see it, then.”

  Gungren looked at his gloves. “What you mean?”

  “Punch me in the head.”

  “I not want to hurt you,” said Gungren while shaking his head.

  “You’ll not be after hurting me, Gungren. Dwarves have heads as strong as rock. Let me show you.”

  Bekner picked up a loose board that looked to be oak. It was thick and appeared quite sturdy. He lined himself up with it and then whipped the board against himself. It broke in half—the board, not the dwarf’s head.

  Bekner grinned.

  “See?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. Now, punch me in the head.”

  “Okay,” Gungren said reluctantly, “if you am sure.”

  “I am. Now, do it!”

  Gungren planted his back foot and threw a right cross while twisting his hips. It was the same type of move he’d learned when throwing rocks as a full giant. That’s how he could get the most distance from a rock throw, so he figured it would also be effective in getting the most power from a punch.

  He was right.

  Bekner fell over and was lying on the ground with his eyes rolled up into their sockets.

  “I believe you’ve knocked him out cold, Gungren,” Zel said, looking shocked as he stood over the dwarf.

  “I not mean to. Him told me to punch him.”

  “Yes, he did, but I doubt he had any idea that you had that much power in your fists!”

  Zel picked up a small jug of water and dumped it on the dwarf. He roused and sputtered. His eyes were still glassy as he surveyed the area.

  “What happened?” he asked while shading his eyes from the lanterns. “I feel like I’ve been drinking too much, but I don’t remember after bein’ in a pub.” Then he glanced around. “And what’s with the sound of little birdies chirping?”

  “Gungren punched you in the head,” Zel explained, “and knocked you out.”

  “What’d he do that for?”

  “You told him to.”

  Bekner wobbled. “I did?”

  “You were testing his fist strength and punching acumen.”

  “Oh.” His face contorted as he sat up and put his back against a box. “Gungren, you have passed me test, it seems.”

  “Thanks, Bekner. Sorry for your head.”

  “Not your fault. I was born with it looking this way.”

  “No,” said Gungren, “I meaned punching you too hard.”

  “Ah, right. Not to worry. It’s why we’re after being here. Maybe it’s time for grappling though, eh, Zel?” He rubbed his head again. “I’m gonna sit down for a while.”

  “You are sitting down,” Zel said.

  “Am I?” Bekner opened his eyes slightly and checked his surroundings. “Huh, I guess I am. Okay, well, I’ll just be after keeping on sitting down for a while. You two go about rolling around and whatnot.”

  Scoping out the Arena

  Teggins, Lucille, and Krag snuck into the arena to take a look around. They checked the workout facilities, took notes, and then moved out to the field where Crazell was training.

  She was flying up and then swooping back down, ripping various dummies in half with her massive talons. Then she’d do a barrel roll and fire flames at suits of armor. Her preciseness worried Teggins.

  “That’s a very red dragon,” said Lucille.

  “Meaner than the green ones,” Teggins noted, “but they tend to be more emotional.”

  “So?”

  “So, Lucille, where there is emotion, there is weakness.”

  “Ah.” Lucille nodded for a moment and then said, “So?”

  “So your job is to exploit tha
t weakness.” Teggins watched as Crazell used her razor-sharp teeth to rip into a dummy. “You need to find a way to make sure Krag will win.”

  “I don’t need help,” Krag stated darkly. “I’ll kill the dragon.”

  As if in defiance of Krag’s statement, which couldn’t have been heard on the field, Crazell released a flame that fried all the remaining practice dummies on the field.

  Teggins had witnessed dragon flames over his years, but Crazell’s fiery belch made them all look like simple candle wicks in comparison.

  “You do need help and you’ll get help,” Teggins said to Krag. “Now shut up about it.”

  Krag turned to face Teggins. “I don’t like being spoken to in that way.”

  Teggins turned to face him.

  Krag had the height advantage and he certainly looked more muscular, but Teggins knew his own strength. Teggins also knew how to fight dirty.

  “Is that so?” he said menacingly. “You might be able to beat a dragon, but don’t mess with me, Krag. I make dragons look like kittens. The cute kind.”

  “Is there any other kind?” asked Lucille.

  Teggins blinked in confusion. “What?”

  “You implied that there were kinds of kittens that weren’t cute,” explained Lucille.

  “Yeah, that makes no sense.” Krag’s irritable disposition had changed to one of contemplation. “I’m more of a dog person myself, but kittens are adorable.”

  Lucille nodded. “Exactly what I’m saying.”

  “All right, enough about kittens.” Teggins wanted to punch them both, but he held himself in check. “The point, Krag, is that you are going to do this my way or I’ll string you up by your toenails.” Krag gave him a doubtful look. “And before you go judging my ability to do it, note that I’ve done it before. It wasn’t pretty, and those nails did pull out, but the ogre I did it to hung upside down by them for a good four minutes first.”

  “That’s a disturbing image,” Lucille said with a sour look.

  Teggins spun and pointed at her. “And you, Lucille, are going to figure out a way to make sure Krag wins.” He narrowed his eyes. “If you don’t, that toenail thing will be a picnic compared to what I’ll do to you.”

  Need Rooms

  Whizzfiddle was enjoying a nice bowl of stew while sitting at the Inn of Sargan. Gungren was seated with him. The rest of the crew were either back in their rooms resting or making a night of it.

  “How is your training going, Gungren?”

  “It okay, I guess,” he answered between bites. “I are pretty sore.”

  Whizzfiddle wanted to correct his sentence but knew the little giant would just question why Whizzfiddle was sore, so he let it go.

  “We’ll have to pick up a healing potion from one of the shops. I know you can’t use them at the event, but I’m doubtful there’s a rule against using them beforehand.”

  “Nope.”

  He took another bite of stew, when a thought hit him.

  “Oh, no,” he said, lowering the spoon. “I’ve just thought of something.”

  “What’s that, Master?”

  “We don’t have any lodgings prepared in Sed’s Point.”

  Gungren shrugged. “Can just sleep outside.”

  “In the land of the dragons?” Whizzfiddle scoffed at the notion. “I don’t think so. I know that the dragons are supposed to be on their best behavior, but one slip-up would make us into a meal. No, thank you.”

  “Maybe Heliok can set up—”

  “No, no, no.” Whizzfiddle had been down the path of counting on the Fate before. “He’ll just make a fuss about it and then, out of spite, he’ll put me in a room with a draft.”

  He took out the TalkyThingy and grunted at it. While it was a marvelous way to communicate, there was just something wrong about a wizard using technology. Then again, it did allow him to follow the primary pursuit of wizardry. That being laziness.

  Back when he’d first visited the Underworld, he found the technological robustness of the place to be rather daunting. Terrifying, if he were being honest. People speaking to each other over vast distances with these little boxes pressed to their heads, large rectangles that showed live animated images of people across the continent speaking about national news, weather forecasts that were never accurate, computing devices that could outpace the fastest orc in mathematics, horseless carriages, and countless other things. But then when he learned that those in the Underworld were just as scared of magic as he was of technology, he relaxed. If he wasn’t afraid of magic and they weren’t afraid of all their gadgetry, then neither of them should be worried about the other’s mode of operation.

  “I’m going to call Murray,” he said.

  “Him seem to be a good contact you made,” Gungren noted, looking very worn out.

  “I quite agree.”

  The TalkyThingy rang and was picked up immediately this time.

  “Hello, Whizzfiddle! You’re calling me again so soon?” The mole pushed up his glasses. “I’d not expected to hear from you for a while. Did those guys you asked for get to Kesper’s? I told them it was very important. Said that you said they really needed—”

  “They’re here, Murray,” Whizzfiddle interrupted. “You did a great job. So good, in fact, that I was hoping you could help me solve another problem.”

  “Happy to do it! What are friends for, right?” Murray scrunched his nose. “I mean, sure I’m still getting used to the entire ’having friends’ thing and all, but it seems to me that friends help each other. It’s what we do.”

  “Right, right, right! Correct.” It was difficult keeping Murray on track. “So, Gungren and I need to have lodgings for the upcoming fight in Sed’s Point.”

  “You haven’t got a hotel yet? It’s going to be packed. This is the biggest event in all of Ononokin. You really should have planned this out.”

  “Yes, well, we didn’t have much notice.”

  Gungren spoke up. “Should just get Heliok to do it.”

  “And I will if it comes to that, Gungren.”

  “Oh, Gungren’s there?” asked Murray.

  “Hi, Murray,” Gungren called out.

  “Hey, Gungren.” Murray motioned Whizzfiddle to spin the TalkyThingy around. Whizzfiddle reluctantly complied. “I know you’re in training for that fight—good luck, by the way—but if you get out of it alive, I’ve been thinking of getting an actual poker game going. The kind where people come over and play and have herbal tea and chips.”

  “That sound fun.”

  Whizzfiddle spun the TalkyThingy back as he frowned at Murray. “Am I not invited?”

  “Huh?” Murray looked suddenly put upon. “Oh, well, yeah, sure you are. It’s just that I didn’t think you’d want to hang out with a bunch of people who are only a fraction of your age.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “I…uh…” Murray was fishing for ideas. “Oh! I could set up a bingo night for you, if you want?”

  “Never mind about that,” answered Whizzfiddle, feeling rather old indeed. “Can you get the rooms or do I have to contact that blasted Fate?”

  “I can do it,” Murray stated confidently. “I have a really good friend at Hotel Winged Bastion. He’ll get you in.”

  Presenting to Breadmasters

  He didn’t need to do it, but West had convinced him that practicing again in front of the Breadmasters while using his new technique would solidify its effectiveness. This would mean that Heliok could relax when the actual interview occurred.

  Another bag of diamonds brought in a large enough crowd to make the Fate nervous.

  West was up on the podium explaining the situation to the Breadmasters members. A few of them had already fallen asleep, which was understandable considering the age of the people involved. It was past their normal bedtime, after all.

  “And so Mr. Heliok will come up and answer questions at the podium,” West was saying. “Your questions should be tough but fair.”

  There were a few nods.


  West waved Heliok to join him and then covered the mic for a moment.

  “Just do as we said,” the troll stated in a supportive voice. “Introduce yourself and ask for questions.” Obviously noting that Heliok was a bit pensive, West added, “Remember that you are a Fate who can outthink everyone here.”

  Heliok nodded and then gulped as he stared out at the sea of faces. He knew he shouldn’t have any issue speaking to them, but his mouth went dry and his nerves were on edge. His heart was racing like mad, too, making him remove that part of his anatomy. It wasn’t like he needed it anyway. He was just using the physical image of a human so that people would accept him. The inner workings didn’t matter.

  It helped.

  How actual people dealt with their blood pressure shooting up was a mystery to him. He hated that feeling. It was dreadful.

  “You may recall that my name is Heliok and I am a Fate.” He cleared his throat and fought to keep his voice from quivering. “I am awful…” He paused, thinking how that was the wrong word. “Erm, I mean, I am offering you the chance to ask any questions of me you may have.”

  He began repeating "I’m a Fate" over and over in his head. If he could just remember that, and subsequently remind himself that the people in front of him were mere mortals, he was confident that his sensibilities would rule the day. His stomach churned, though. He removed it from his innards as well.

  “Again,” he said with some effort, “anything that I’m allowed to answer by way of Fates rules, I will.”

  Teef stood up.

  “If you is a Fate and all, why you gotta come to a Breadmasters meeting to work on talking in front of people?”

  “Uhhh...well...it’s rather complicated.” Heliok took a deep breath. “I…uhh…well…”

  “Remember, Mr. Heliok,” West whispered from his spot off to the right, “speed of thought.”

  “Oh, yes. Right.” He turned back to Teef. “That’s a fair question.” Then he kicked up his thought speed until he had a full, well-thought-out response. He slowed his mind back down and said, “You see, Fates are hidden in the background for the most part. We do not seek the limelight, but rather create a God, or gods as the case may be, to garner your praise. Therefore, when we are thrust into a position of needing to discuss matters in a public manner such as this, we tend to get rather flustered.”