Bad Luck Charlie: The Dragon Mage Book 1

by Scott Baron

  “And if my opponent ignores standard practice and tries to kill me?”

  “Then I suggest you do not let him. Now, give me your arm,” he said, then pulled a larger konus from his pocket and slid it onto Charlie’s wrist.

  The konus was at least three times the size of the one he had been used to training with, and Charlie could feel the power coursing through the enchanted device. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so unsure about the fight.

  “That is your opponent,” Baruud said, pointing out a hulking man with a studded club, as well, Charlie noted, as a rather sizable slaap.

  “Um, he has a slaap.”

  “Yes. And a club too,” Baruud pointed out with a chuckle. “You disappoint me, young one. Have you forgotten your training so soon?”

  “No, of course not. And this konus is much more powerful than my old one, but he has a slaap. That’s easily more powerful than my konus, and he has a club.”

  “Yes, he does. And those things will be his undoing.”

  “I fail to see the logic in that assessment.”

  The Wampeh sighed and shook his head. “Charlie, he may appear to be better armed than you are––in fact, he is better armed than you––but you are better prepared. Use his confidence to your advantage. Leverage his reliance on stronger weapons against him. Think of this as a chess game, not a punching contest. Brute force will not win you the day.”

  Charlie took a deep breath and recited the spells in his arsenal, quietly singing them to himself. Oddly, he felt the konus powering up before he meant it to.

  Whoa. This thing is on a hair trigger compared to the last one. And a lot stronger too.

  Crashing and shouted spells filtered into the holding area until a great roar sounded from the crowd, then simmered to a dull murmur. A few moments later, the prior combatants returned from their bout. One walking, the other carried on a magically floating litter. He was alive, but with his injuries, it would be some time before he would fight again.

  “You’re up,” Baruud said, pointing him to the arena entrance.

  “All right. Wish me luck.”

  “You possess the skill. You have no need for luck.”

  Charlie hoped he was right.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  The waiting had been excruciating. Charlie’s nerves were on fire with anticipation when he finally entered the floor of the arena to find himself greeted by the yells of thousands of spectators, all cheering for the pending battle. It was one hell of a rush.

  Looks like they’re jazzed about the fight, he noted. And speaking of which, where is my––?

  A tingling on the back of his neck made him dive immediately to his left, the studded club whiffing through the space he’d just occupied.

  “Sneaky bastard,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Ser Baruud was right about that at least.”

  “Hazookar! Moraxia poona! Effian!” the man shouted, his slaap throwing a trio of spells at him back-to-back-to-back.

  Charlie had no idea what those spells did, so he launched the most broad-reaching counter he knew as he rolled clear of the path of whatever the burly gladiator was hurling at him.

  His counter-spell, thrown in haste, was nevertheless many times stronger than ever, thanks, he realized, to his new konus. The attack spells dissolved––barely––but that did nothing to stop the steam train physical assault of the much larger man. He landed a kick square in Charlie’s chest, sending him flying backward onto the ground.

  Charlie rolled back to his feet, using the momentum of the impact. Surprisingly, he realized he remained unharmed. The training worked.

  He combined physical and magical attacks, he noted. So, he’s not just a brute. Going to have to be creative, here.

  Charlie charged the larger man, throwing the limited spells at his disposal as fast as he could manage. His opponent canceled them out, his slaap swatting them aside as easily as a grown dog toyed with a pup.

  Changing it up, he opted for a physical attack. Charlie landed several blows, even managing to briefly stun the man with a firm elbow to his chin, but his opponent was made of solid stuff, and once again, Charlie found himself flung to the ground.

  He rolled frantically to the side, the large club denting the ground where his body had just been. Charlie swept at his legs, forcing the man to step back, giving him time to regain his feet. The club whistled through the air, barely missing him as he faked a move to the left, opting instead to duck and go right, landing a quick punch to the man’s ribs before jumping clear of another massive swing.

  Once again he used all of his defensive spells to stop the onslaught of attack spells. A few made it past, however, and Charlie was dazed for a second before his head cleared. Fortunately he saw the man’s shoulders and hips move even through blurry eyes.

  The thing was, the man’s club was deadly, but it was also almost comically large, requiring more time and muscle to wield than the man realized. That gave Charlie an idea, and the fraction of a second he needed.

  “Yapzi uzri ho!” he said plainly, relying on his intent rather than the power of his vocal cords to direct the konus’s power.

  It was a combination of linked spells, and the first time he had ever attempted to do such a thing. In fact, he wasn’t sure if it would even work, but the tandem effect of swarming flies in the eyes, combined with a throwing spell, took the off-balance man right off his feet.

  Charlie wasted no time, jumping atop him, pinning his slaap hand with a knee and aiming his palm at his face. “Submit, or I’ll cast at point-blank range, right between the eyes,” he commanded.

  The struggling man reluctantly relaxed and held up two fingers. The sign for surrender. The crowd applauded the combatants, then a casual murmur rose as they waited for the next bout.

  Sliding from the mount position, Charlie reached down and helped his opponent to his feet. “Thank you for a good contest,” he said. “You fought well and honorably.”

  The larger man was obviously upset at his defeat, but the gracious expression of sportsmanlike conduct by the victor sat well with him. “And you, little man. You possess surprising power for such a tiny adversary.”

  Charlie couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess I am pretty small, compared to you. I mean, look at those muscles. I bet you worked hard to grow so strong.”

  “Many, many years,” the man said, then held out his hand in friendship. “I am Korban. It was an honor to fight you.”

  He clasped the man’s hand tightly, the crowd cheering the show of good sportsmanship as the two walked out through the arena’s tunnel, back to the gladiator preparation and holding area.

  “I am Charlie, and the honor was mine, my friend. I hope to see you again, but hopefully next time not on the opposing end of the field of combat.” He looked around the sea of burly men camped out. “Hey, I’m seriously thirsty. There’s gotta be something to drink around here. You want to get a drink?”

  “Follow me,” Korban said.

  They proceeded to sit and share tales of their ordeals and training, bonding over a common lifestyle. Ser Baruud watched from afar, a pleased smile touching the corners of his lips.

  “You fought well,” Baruud said on the flight home. “And I see you made a new friend in the process.”

  “Yeah. After he was through trying to bash my head in, it turns out Korban is actually a pretty nice guy.”

  “I met Teacher Azman much the same way.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Though ours was a fight to the death.”

  “Yet he lives.”

  “Indeed. He was on the losing end, but he fought so bravely that the lord of the region halted the match and granted him a reprieve. That was the bout in which I received this scar,” he said, lifting his tunic to show a jagged line across his flank. “A deadly fighter, Azman.”

  “And despite nearly killing you, you are now friends and allies.”

  “Yes, so it is. The way.”

  “Which way?”

  “Of
life. Things are not always as they seem, and only a fool assumes to know the difference at a glance.”

  They talked at length the rest of the flight home, discussing life and the danger of death, but also the glory in facing it. “I hope that one day you will be prepared enough to face that challenge and experience it for yourself,” Baruud said.

  Under his guidance, Charlie was feeling confident he might, indeed, become prepared, even if he had no desire to ever kill another man. In any case, he would train hard and make his teacher proud.

  And so he did for the next two years. And Ser Baruud kept entering him in increasingly difficult tournaments as he improved. The strange human from a distant world who somehow, against the odds, kept winning bout after bout after bout.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  A few years older and many fights wiser, Charlie was at ease as he prepared for what promised to be his most challenging bout yet.

  “I’m okay,” Charlie said, adjusting his short sword strapped to his back.

  “But it’s a team bout. And to the death,” Bini said, tightening the straps of his protective leggings. “Ser Baruud has never let any of us fight in a contest like this.”

  “And from what he said, there has never been a bout like this,” Charlie replied, slipping on his heavily charged konus. “The marriage of a regent, joining two systems as one, called for something special.”

  He slipped a heavy slaap into the secure pouch on his hip. A deadly device, but only to be used as a backup in the most dire of circumstances, per Ser Baruud’s orders.

  As Charlie’s skills increased, so had the strength of the weapons he was allowed access to, but for today’s match, his teacher had deemed it dangerous enough to warrant fully powered weapons. His konus could do incredible damage, if wielded properly. And Charlie had learned to wield it like an expert.

  As he did before every bout, he once again quietly sang the dozens of spells at his disposal to himself, a musical mnemonic that had served him well, making their casting almost second nature.

  Gok stood nearby and was anxiously bouncing on his feet, agitated and full of nerves. “I don’t know how you can be so calm. This is it. The big time. Today we fight our best or we die.”

  “And, apparently, there will be some surprises as well,” another member of their team said. They didn’t know the man. He came from a different world, but for this event, anyone wearing the green of their side was a brother, at least until victory or defeat.

  “Yeah, I heard talk, but what are we looking at?” Bini asked.

  “Not sure. My master said the last time there was anything close to this kind of event, there were wild Yatzar beasts loose on the field of combat. They were painted with team colors and assigned to each side, but those razor-backed bastards paid no attention to color or allegiance and took down as many fighters as the gladiators did that day, from what he said.”

  “Whatever they are, we stick to the plan. Fight intelligently, as a team. Protect one another and we live. If they thin our ranks, the remaining men will be sitting ducks.”

  “What is a duck, Charlie?” Gok asked. “Is that some kind of pacifist who sits rather than fights?”

  “What? No, it’s––never mind, okay. It just means they’d be an easy target. Now, let’s go over the plan again. We won’t have many chances to reach the golden ring, so we have to make them count.”

  The main event was a battle royale, a chaotic melee with three teams, each with a dozen fighters per side, all engaging at once. There were only two ways to win the bout. If a gladiator somehow scaled to the top of a tall, greased pole in the center of the massive arena and grabbed the golden ring sitting atop it, they would be crowned champion and the fighting would cease. The winning team would feast like royalty, while the vanquished would be whipped, then sent packing.

  Whipping, however, was preferable to death.

  And that was the other way out. If two sides were annihilated, the surviving team would be declared victors. While they would not bask in the full glory obtained by capturing the ring, they would still have a great feast and pleasure women––or men, if they preferred––provided for them.

  Charlie didn’t much care about any of those things. He simply wanted to prove himself worthy of his teacher’s trust and efforts. He had been taken from a mere slave and elevated to an established, and popular, gladiator. So much so that Ser Baruud had made the unusual request of his owner to allow him to remain in his compound to train year-round rather than see his skills lessen by returning to live in Gramfir’s camps.

  His bearded owner agreed, so long as Charlie continued to win. The betting against the off-worlder from a distant and unheard-of world was always profitable, and Gramfir had earned considerable coin from his impulsive purchase.

  Upon their arrival to the planet, the gladiators had stepped from their ships into a caravan of small conveyances that carried them from the arrival area through the bazaar to the waiting arena. As they passed through the winding streets, Charlie thought he recognized the bustling world.

  “Hang on, I think I’ve been here before. But the bazaar seems bigger,” Charlie noted.

  “You’ve been to Gilea?” Gok asked.

  “Wait, this is Gilea? We’re fighting in the Buru Arena?”

  “I thought you knew. It’s the biggest in a dozen systems.”

  “I guess I did. I just didn’t think we were going to be fighting here,” he said, taking in the sheer size of the arena as they drew nearer. “Dear Lord, that’s one big building.”

  “Yes, and the place is going to be filled to capacity,” Bini said, with an excited giggle.

  “Calm down, Bini. You’re going to make a spectacle of yourself.”

  “Right, okay,” he said, forcing himself to stay planted in his seat.

  They were hustled through the crowds to the waiting preparation area within the arena, then the gladiators from all across the systems were grouped together with their teammates to spend the day learning each other’s strengths and weaknesses, while preparing to fight as a slapped-together team.

  The following afternoon they would either fight together, or they would die. And they only had one day to form a bond that would very literally be the difference between life and death.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  The men were as varied in shape and size as they were in coloration and species, but all of the gladiators gathered in the three waiting chambers––be they clad in blue, red, or green––were alike in one regard. They were about to take the lives of other men.

  It was something that would have troubled Charlie as little as six months prior. He was fighting and winning, yes, but he had excelled in the tricky defensive spells, utilizing them to gain advantage and take down his opponents in the least violent manner possible. He had hurt many, and crippled a good few, but he did what he could to avoid killing.

  Today, however, there was no room for such mercy, because he was quite certain none would be afforded him.

  “I hear word that we are to have beasts assigned to our teams, though the reliability of each holding loyalty to any particular side is in doubt,” a muscled Wampeh named Roph said as he readied himself for combat.

  “So we avoid them and force our opponents within striking range,” Charlie suggested. “Roph, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, did you hear anything further? Like, are they chained or otherwise bound? What I mean is, how much do we need to worry about watching our backs?”

  “I do not know for certain, but the servant girl I spoke with said they had forged special restraint collars for the event,” the pale man said, touching the band around his neck. “For that, the beasts must possess quite a fearsome power.”

  “Let us hope these spells at least keep them loyal to our side,” Gok said. “If they do not attack us, we can steer our opponents toward them. Perhaps thin their numbers without getting our hands dirty.”

  “A good idea,” Charlie said. “But
it’s likely one of the other teams already thought of that. Remember, we are fighting men very much like ourselves, and they will be just as cunning and devious and do whatever it takes to survive. Now, Phamli, you’re the lightest of us. Are you sure you can scale the pole should we clear you a path?”

  The Tslavar bore the scars of many battles on his pale green skin, but the wiry muscle beneath rippled with anticipation of action. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Just get me to the center and I’ll have that ring for us in no time.”

  He tucked a pair of small daggers into the straps of each boot, but these were not meant for combat. They were tightly bound on the inside of his ankles, the points barely reaching the ground. Not of use for fighting, but excellent for climbing a greased pole.

  “Five minutes!” a herald shouted into the room.

  The gladiators checked each other’s gear and psyched themselves up as best they could. Calm strategy would win the day. Berserker rage would just get you killed all the quicker.

  The minutes ticked down until at long last the door to the tunnel leading into the arena’s dirt floor slid open.

  Here we go, Charlie thought as he steeled himself for a brutal fight to the death.

  “Zomoki!” someone shouted as they reached the mouth of the tunnel.

  “Dragons? Here?” Charlie asked, hesitating a moment. “Are they collared and on our side?”

  “It appears so, yes. There is a splash of green on the side of this black-skinned beast.”