by Tim Akers
Anyway, regionals. I fought my way through the first couple brackets, handling my opponents with ease and honor, never striking when they were down, always letting them reclaim dropped weapons or recover from slippery footing. The chivalry part of this is important to me. You can win and be a dick about it, but that’s just a more complicated way of losing. We’re grown-ass men and women out in a field hitting each other with wooden swords on the weekend. Might as well have fun doing it.
I did well enough in the initial rounds to earn a place in the finals, then sat nervously on the sidelines while the finalists for two-handed sword, polearms, acrobatic dagger, and siege bow fought their bouts. The champion for acrobatic dagger caught my eye; she was short and fast, rolling from shoulder to heel and up again, her black braids swirling through the air as she circled her opponent. Acrobatic dagger was supposed to be a combination of throws and dodges, but she never touched her opponent until her padded dagger went into the target on his back. It was a thing of beauty. The audience gave her the round of huzzahs that she had earned, then the marshal marched into the ring and raised his baton.
Chesa showed up in the lists for siege bow but seemed to be off her game. Her initial flight went wide, and she stormed off the range in a huff. She had quite a following among the group of fairegoers who embraced the elven ideal and was escorted into a nearby grove by a group of pointy-eared cosplayers.
“Sword and shield!” the marshal called, and I scrambled to my feet. “For the Duchy of Elderwood, Sir John Rast, champion of the lists, bulwark of...of...” the marshal peered down at his sheet. Finalists usually had more accolades, but this was my first time in the big ring. The marshal gave up and flourished in my direction. “Sir John!”
There was a scattering of applause around the ring as I stepped over the barrier. “Get ’em, John!” someone in the crowd yelled, and I turned to see my friend Eric raising a stein in my direction. He had a girl on each arm, and three more circling. Typical. Eric was the kind of guy who only seemed truly alive at the faire. Real world Eric couldn’t start a conversation with a girl without preceding it with “Well, actually...” and rarely got to finish his sentence before the lady walked off. Faire world Eric was witty, constantly surrounded by women, and perpetually drunk. It was something like magic.
I waved at him, then turned back to the ring. As my eyes swept the crowd, I caught sight of dagger-girl. She was leaning against a tree, smirking as she juggled a dagger in one hand. When she raised her brows at me, I realized I was staring and quickly turned away.
My opponent was waiting on the other side of the barrier. He wore the bare minimum armor required by rule, preferring to show off the kind of body that a paleo diet and slavish devotion to Crossfit will get a middle-aged man from the suburbs. His shield wasn’t much bigger than his fist, while his sword was everything Freud could have wished for, long and black and as thick as my leg. His chest was heaving, as though he had spent the previous twenty minutes screaming into a shoebox. The marshal waved his baton in the man’s direction.
“And for the Outlands, Kracek the Destroyer, Champion of the Feral Gods, Reaver of the Black Lagoon, Breaker of—”
The rest of marshal’s introduction was drowned out by Kracek’s war cry, a bloodcurdling scream that was quickly taken up by a dozen or so similarly dressed followers in the crowd. Kracek raised his compensation unit over his head, then kicked down the barrier and strode onto the field of battle.
Remember that thing I said about chivalry? Most folks feel the same way. But not all. Not Kracek the Destroyer, Champion of the Feral Gods, and extreme phallus rampant.
Kracek’s real name is Douglas Hosier, and he’s a property attorney from the suburbs. He drives a white Camaro, claims to date a Canadian model behind his wife’s back, and is fighting a losing battle against a receding hairline. I get the feeling Douglas expected more out of his life than what he’s gotten and is channeling that frustration into Kracek. He and his band of emotionally damaged men have been expelled from every duchy and protectorate this side of Cairo but, being a bunch of lawyers, somehow kept finding a way into the lists.
The marshal glared at the damaged barrier, then walked to the center of the ring and raised his baton. We squared off, Kracek’s chest still heaving, my hands sweating through the thick padded mittens of my armor. Kracek grinned.
“I’m going to annihilate you, kid. I’m going to beat you so hard, your mother’s going to be sterile. You’ll be running back to—”
“Begin!” the marshal shouted. Kracek bellowed his disappointment at modern social norms and charged forward.
This was normal. Kracek and his type fought linearly, charging or charging faster. I gave some ground, presented my shield and winced as Kracek chopped at it. There were rules about force of blow, but Kracek always danced the line, a hair’s breadth away from disqualification with each attack. He forced me back again, then slammed his shield into my sword, nearly knocking it from my grip. The tip of his shield caught my hand. The marshal called halt, separating us with his baton.
“No blows with shield, a demerit and reset.”
“He swung, I blocked,” Kracek growled. “What’s the problem?”
The marshal didn’t answer. Kracek shook his head and slouched back to the middle. “Judge is on your side, little man. Cowards like you, always hiding behind the rules...”
“You’ve got issues, man,” I mumbled. He whirled on me, shaking that ridiculous sword in my face.
“I do! I do have issues! Screw your issues, that’s what!”
“What?”
“You know what I mean!”
“No, I...I really don’t.”
“You’re gonna know! You’re gonna remember the might of Kracek!”
“Right, yeah...you mentioned that.” I glanced at the marshal. “He mentioned that, right? There’s not an echo or something.”
“Taunting!” Kracek shouted. “Taunting, one demerit!”
“Demerits are for me to give out, and for you to earn, Mr. Hosier,” the marshal said primly. “Now please reset before I am forced to disqualify you.”
“Stupid rules!” Kracek the Hosier yelled. He stomped back to his position, flexed in the manner of a man about to eject his bowels, and shouted. “Kracek!”
I was just bringing up my shield to the guard position when a column of fire erupted from Kracek’s mouth and slammed into me. The flames curled around my shield, licking at the cheap linen tabard my mother had sewn for me for my birthday. The heat crisped my eyebrows and filled my lungs. I backpedaled, dropping my sword and shaking my shield off my arm. The metal sizzled as it hit the grass, and pain prickled along the length of my forearm. My gloves were ash. I turned to stare at the marshal.
“There’s no way that’s legal!” I barked.
The marshal was staring at Kracek in disbelief. His baton was smoldering, and the shocked look on his face had as much to do with his horror as his lack of eyebrows. Then he turned and ran into the crowd.
“You’re just gonna...just run? Come on, man! I didn’t—” I glanced over at Kracek and shut right the hell up.
Kracek was hunched over, with molten fire dribbling out of his mouth. He was larger, and his pale, suburban skin was glowing like beaten copper. He tossed his rattan sword to the ground, then rolled his shoulders and looked around.
“Kracek’s true form has become apparent. Kracek is displeased,” he muttered, casting angry looks around at the crowd. “Kracek must fix this problem.”
“Kracek must be on drugs,” I said. “Seriously, man, get a therapist. You have some stuff that needs resolution. Honestly.”
“Kracek will start with you,” he answered. He took a step forward, and his boot burst open. Talons spilled out. Scales crawled up Kracek’s leg, and his shoulders heaved, splitting open to reveal mucus-slick wings. When he smiled, Kracek’s teeth looked like a band saw, as sharp and as bright as steel. Flames flickered in his eyes and across his black tongue. I took a step back
.
“Or I’m on drugs. That could be,” I muttered. “Eric, am I on drugs?”
A scream went up from the crowd, joined by a hundred others, and the grassy field of the St. Luke’s Community Soccer Field and Recreational Facility became a stampede. Kracek grew and grew, arms elongating, belly bloating, wings stretching up until they topped the trees. He took a deep breath, and the stink of sulfur and ash filled the air. For some reason, I pulled out my padded dagger, then pissed myself.
A blur knocked me aside, sending me flying ten yards. I landed in a heap on top of the ale stand, breaking through the tent and smashing barrels of overpriced PBR. A flash of light filled the sky, and flames roared over my head. Even with my eyes squeezed shut, I could see blood-red flames. When I opened my eyes, dagger-girl was staring at me.
“Take a knee, mundane. The heroes have arrived,” she whispered. Then she hopped over the smoldering remains of the stand and bounded toward Kracek.
Toward the dragon.
Chapter THREE
THAT VIKING BITCH
Dagger-girl hopped across the field, dodging a tail swipe as she ran directly at the beast’s gaping maw. The grass under her feet turned to ash as the dragon tried to burn the flesh from her bones. She bounced into the air, executed a mid-leap pirouette, then landed on the dragon’s back and started stabbing.
The dragon, I thought. What the hell is going on? When the council hears about this, they’re going to have a fit!
“Eric!” I shouted. Crowds of people were streaming away, stampeding over the vendor tents and fleeing into the forest at the edge of the field. I caught a brief glimpse of Eric’s ridiculous bard’s hat as he ducked behind a tree.
At least he’s safe, I thought. I started in that direction, but my foot caught on something hard and round.
It was a skull. It bounced away, chunks of scorched flesh flaking off as it rolled.
I put my hands on my knees and threw up, most of it splashing back into my face, since my helmet was still buckled down. I ripped the visor off and threw up again, kept at it until my stomach was more than empty.
The air sizzled as a stream of flame lashed overhead. It passed twenty feet above me, but the heat singed my nostrils and burned off the bile on my tongue. I spat and looked around. What I saw changed my life.
Dagger girl was dancing around the dragon, the same way she had danced around her opponent in the ring. Kracek (were his scales receding around the crown of his head?) followed her, craning his sinuous neck and spraying jets of flame, always missing by inches. He bellowed his frustration, and the trees shook. The girl landed on the dragon’s back again, punched down a dozen times in the space of a second, then bounced away. A stream of viscous blood followed her through the air, trailing from the glowing twin daggers in her hands. Kracek’s screams changed to pain, and he reared up on his hind legs and stretched his wings to the sky.
“Flimsy mortal! Kracek will sear your flesh from your bones and boil your blood in your skull! Flee before the might of Kracek! Flee before the champion of the Outland realms!”
“Gotta catch me first, snakeface!” the girl shouted. She landed in front of the dragon, crouching with both daggers spread wide like wings, that smirk still on her face. “You’re getting slow in your old age. Slow and stupid.”
“Respect your elders, child,” Kracek said. His voice hissed through my mind, and flames licked his teeth as he spoke. “I have been in this world longer than any of your kind.”
“And now you’ve overstayed your welcome,” she answered. “Time to go!”
She leapt forward, but just as her feet left the ground, Kracek poured a stream of fire from his jaws. Twisting, she was somehow able to avoid it, but as she tumbled away the dragon whipped his massive tail forward, catching her in the back. She flopped like a rag doll, bouncing through the charred grass before coming to a halt. Kracek laughed, crashed back down on all fours, and strolled languidly toward her still form.
“Oh man, oh man, oh MAN,” I whispered to myself. What should I do? I couldn’t just sit here and watch her get killed. I looked around at the smoldering stalls. The vendor next to the ale house was a weapon maker. None of the blades were sharp, but they were good steel, and the dragonfire that had destroyed the craftsman’s shed hadn’t touched them at all. I snatched one of them up and ran at Kracek, waving the sword over my head and yelling.
“Hey, you scaly freak! Over here! We haven’t finished our match yet, you cheating son of a bitch!” Not my most eloquent taunt, but it served the purpose. Kracek paused and craned his horned head in my direction, then let out a derisive snort that scorched the ground at my feet.
“We are not playing games anymore, Sir Burbia. Go back to your foam swords and your weak ale. You have a cubicle to fill on Monday.”
I let out a furious roar and charged in. Kracek’s wing brushed the air above me, buffeting me, nearly driving me to my knees, but I kept going. His nearest leg rose up. I looked up at those blackened talons, sticky with blood, each one as long as my forearm and wickedly sharp, and I realized I was in over my head.
“For Elderwood!” I shouted weakly, my voice cracking as I swung the dull blade against his muscular claw. The steel sang in my hands as it struck scale. The sword snapped in half like an icicle. I stood there, holding the broken hilt, staring at my death. For the second time that day, someone else saved me.
A trio of bright arrows blossomed from the dragon’s claw. Kracek howled and reared back, thrashing his tail across the soccer field, tearing chunks of sod up with those talons. I staggered to my feet and backed away. Chesa’s voice reached me over the din of Kracek’s rage.
“Get out of there, you moron!” she shouted. I glanced back to see that she stood at the edge of the path that led to the parking lot. God, she was beautiful. What the hell was I thinking, leaving a girl like that behind just to test the waters of single life at college? Let me tell you, those waters are not the kind of place “I play with blunt swords on the weekend” makes a lot of progress. Maybe I should move home. Maybe I could—
“Impudent mortal!” Kracek bellowed, snapping me out of my reverie. I whirled back around and shrieked. There might have been additional pissing. I’d rather not discuss the details.
Kracek’s claw fell on me, but just as his talons were about to reach my face, a blade of shining steel flashed between us. The tip of the dragon’s claw fell to the ground. Kracek shrieked and reared up, beating the air with his wings. A heavy hand fell on my shoulder and pulled me back. A knight, there was no other word, stepped between me and the dragon. He was in full armor, the steel of his plate shining with runes. His double-handed sword blazed with the light of the sun. He looked at me over his shoulder.
“Get outta here, kid. This is tough enough without trying to keep the idiots alive.”
I was about to answer when a pillar of flame fell on us from the dragon’s mouth. The knight didn’t have a shield, but as the fire roared close, a purple dome surrounded us. The shriek of burning air fell hush. I scrambled to my feet, nearly bumping into a black man in exquisite robes, carrying a silver staff. Tattoos of light swirled around his left eye, and glowing rings spun above his clenched fist. His pale eyes were fixed on the dragon.
“Clarence is correct,” he said. His voice reminded me of a professor, almost too precise, his enunciation as sharp as lightning. “You are no good here. Take your bravery and go home.”
I was about to protest when Kracek roared again, and another wave of flame singed the air. The knight howled in pain, and the mage flinched back. I turned just in time to see the knight, armor still smoldering, run up the dragon’s arm and start hacking at Kracek’s throat. I ran all the way to where Chesa was standing before I realized it.
“Are you an idiot? What the hell were you thinking?” she snapped as I ran up to her. “You could have gotten killed!”
“Good point,” I said. I grabbed her elbow and pulled her toward the parking lot. “Let’s go not get killed.”
Most of the cars had already cleared out, though there were enough smashed bumpers and broken glass in the lot to indicate it had been a hectic retreat. There were dents all along the side of Mom’s Volvo, which would have taken some doing, considering that the thing was built like a tank. I tore open the door and got in. Chesa dropped into the passenger seat, her complicated costume tangling awkwardly with the belt. She tossed the bow over her shoulder and into the backseat. She started banging on the dashboard.
“Go, go, go! This is not how princesses die!”
I dug the keys out of the glove compartment, then slammed them into the ignition and twisted. The engine grumbled at me, grating and clanging and sputtering with each turn.
“Come on! Come on!” I shouted. Stuff broke around me all the time, from cars to computers to expensive espresso machines. Mom wasn’t going to be happy when I brought it home with dents in the door. “Not like she’ll believe this story anyway,” I muttered. “Come on, you Viking bitch, start!”
“What did you call me?” Chesa asked. “This is not Viking. This is late-Tolkien elf. I don’t know how you could possibly confuse the two.”
“I am talking to the car! The car is obviously a bitch, Chesa! I don’t know why I have to explain this.” I kept cranking the key back and forth, pumping the gas, even as we argued.