The Hungry Dragon Cookie Company

by L. G. Estrella

  Old Man had faced far worse before.

  At this speed, and the ninja was extremely fast, creating a truly deep and convincing illusion was almost impossible. Subtle details like the shadows cast by the illusions or the gleam of light on the fake blades were incorrect. Combined with the position of his opponent’s arm and wrist, these minute mistakes were enough to let Old Man see through the illusions woven around the attack. Of course, a normal person would never have been able to notice these things so quickly, but Old Man was not a normal person. His walking stick flicked up and struck the ninja’s wrist. His blade went flying from his hand, and Old Man smoothly brought his walking stick back down to whack the ninja over the head.

  The other man crumpled to the ground, and Old Man poked him with his walking stick. Good. He was still alive. In his youth, Old Man would have killed him, but he’d left those days far behind him. Instead, he dug through the ninja’s things until he could find something useful – a knife. It was a good one, which had been made in the traditional way. It had been years since he’d owned a knife of this quality, and he considered it fair compensation for letting the ninja live.

  He chuckled. Whom was he trying to fool? He was taking the knife because he knew how much it would aggravate the ninja to have something stolen from him instead of the other way around. Old Man left the ninja tied to the branches of a tree where nothing too dangerous would be able to get at him and then continued on his way. Where there was one ninja, there were often others. And encountering someone else would be a good sign. He had to be getting closer if people were trying to stop him from going any further.

  He managed to travel for another hour and a half, fending off a tiger and some sort of giant snake-bat thing, before he ran into someone else. He grinned. This was certainly turning out to be a crowded jungle. Well, he wasn’t going to complain. Even if he was no longer a prideful youth, he still enjoyed facing strong opponents from time to time. The ninja hadn’t been particularly challenging, but perhaps this fellow would be better.

  His opponent was not a ninja. Instead, his opponent was a samurai. He was even wearing the traditional armour and clothing of a samurai, which made Old Man wonder how he could stand the brutal heat and humidity. A warrior wouldn’t be much good if he passed out from heat exhaustion before fighting anyone. Then again, there could be magic woven into the armour and clothing. The right runes and seals could certainly make the conditions more bearable. Old Man also wondered if the samurai went around dressed like this all the time. In foreign lands, it was often better to blend in, especially if someone was on a quest to retrieve something valuable. Too much attention was rarely good, and there were cutthroats and sell swords aplenty in most major ports and cities.

  Old Man acknowledged the samurai’s curt nod with one of his own. He hadn’t been a samurai for decades, but he still recognised and appreciated the old ways, flawed as they could be at times. Besides, honour should be met with honour.

  “You made it past Togetsu.”

  The samurai shifted slightly, one hand drifting down to his sword. Old Man examined his stance critically. It was a stance best suited to drawing a sword and striking quickly in a single fluid motion. It was not something he’d seen often in the raging chaos of war where a man could easily find himself surrounded or faced with half a dozen opponents at the same time. However, he’d seen it several times in duels where only one opponent needed to be considered. A master of such techniques was not to be taken lightly although Old Man had yet to meet anyone better at it than himself.

  “That speaks highly of your skill.”

  Old Man caught the flicker of sorrow in the samurai’s eyes before he hid it. Ah, yes. Old Man knew what it was like to lose friends in battle. He knew all too well. On this day, at least, he could deliver good news. “The ninja was your comrade? Do not worry. I did not slay him although he will have a sore head when he awakens.”

  The samurai’s lips twitched. “You have my thanks. I did not think we would find mercy on these foreign shores. Yet I cannot let you pass. My lord has asked me to hold this ground, so hold it I shall!” He took a small step forward. “I can sense your strength. You are a truly worthy opponent. I am Shokugan, First Sword of the Daiban Clan.”

  “I see.” How theatrical. Had he ever been like that? He almost chuckled, which would have been rude. Of course, he’d been like that once. He had fond memories of the princess berating him, telling him to cease his posturing and simply stab his enemies, so her brother could return from the battlefield more swiftly. There had also been the time when she had asked him to spar and had whacked him upside the head with the butt of her spear when he’d prattled on for too long. “The Daiban Clan are known to produce great swordsmen. I would introduce myself, but I gave up my name long ago. All you need to know is that I must get past you. I intend to claim that bonsai tree.”

  “In that case, let us not waste any further time. I will not let you past. Defeat me if you can.”

  Old Man stepped forward and stopped a hair’s breadth from the edge of Shokugan’s zone. A warrior’s zone was the area defined by the maximum and minimum effective range of their weapon. To step into the zone of a skilled swordsman was not something to be done lightly. Within it, his opponent would be able to strike with their full strength and without any hesitation. Old Man smiled faintly and stepped forward again. The surest way to test the deadliness of a trap was to trigger it.

  Shokugan did not hesitate.

  It was a beautiful strike. The young man’s form was nearly perfect. The strike itself was augmented by the magic common to the Daiban Clan – the ability to enhance the reach and sharpness of a weapon. With so much magic invested into the attack, the samurai would have been able to cut through the steel gates of a fortress with ease. Furthermore, the blade’s cutting edge had been increased both vertically and horizontally by his magic, which made dodging all but impossible. Parrying or blocking would do little to help. His opponent’s attack would shred right through his walking stick. There was only one real way to stop an attack like this, and Old Man knew exactly what to do.

  Old Man moved, collapsing the space between them and accelerating the passage of time for himself with his magic. He covered the gap between them more quickly than anyone else could have, and he caught his opponent’s wrist before the blade could travel more than a third of the distance it needed to. To stop the strike before it could reach him – that was the only way to deal with a technique like this, short of using his magic even more extensively. Shokugan’s eyes widened in disbelief, and Old Man calmly twisted and tossed him over his shoulder. The samurai hit the ground hard, and Old Man bonked him over the head with his walking stick.

  “A wonderful strike,” Old Man murmured to the unconscious samurai. Off to the side, several trees had been cut down by the backlash of the incomplete technique. “Truly worthy of praise.” He paused and peered at his opponent’s face. “You remind me of someone. Yes, I think I fought your grandfather. He was a magnificent swordsman, one of the few to face me and live although I bested him nonetheless. Your biggest flaw is your youth and the inexperience that comes with it, but time can always fix that.” He shook his head. Now was not the time to be lost in memory. “I had best get moving. I’ve already faced a ninja and a samurai. I wonder if there are any more of your colleagues around.”

  Old Man encountered the next one only an hour later. He must be getting close now. It also reminded him of a challenge he’d undertaken as a young man. He had wanted to challenge the head of a rival sword school, but he’d been forced to battle his way through the lower ranks first. It had been comical. He’d left a trail of unconscious people in his wake before he’d finally reached the master of the school. He grinned. What a proud boy he’d been, but pride always came before the fall. At least, he’d been able to accomplish something worthwhile before his undoing. Besides, now that there were decades between him and the saddest and happiest moments of his life, he couldn’t help but look ba
ck at his mistakes with some amusement.

  His life was like one of those stories the princess had loved to read: a tragic but noble figure wandering the world in exile, unable to return home lest his mere presence undo the good he’d been able to accomplish. Yes, she would have loved such a story if it had not concerned one of the few people she’d truly cared for. But he’d left her safety in good hands, and she had greater concerns than a mere swordsman, no matter how skilled he might be. Their homeland had been in shambles, and she had been the only one left who could reunite and rebuild it. What was one swordsman’s life compared to that? To even call it a choice would have vastly overestimated his worth.

  That he no longer had a place in his homeland was unfortunate. Yet he would rather be exiled from it and know that it prospered than stay only to watch it die. Early on, he had thought of ending his life, but he hadn’t been able to do it. So many had died, so he could live. He would not shame their sacrifice by throwing away their gift. And so he lived, wandering the world and doing good deeds here and there until either old age or a worthy opponent finally got the better of him.

  His newest opponent had a spear. The burly man said nothing, not that anything needed to be said. Old Man studied his opponent’s clothing. The haori he wore – not unlike a tabard in purpose – made his affiliation clear. This man belonged to one of the various bodyguard orders. Such men were forbidden to speak unless ordered to by their master, and they were sworn to utter secrecy and loyalty. They were also exceedingly skilled since they were taken in as children and raised in brutal conditions to maximise their potential. To make the battle even more interesting, the spear his opponent wielded was a treasure, one that Old Man had heard of but had never had the pleasure of facing.

  The Void Piercing Spear was one of the few weapons in the world that Old Man was fairly sure could trouble his magic. It possessed the ability to strike from multiple directions at the same time – a manipulation of both time and space. Indeed, Old Man’s greatest technique had been inspired by legends of the spear’s power. It was truly a magnificent weapon, and its wielder was a most formidable man.

  The bodyguard took up his stance. Like the other battles, a single blow would decide the outcome. But unlike the other battles, there would be no banter. There would only be battle. His opponent raised his spear. Old Man lifted his walking stick.

  The spear flashed like a ray of sunlight. The attack came.

  And Old Man’s smile was almost too large to fit onto his face.

  Marvellous – truly marvellous!

  The initial strike was a simple flat thrust, aimed with superb accuracy and delivered with immense speed and power. It was accompanied by a further six simultaneous thrusts, each aimed at a vital point. Without the magic of the spear – it basically bent space and time to ‘multiply’ the initial attack – it would never have been possible. And behind the initial attacks were more attacks, all of them slightly displaced in space and time to make dodging impossible. Old Man was surrounded by a ghostly wall of spears that rushed inward to overwhelm him. He nodded in acknowledgement. He considered himself truly privileged to see this technique.

  And then he blew the technique apart.

  Years ago, pushed to the utmost limits of his abilities in battle, he had discovered that with sufficient speed and his magic, he could create blows that lingered both through space and forward and backward in time. If the Spear of Piercing Void could create a wall of spears, he could do even more. Old Man channelled his magic and lashed out with his walking stick. A thousand ghostly images appeared around him, each depicting a possible block or parry with his walking stick – possible blocks and parries that his magic made real. His walking stick deflected the wall of spears, and he took another step forward.

  His opponent fell a moment later.

  Old Man carefully wrapped the spear before tucking it under the unconscious bodyguard. Hopefully, this fellow was the last of them. This was starting to a get bit odd, and his walking stick really couldn’t handle too much more combat.

  His hopes were answered. Not long after leaving the downed man, he came across the entrance to a large cave. Nestled in a small grotto in front of the cave’s entrance was the bonsai tree. Beside it, with all seven of its heads deep in slumber, was an ancient hydra. Old Man took a moment to gauge the distance before he called on his magic. When used properly, he could do more than simply collapse the space between two points. He could teleport, and teleportation was one of the only safe ways to get something that was beside an ancient hydra.

  As the ancient hydra continued to snore away, Old Man made off with the bonsai tree. With any luck, he’d get back to the village and leave before any of the people he’d defeated caught up with him.

  * * *

  “What happened next?” Tamara asked. Old Man was a good storyteller. Even the rats had gathered around to listen.

  He chuckled and took another sip of his tea. “Unfortunately, the ancient hydra awakened not long after I left. It went on a rampage, and I was forced to take the long way around to get back to the village. When I got back, those three were there. I expected a fight. Instead, they got down on their knees and begged to have a cutting from the bonsai tree. It seems their master sent them to retrieve it… because of how delicious the tea made from its leave would be.”

  “Tea?” Tamara gasped. “All that for something that makes tea?”

  “Yes. Apparently, the tea it made was so delicious that people ascribed magical properties to it despite it not having any. And speaking of tea…” He glanced meaningfully at the tea they were drinking. “Would you care for more?”

  Her eyes widened. “Then this is…?”

  “Like I said,” Old Man replied with a grin. “It makes very good tea. Now, shall we talk about the landscaping? I’m afraid my tastes are rather dated.”

  Mr Sparkles

  (Set After Two Necromancers, a Dragon, and a Vampire)

  Avraniel was not a huge fan of responsibility. The way she saw it, responsibilities were a lot like ropes – anyone stupid enough to get tangled up in a lot of them was sure to end up hanging themselves. She would rather do what she pleased, where she pleased, how she pleased, when she pleased. There were plenty of people trying to chain her up and drag her down. She had no intention of helping them.

  But on the rare occasions that she took responsibility for something, she saw it through to the end. It didn’t matter who got in her way or who tried to stop her. If she said she’d do something, then she’d do it even if she had to burn half the world to ash. Anyone who thought they could stop her once she’d decided to do something was either going to end up dead or wishing they were dead.

  Spot was a perfect example. It didn’t matter what anyone thought. She was the dragon’s mother, and she would do her absolute best to raise him into a suitably terrifying and legendary dragon. Everyone else could either help or get out of the way. It didn’t matter that he still had a lot of growing to do. She was an elf. She had time. Even if it took centuries, she would make sure that Spot reached his full potential. By the time he was all grown up, people wouldn’t even remember Black Scales. Instead, whenever people thought of terrifying, legendary dragons, they’d think of Spot.

  However, Spot wasn’t the only responsibility she’d accepted recently. Although he was an idiot most of the time, she was – just a little bit – grateful to Timmy for letting her do pretty much whatever she wanted with her part of the castle, as long as she didn’t burn, blow up, or melt anything important.

  The décor had been the first thing she’d changed. Dark, dreary castles might have been all the rage amongst necromancers, but they didn’t impress her. She’d spent most of her life in a dark, dreary forest. The more different her surroundings were from that stupid place, the better. She’d added plenty of metal, lots of fire, and a heap of bright colours. Her lips curled. Metal and fire never hurt anybody – except her enemies. There was nothing quite as good as a piece of burning metal for stab
bing people she didn’t like. The servants must have liked the new décor too. They couldn’t stop staring at all of the new decorations, many of which she and Spot had made themselves using pieces of metal and lots of fire.

  Her favourite decoration was a gigantic suit of armour that the two of them had half-melted. It was a graphic reminder to everyone else about what would happen if they messed with her or Spot. It wasn’t just an ornament either. A would-be bandit king had worn the armour once. Unfortunately for him, but fortunately for her and Spot, he’d made the mistake of pointing a crossbow at the dragon. He hadn’t made any mistakes since.

  There was also her garden, which occupied a large courtyard. Normal plants had never liked her – the damn forest certainly hadn’t – but she’d finally managed to find some plants that did appreciate her. It turned out that she’d been looking in the wrong place all along. Normal plants liked normal elves, but she’d never been a normal elf. If a plant were poisonous, venomous, carnivorous, or otherwise likely to kill people, then it would definitely thrive under her care. In a few short months, she had transformed the barren courtyard into a lush, thriving sanctuary full of deadly plants, not that they were deadly to her. As a powerful elf, she was largely immune to the toxins most plants could produce, and as normal elves could commune with normal plants, so could she commune with her deadly plants.

  Despite being a dragon, Spot liked the plants too. He was part corruption dragon, so he was immune to almost every toxin in existence. Even Chomp, the three-headed dog that had proven to be a good playmate for Spot since his arrival, was relatively resistant to toxins, and his resistance had only increased with exposure. The dog was also fond of tug-of-war and fetch, two games that Spot enjoyed, and the two of them could often be seen playing against each other.