by Dante King
“Rubra Hardarm, sir!”
“Drash, sir!”
“Zalne, sir!”
There were half-orcs, elves of one kind and another, nymphs of various cast, humans and dwarves. It quickly became evident to me, though, that I would need some way to weed my group down.
The fact was that I didn’t know anything about any of them.
I didn’t know who might be more proficient at what, or what experience they might have. I needed to take a moment to figure out what I wanted from a squad, what I thought might be most beneficial to me.
Naturally, this meant I had to rack my brain and recall every relevant thing about every fantasy-based RPG and MMORPG game that I had ever played. Admittedly, this was a pretty short list—constantly moving about and spending most of my free time learning how to survive rather than play a ton of video games. However, I had read a lot of fantasy, and I used this experience to help me figure out the rough skeleton for my squad.
The first thing I decided, before I even thought about what particular skill sets I would need, was that my squad would be made up of males only. I appreciated that this was not very modern of me, not very 2021, but I had two reasons that I thought were solid. The first was that I’d be surrounded by chicks on my day-to-day, what with all the other dragonmancers being female. Now, this was great on many levels, but having some men around might balance things. Especially if the dragonmancers’ cycles all happened to line up at the same time, which, if my time reading about Sebastian Frost was anything to go by, was mostly a bad thing.
My second reason for filling my squad with sausages instead of buns, was a slightly more somber one. I wasn’t sure if I fancied seeing a woman get killed on my account. I mean, I didn’t want anyone to go Han Solo at the end of The Force Awakens on my watch, but battles were notoriously dangerous places.
With that in mind, I stood and addressed the line of potential squad recruits, “All the ladies present, thank you for coming, but your military services will not be required today. The rest of you stand in a row so that I can get a better look at you.”
I was expecting some muttering and outward signs of despondency at this, but it seemed that the soldiers of the Drako Academy were too well trained for that. A few of the female warriors gave me curious looks, and a couple of them winked as they walked off, but there was no grumbling whatsoever.
“All right,” I muttered to myself, surveying the remaining warriors, “if I’m the lead singer, who else do I want in the band?”
I ran my eyes over the gathered warriors. Some had their shirts off and displayed the solid physiques of men who had gotten ripped through necessity, rather than vanity. There were bulging forearms built up by the constant use of long bows, a plethora of shoulders and chests thick with muscle from swinging maces and axes, and an array of stomachs lean from marching miles and miles every day.
My dark blue eyes settled on the most obvious candidate in the line-up without too much trouble. He was a mountainous motherfucker—in fact, he could very well have been the big brother of the Mountain from Game of Thrones. He was about seven and a half feet tall with skin as white as snow. Naked from the waist up, he wore only his standard-issue linen pants and a pair of boots that looked big enough to use as coffins. His hair was as white as his skin, and his eyes glowed like a couple of rubies in his head. Red and white scars covered his thickly muscled torso. His pale blonde hair was pulled back in a warrior’s braid, the sides of his head shaved to show off some swirling tribal scarring. His impassive mouth was like an axe wound in a slab of wood, but his expression was mostly disguised by a huge, forked beard. He looked, as Jules from Pulp Fiction might have said, like a bad motherfucker.
Just the boy for the job.
“You,” I said, pointing at him. “What’s your name?”
“Bjorn,” came the grunted reply from out of the depths of the beard.
“Are you as mean as you look, Bjorn?” I asked.
The giant took a deep, thoughtful breath. Then he said, in a voice like thunder, “Nah… I’m meaner.”
I grinned. I liked that. That was a good line.
“All right, you’re in,” I said, and turned away.
I had my strong man, my tank. He was a man—or whatever he might be—who could hopefully deal damage like no one’s business out on the field but, more importantly, he might act as a deterrent to any opponents we might face. Personally, I wasn’t put off by size alone. It all depended on what a fighter could do with his size. However, for the more impressionable enemies, a warrior who looked like he ate a bowlful of broken glass for breakfast before heading out to conduct a few friendly human sacrifices, was a good man to have.
Right, so I’ve got someone who can help me wreak havoc. Next, prudence dictates that I get someone who might be able to patch us up, once the fighting is done.
I looked once more along the lineup.
“Do any of you know anything about the healing arts?” I asked. “Are there any medics or apothecaries or herbalists among you?”
Before I had even finished my sentence a young, skinny bastard leapt out of line and completed the sort of salute that was either a mockery or absolutely militaristically correct. He was a tweaked out looking dude, skinny as a rake but somehow radiating an aura of being as smart as a whip. He had a shock of dark hair that, on closer inspection, he seemed to have tried to cut himself with extremely limited success. On top of this hairdo was a feathered cap that Robin Hood might have worn, but no one else. His eyes were wide and scarily keen and seemed to look through me rather than at me.
“I d-do, Dragonmancer!” he said.
“And what’s your name, man?” I asked. The guy made me slightly uneasy, like when you meet an ownerless dog on the street and aren’t sure whether it would give your hand a lick or pull your hamstring out with its teeth.
“Rupert, Dragonmancer,” the young guy replied, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Rupert Dyer.”
There was a collection of groans from the audience who, up until now, had remained quiet.
“Dyer by name, even more dire by nature!” some funny bastard from out in the crowd called.
“Do your parents know you're out, Rupert?” someone else yelled.
There was a smattering of laughter. Another warrior in the line, a surly-looking dwarf with a drooping mustache, said, “Rupert, you ain’t supposed to volunteer yourself, you know that, mate.”
That was strange. I’d have thought the selection process was something that the potential squad members would volunteer for. I was cut off from pondering the mystery when the administrator yelled out.
“Silence!” he bellowed.
The noise died at once.
“I’ve served under various masters, D-dragonmancer,” Rupert Dyer stuttered, “and while I’m not the greatest, nor perhaps the neatest, soldier, I am the best herbalist aspirant here.”
“Cocky,” I said.
“Confident and realistic in my abilities, Dragonmancer,” the twitchy dude replied. “I was always taught to be honest by my squad leaders, Dragonmancer. I will be honest with you, if you’ll have me.”
I looked at Rupert thoughtfully. I had always liked to back an underdog, and the way that the watchers had jumped on Rupert’s case had only endeared the mad-looking man to me. Besides, if I did decide to take him on, I could beat him one-on-one in about three seconds flat. It’d be an easy win, and potentially a useful one too, if he was as skilled at healing as he said.
“Rupert,” I said, “get some healing bits and pieces together—nothing too fancy, just something to heal shallow cuts. And, also, tell me, do you know your other aspirants here?”
Rupert looked sideways down the line, then back at me. He nodded. “I know them all fairly well, Dragonmancer.”
“Who would you say you would be most comfortable with shooting at the feather on your hat and pinning it to a wall that you’re standing against?” I asked casually.
Rupert goggled at me. H
e was one of life’s naturally blessed gogglers at any rate, so when his eyes popped, they really popped.
“Is this a hypothetical assessment, Dragonmancer?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Forgive me for saying so, Dragonmancer, but that strikes me as somewhat d-d-dangerous, and the rules—”
“The rules of this selection process say that I can’t kill you, but I don’t think they mention anything about another challenger accidentally handing you your harp.”
There was some excited muttering from the crowd at these words. The pack smelled blood.
“Besides!” I said. “You seem like a smart cookie! You’ll pick someone that won’t miss, won’t you? And even if they do nick you a little bit, you’ve got the healing skills to patch yourself up, right?”
“Uh, admittedly, I’m not sure if my healing capabilities w-will stretch to retracting ten inches of arrow out of m-my own head, Dragonmancer,” Rupert replied.
“Bummer,” I said. “Because this is your big chance, Rupert. You pick a winner here, and you might well get your shot at being in my squad. So, who is the archer whose skills you’d hang your hat on?”
Rupert swallowed, setting that Adam’s apple of his to bobbing again. Then, without looking, he jerked his thumb at the man standing right next to him.
Somehow, this guy had totally escaped my notice. He was… unassuming. I didn’t think he had even come forward to speak his name at the beginning of the inspection. He was dressed in his uniform, but had a cloak fastened around his neck, and his face was pointed at the floor. A curtain of long auburn hair fell to either side of his face, obscuring it.
“And you are?” I asked the brooding fellow.
Rupert nudged the man. Slowly, he raised his head, revealing a stubbly jaw and a pair of bright yellow eyes, as piercing and cold as those of a hawk.
“What’s your name, buddy?” I asked again.
The man didn’t answer. A few people in the crowd snickered.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” I asked.
There was a chorus of chuckling at this. The warrior snarled through clenched teeth and looked about at the crowd, fury blazing across his features.
“He’s, um, actually missing his tongue, Dragonmancer,” Rupert said.
“Ah,” I said. I looked over at Saya, who was obviously trying not to laugh. I looked back at the red-headed, yellow-eyed soldier in front of me. “Don’t I feel like a fucking asshole,” I said.
“We call him, ah, Gabby,” Rupert said. “It’s one of those ironic nicknames.”
“Yeah. Very good,” I said stonily.
Silence settled over the cavern.
I pondered these two, Rupert and Gabby. The former, in a pre-modern world, would be worth his weight in salt. The latter, according to Rupert, was an excellent marksman. Rupert had been willing to bet his life on Gabby’s skill, so it seemed likely that he could work his way around a bow and arrow.
There it was. My decision.
“Fuck it,” I said. “Rupert. Gabby. You’re in, too.”
A babble of voices exploded out around the chamber, sending the torch flames to flickering in their sconces. As the administrator tried to get the crowd back under control, Saya stood up and said into my ear, “I don’t think anyone here would have put money on you picking those three. Bjorn yes, but the other two…”
“So, what, now I fight them?” I asked.
“Yes. You’ll need to defeat each of them in single combat. One at a time. It’s best to defeat each man as fast as you can.”
I nodded. “Right, because I’m only going to get more tired, while each new man is going to be fresh as a fucking daisy.”
“Quite,” Saya said.
“And if I lose?” I asked.
Saya gave me a funny look, as if she couldn’t tell if this was some Earthling joke that she didn’t understand. “To lose is to die, Mike,” she said. “Tradition cannot be done away with. Even for someone as rare as you, the first male dragonmancer in years.”
I raised my eyebrow. I’d somehow forgotten about that. “Right,” I said. “I guess I’ll be winning then.”
Chapter Thirteen
“All right,” Saya said, “you need to lose any jewelry, your belt, your shirt, and your boots.”
I had to laugh at that. It was turning out to be quite a lot like Fight Club.
“What’s so funny?” Saya asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just noticing certain similarities.”
As I pulled off my jacket and began to unlace my Timberlands, I had a quick glance around the chamber. It was obvious that the cleared space in the middle of the cavern was the fighting floor. It was about as rudimentary a combat space as you could possibly get, and I imagined that was exactly why the squad-choosing fights were fought here. There was no way that anyone could gain an advantage from the environment itself, as there was none. The fighting arena was literally a bare dirt floor.
There’s always something you can use as a weapon, I reminded myself. Even if it is just a floor to bounce someone’s head off.
“Hey, have you thought about who you’re going to call into the arena first?” Saya asked me, taking my jacket from me and watching me as I unbuttoned my shirt. “Have you thought of the order you want to face your opponents?”
“Are you going to tell me anything about them that might sway my decision?” I asked.
“No,” Saya said simply.
“Thought not,” I said, pulling my shirt off and handing it to her. I rolled my shoulders, twirled my arms, and touched my toes a few times. I straightened up and saw that Saya was looking at me approvingly. “What?” I asked.
“I just… I mean, I have heard so little of Earth and its inhabitants,” she said. “The last Earthling dragonmancer we had was in her dotage when I first arrived and had taken up a post as a Master of Histories. I never saw her leave her library and workroom. She was a brilliant tactician, but I could never imagine her as a frontline warrior. You though…” She reached out a hand, traced light fingers across the muscles of my chests, and ran her hand down to trace the lines of my obliques.
I grabbed her hand to stop it traveling even further south. “Ah, I’m trying to get my head in the game here,” I chided her good-naturedly. “Kind of hard when my imagination is running all over the place. Besides, you’ve seen all this and more, you minx.”
Saya gave me a small smile. “I’m sorry,” she said. Then she cleared her throat and said, “You have nothing to fear, I think. You look strong. Stronger even than I thought at first.”
“Rosco would be glad to hear that,” I said.
“Who’s Rosco?” Saya asked.
“My old trainer back on Earth,” I said. “Now, I think I’ve got my order sorted. I’m going to start with Rupert and knock him out as fast as I can. I don’t want to embarrass him too much in front of these people, who I think have a pretty low regard for him.”
“Admirable but, as a dragonmancer, an unnecessary concern,” Saya said. “They are the soldiers of the Mystocean Empire—yours to command. You should not worry about them unduly.”
This sat uncomfortably with me as a human, but I didn’t want to go into it now. “Cut me some slack,” I said with a wry smile. “It’s my first day.”
“Fair enough,” Saya said. “Who’s next?”
“I’ll move onto the big guy, Bjorn,” I said. “I’m hoping that, after he’s seen me deal with Rupert in a no-nonsense fashion, he might be a bit less sure of himself.”
“True. Or he might be more cautious. He might have you figured out by that point.”
“I think it’s a justifiable gamble,” I said. “I don’t want to run the risk of getting caught up with him for fifteen minutes and then be sucking air like an old man against the other two. Tell me one thing if you can, though,” I said, glancing over at Bjorn who was chatting unconcernedly with a couple of elvish-looking women in the crowd. “Is that guy, Bjorn, human or what?”
“Jotunn?” I echoed. He was a big bastard, but to hear that he was half giant seemed almost unbelievable. If he was this world’s version of Hagrid, then I’d have my work cut out for me.
“And you want to leave the mute—Gabby, as the rest of the troopers call him—until last?” Saya said.
“Yeah. He’s the unknown entity, I think. I’ll just have to hope that I’m in a condition to deal with him by that time.”
Saya clapped me on the shoulder. “You didn’t even end up testing out his bow skills,” she said. “I think those watching found that puzzling.”
“Found what puzzling?” I asked, jumping on the spot to get the blood pumping a little more.
“That you took the word of Rupert that this mute was the best archer out of those assembled in front of you,” Saya replied.
“Yeah, well, if you ask someone who they would trust with guarding their life and watching their back, they’re probably going to give a solid answer. I figured that was sufficient.”
“Wise,” Saya said. “Gabby is, indeed, the best archer present. I haven’t seen everyone here, but Gabby has won more contests than anyone in the history of the Academy. Rupert, though, he looks half-cracked to me. An unsound egg.”
I looked over to where Rupert was sitting in a basic seating area for those selected to fight the dragonmancers—nothing more than a few wooden chairs in a small area cordoned off from the rest of the crowd by more of the purple rope. The twitchy guy was running his fingers through a small basket and muttering to himself, occasionally nodding and holding something up for inspection in the poor, flickering light cast by the torches. I guessed he’d had his healing bits and pieces stashed nearby or waiting with a friend and was going through them in case I called on him for a demonstration. I liked that. It showed foresight. It showed preparation.
“Rupert might be a little cracked on the surface,” I said, “but who isn’t? I think though, that he’s a good egg. Sound. Mad enough to trust.”