by Dante King
“Dragonmancer,” the administrator said respectfully from next to me, “are you ready to begin?”
I squeezed my fists together and felt the knuckles pop.
“I’m ready,” I affirmed.
“And the order of the combatants?” the purple-uniformed man asked.
I told him. He bowed his head and scurried off to inform the three men that I had made my selection and that they should ready themselves.
There was no point hesitating. There was a job that needed doing, an obstacle that needed clearing, a goal that needed completing. That was what it boiled down to. One fight, one opponent at a time.
Just another day.
“Good luck,” Saya said as I turned and walked out into the cleared space.
“Thanks,” I said with a nod.
The noise in the cavern was growing now. The cheers and boos and catcalls of the watchers was building, winding up like the engine of an Airbus. I felt the old, shuddering pre-combat thrill undulate up my spine and flood my brain.
My senses sharpened almost painfully. I could smell the damp, clay earth. I could feel it pressing between my bare toes. The dim white light filtering down from the oculus above mingled with the smoky illumination cast by the torches burning on the craggy cavern walls.
I realized that I was grinning.
This is what I live for, I told myself. This is when I feel most alive.
I took in a deep breath and watched as Rupert stepped over the ropes and into the circle. There were a few derisive shouts, but mostly the noise was just one, long continuous roar. It felt like we were fighting in the throat of some massive beast, some stone dragon’s mouth filled with smoke and flickering firelight and the grumbling growl of a hunger that needed to be slaked.
Rupert began hopping up and down, jumping and pulling his knees up to his chest like some sort of gangly grasshopper. With his shirt off, I could see that he was even skinnier than I had thought; all ribs and knobby spine and sharp collar bones pointing through taut skin.
His eyes were wide and seemed to be taking in everything. He’d removed the ridiculous feathered cap that he had been wearing, but in its place, he had tied a strip of cloth around his head. He looked like the bastard fashion offspring of the kid from Juno and Sylvester Stallone in Rambo.
I stretched my neck from side to side and stepped out to meet the whippy dude. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, springing about like a kangaroo that’d just snorted a line. There was no formal starting of the fight—no ringing of the bell or anything like that. The two of us exchanged curt nods and that was enough.
Get it over and done quickly, I told myself. No showboating.
I lunged in, faked a punch at Rupert, and then lashed out with a kick that should have swept his spindly legs out from under and sent him crashing to the deck. However, Rupert sprang over my side kick with the sort of agility you might more commonly see displayed by something living on the edge of a pond and going after a fly. He landed in a neat crouch, clawed at the earth, spun to the right, and chucked a handful of dirt into my eyes.
“Son of a—!” I said, taking a step back.
Instinctively, I ducked and dodged off to the side, blinking furiously to try and clear my vision. I felt something brush past my temple and heard the crowd gasp as one.
Cheeky fucker almost got me! I thought.
I faked to one side, and then stepped to the other and managed to clear the dirt from my eyes. I faked another side kick at Rupert, who was moving in on his springy feet, and the skinny dude performed a side flip mixed with a kick that would have Brazilian capoeira masters strewing flowers at his feet.
The motherfucker could move, there was no denying that. I had the feeling that catching him was going to be about as easy as putting socks on a rooster.
Rupert bounced into range and let loose with a couple of pirouetting kicks that, thanks to my fighter’s reactions, flashed past my nose.
I knew myself well enough to know that I was not as fast as Rupert, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have a turn of speed. I was quick for a big guy.
I stepped in and snapped out a jab that caught the smaller man in the hollow of his shoulder. The force of the punch rotated him on the spot, and the crowd cheered. I followed in, making to grab Rupert, but the tweaker of an herbalist slipped aside and ripped at my face with an unapologetic attempt at an eye-gouge. I pulled my head back just in time, but still received a couple of scratches across the cheek for my trouble.
As all good fighters must, I adapted my strategy in the blink of an eye—an eye that I had almost lost not a moment before.
I staggered back, clutching my face. The crowd let out a bellow. It was the group equivalent of a hound baying at the scent of a fox. They thought that Rupert, the little skinny healer that many of them had mocked, had just landed a good one on a prospective dragonmancer, and they were loving it.
Their cries of adulation and admiration must have done exactly what I had hoped they would; gone to Rupert’s head like cheap wine. I watched from between my fingers as he bounded toward me and reached out a hand to grab at my long brown hair.
He’s a dirty fighter. A ruthless little shit, my subconscious noted. A handy man to have in a tight corner.
In a flash, I knocked Rupert’s reaching left arm aside with the back of my own left hand. Taking advantage of his momentary lack of balance, I clocked him hard in the side of the neck with the outside of my right fist and was rewarded with a squawk of pain. Without retracting the hand that I’d used to crack him, I grabbed the stricken Rupert by the back of the neck and wrenched his face down to meet my knee that was coming up.
There was a dull thud of bone meeting flesh. Rupert, without so much as a whimper or a sigh, keeled over backward and lay unconscious on the floor.
There was a slight delay in the cheering, as if the crowd had been caught by surprise. Their surprise wasn’t unwarranted, given that Rupert looked like he might have bested me at the beginning of the fight. The skinny guy had looked so promising, and now he was laid out in the dirt. He couldn’t have been out colder if he’d been bitch-slapped by a polar bear.
I took a deep breath through my nose and expelled it. Then I leaned forward and made sure that the herbalist was, in fact, still of this world. I must have switched his lights out pretty good because, although he was senseless, his eyes were still open and staring blankly up at the ceiling. I looked around at the crowd. The brief bout of cheering had died down already, and the spectators were craning forward to see what the result was.
“He’s still breathing!” I called. “Bring in the big lad!”
I almost felt the air in the cavern thin as the watchers took in a collective breath and then began to shriek and whoop their approval at these words. There was, I felt, a measure more respect in the eyes now. I had thought that Rupert had been the underdog, but, maybe, I’d been wrong in that assumption. Maybe the soldiers of the Crystal Spire had less regard for the abilities of humans than I might have guessed.
Rupert was carted out from the ring, and Bjorn entered. I was wondering how we should begin the fight, with a bow or a nod or something else altogether. I didn’t have to wonder long, though, because Bjorn came charging at me like a bull that had just mistaken me for the mother of all red flags.
The big half-Jotunn came roaring in, head down, arms outthrust to catch me in a bear hug. It was a fitting move for a man that looked very much like a bear that had been strategically shaved. Luckily, the bellow he let loose as he came rushing toward me gave me plenty of time to assess his path and act accordingly.
Just as he was about to plow into me like a runaway train, I jumped up and rolled over his broad back—in the same way that you see the people in the movies roll over the hood of a car as it hits them at low speed. I landed behind him and gave the big man a hard kick to the seat of his pants. This sent him teetering forward, and he crashed face-first into the dirt. He skidded along, leaving a furrow in the dirt like a spacesh
ip smashing back down to earth.
The crowd jeered and laughed, but I didn’t stand around soaking up their adulation like an amateur. Instead, I sprang on Bjorn’s back, intending to use his face to dig a hole into the ground. It was either that or put him in a rear naked choke from which he’d drift peacefully into unconsciousness as I cut the oxygen flow to his brain.
Bjorn, though, apparently had a different plan. He let loose a rumbling laugh as I landed on his back and said, “Well, well, if there ain’t a fly on my back! But, by the gods, it feels like one hell of a blue bottle!”
In reply, I cracked my elbow into the big man’s head once… and then once more for good measure. Showing off was all well and good in WWE, maybe, where things were scripted and what not, but in the real world that shit just got you into trouble.
The crowd let out an appreciative groan. It was a groan that said, “That had to have got the bells ringing!”
I was with them. Despite his size, Bjorn would have felt those two strikes all the way down to his toes.
Then, Bjorn laughed again. Quicker than I would have thought possible, he squirmed around so that he and I were suddenly face to face. Then, with a heave of his great shoulders and chest combined, the huge bastard threw me off him—tossed me over his head as if I weighed less than a child. He was chuckling as he did it too.
I landed on all fours and bounded to my feet. This was no time to stand about scratching my head and wondering how the hell to take down this giant albino Viking-looking son of a bitch. Better just to get in there and start hammering away.
I struck out with first one kick and then another; a side kick to the half-giant’s ribs followed by a roundhouse kick to his stomach as he regained his feet. The only result of these two blows was a slight gasp as the second kick landed and drove him back a step.
It should have knocked him on his ass, clutching at his ribs like he’d just been struck with a baseball bat.
“Oi, oi! It’s a stinging fly!” Bjorn yelled jovially to the crowd.
In response to this jibe, I ducked under another slow lunge and let loose a flurry of jabs into Bjorn’s ribs, finishing with an uppercut into his kidneys. It was the kind of punch that would have laid out another man, but Bjorn just let out a theatrical groan, and then reached out and grabbed me by the shoulders.
The man’s got no finesse, I noted as Bjorn flung me from him.
Strong though, my brain added helpfully as I performed a double flip and crashed into the ground to a chorus of hoots from the crowd.
Reflexively, I rolled over to my right straight away. It was a good thing too, because Bjorn’s size 26 foot smacked down exactly where my head had been a fraction of a second later.
I hopped up to my feet, just in time to block a haymaker with my forearm. Even though I had got my arm up in time, the punch still sent me reeling across the fighting floor and almost over the ropes separating the combatants from the crowd.
Bjorn thundered out a rumbling war cry and beat his chest with his fists like some kind of albino, shaved gorilla. Eager hands in the audience pushed me back into the fray, and I had to duck a swing that might have knocked my block off had it connected.
“Come here,” Bjorn growled, lunging at me, throwing his fists forward again.
His big pale fingers got hold of my shoulder, but I twisted out of his grip. I feinted with my left hand, then stomped forward with a textbook MMA front kick. It was the sort of kick that could give you a bit of room in a fight, aimed at your opponent’s stomach. This time though, what with Bjorn being about a foot taller than I was, I aimed at his knee. There was a satisfying crunch as my kick connected.
“Spawn of a hellhound!” Bjorn roared.
He whipped around, throwing out a hand the size of a dinner plate. I almost avoided the backhand, but Bjorn’s knuckles cracked across my nose and mouth. It was like being hit across the face by a rubber glove filled with brazil nuts. I staggered backward, tasting blood but making sure to keep my guard up as well as I was able. Bjorn made a move in my direction but howled as he put his considerable weight on his injured leg.
I grinned a bloody smile and spat a gob of crimson at his feet. I glanced over to where Saya was standing and saw that Elenari was standing next to her. Elenari must have joined the other woman some time during the fight. The pair of beautiful dragonmancers seemed to have put away their earlier differences and clash of views. The two women were leaning forward, watching me intently. I flashed them both a wink, and they smiled in return.
Then I turned back to Bjorn, raised my fists, and set my stance. “All right, Tinkerbell, let’s be having you.”
I doubted Bjorn knew who Tinkerbell was, but he got the tone of my comment just fine. Regardless of his busted leg, he let loose another roar and lumbered toward me.
The man clearly had testicular fortitude, but it was also clear that I’d gotten under his skin. If I managed to lay his big ass out and he became part of my squad, then we would have to work on that. He hadn’t liked the fact that I’d hurt him, and I suspected that he’d cultivated a reputation as a man who was basically impossible to best.
Well, there was a first time for everything, wasn’t there?
He came swinging at me like an irate windmill. Punch after punch, I ducked and weaved, waiting for an opening that I hoped he’d provide.
I sacrificed a blow to the body and felt my ribs creak as a heavy left from Bjorn’s meaty fist thudded into me. Using the opening that this hit created, I used his thigh as a launching pad and flipped myself backward in a tight backflip. I swept my right leg up and felt my foot connect with the big man’s head.
That stunned him for just a moment. I landed squarely on my feet, the movement punctuated by gasps and applause from the audience. It was a martial arts move I hadn’t even been sure I could have pulled off, and they seemed pleased with it.
Bjorn blinked dazedly at me. Then his face contorted in fury. He stepped forward, cried out in pain as his weight went once more onto his busted leg, and then staggered into me. Using the half-giant’s own weight to my advantage, I planted my back foot, and then smashed him in the chin with an open-handed palm strike.
My strike connected with as much force as it possibly could have done.
Immovable object, meet unstoppable force.
It was that kind of impact.
There was a horrible crunchy clack as Bjorn’s open bottom jaw cracked into his upper one. At least three big teeth made a break for freedom from the Frost Giant’s mouth. One got caught in the tangled beard. For a second, the half-giant just stopped in his tracks, and I realized that my extended arm was actually holding the guy up by his chin. I whipped it away, and Bjorn crashed onto his knees.
Slowly, like a man whose brain was trying to play catch-up, Bjorn looked up at me.
“I’m on my knees,” he mumbled through his bloody mouth.
“You are, yeah,” I panted.
“Have I been down ‘ere long?” Bjorn slurred.
“About three seconds, I reckon,” I said.
“I’m gonna get back up in a bit,” Bjorn rumbled, blood drooling out of his smashed lips and into his white-blonde beard.
“Stupidity isn’t a crime, Bjorn, so you’re free to do what you like, but I wouldn’t advise getting up, big fella,” I warned him.
“You’re not the… boss of me,” Bjorn said, and collapsed forward. I managed to catch his head before he kissed dirt and knocked out any more of his teeth.
“Thanks,” came the deep voice from down by my toes.
“All right,” I yelled, “help this guy out of here!”
The noise was deafening in the cavern now. The watching warriors screamed themselves hoarse, as they jumped up and down, their arms around each other’s shoulders. Clearly, me taking down Bjorn had awarded a few gamblers some good winnings.
I let out a little groan, which was lost in the din that enveloped me, and walked over to where Elenari and Saya were standing.
“Ho
w am I doing?” I asked my two roomies.
Elenari looked at the sweat running down my chiseled torso, at the blood around my mouth. “Well,” she said, “you’re still alive.”
“Yeah, still alive,” I said.
I knew that well enough. The thunderous hits to the body that I had taken from Bjorn had already begun to take their toll. Still, I could persevere. After all, it was either that or throw in the towel and be known throughout these parts as the would-be dragonmancer who lost. I wasn’t even sure what would happen if I chose not to enter Round 3, but it wasn’t like I’d ever forfeit and find out.
“Still one to go, though,” said Saya. She motioned over to where the mysterious Gabby had got to his feet.
The mute was in the little roped-off area reserved for the men that I had picked out. A couple of soldiers were helping Bjorn over to the area, one man supporting him under each arm. He looked rather unsteady on his feet.
Rupert had been sitting next to Gabby with something like a poultice or compress over one eye. Even from here, I could see the edge of the bruise beneath it. When the twitchy healer caught me looking in his direction, he grinned and gave me a thumbs-up. From the size of his grin, you would have thought that me switching his lights out with a knee to the head had been the highlight of his week.
“I’ll patch Bjorn up a treat in no time,” Rupert said.
I nodded at him. This would, I figured, be a good test of his healing abilities.
I turned back to the arena. Gabby was standing impassively in the middle of it. His head was down, his hands behind his back, but I caught the glint of his yellow eyes through the auburn hair hanging in front of his face. He was watching and waiting.
“All right, let’s get this over and done with,” I said, shaking my hands a little and flexing my fingers.
With that, I took a leaf out of Bjorn’s book and sprinted at Gabby. The noise of the crowd propelled me onward. I only had a little left in the tank, while Gabby was fresh off the bench and an unknown entity. Better to get him down and out before I found out that he was some mysterious Raiden-type dude.