The Ultimate Dragon Fighting Championship

by John P. Logsdon

  And with that, both men dragged themselves out of the room and towards the field of battle.

  It’s about Time

  Ricky wisely stayed outside of the cave this time as he yelled for Crazell to get ready.

  She already knew it was time for battle, but she wasn’t interested. This day would mark the starting point for the real struggles the rest of her life would bring.

  “I really would rather not,” she said, sulking.

  “It’s the big game, baby,” he yelled back in. “You know it. This is what we’ve been working for your entire career.”

  “Not for the same reasons you think, I’m afraid.”

  “Semantics.”

  “I don’t want this, Ricky.”

  “Maybe it’s just nerves, ya know?”

  “It’s really not. I’ve been putting a lot of thought to this and I genuinely don’t want to win this tournament.”

  “How can you say that?” he said. “I mean, I get that you don’t want to have to deal with the ramifications of winning. But to say you don’t want to win at all? That’s just baffling, Craz.”

  “Be that as it may, it’s true.”

  “Look, Craz, we’ve been talking about this for years. This is the big one. The twenty-fifth title defense. Nobody’ll ever eclipse that. You’ll be a legend. Your name will be revered.”

  She eyed the cave mouth. “So?”

  “So that’s a big deal,” he replied. “You’re a dragon, for crying out loud. How can you not want this?”

  “Like I said before, it won’t end there.”

  “I’ve already told you that I’ll stand at the microphone with you after the event while you announce that you’re leaving the sport.” Ricky was standing at the opening of the cave now. “That’s not a problem at all.”

  “Right, and then we go our separate ways.”

  “Well, hopefully we’ll stay friends, but that’s the right of it.”

  “And for the rest of your life you’ll be a sought-after coach?”

  “My prospects are looking pretty good.”

  It would be good for him and the Schmicky family, too. How could it not be? Who else in the world could claim to coach as many victories as his lineage? Granted, it was all through a single dragon, but they wouldn’t care about that.

  “And what about me, Ricky?”

  He squatted down and looked up at her.

  “What about you, Craz?”

  “Remember, I’ll be the dragon that everyone will want to find and challenge.” They’d just had this discussion, for crying out loud! “They’ll all want to see if they can best me in a fight. I’ll never be left alone. I’ll never get any rest. I’ll spend the remainder of my days taking on one challenger after another.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you said before, but it’s too late to do anything about that right now. This is the big show, Craz.” He stood up and sighed. “I promise you, though, we will figure out everything afterwards.”

  “I hope so, Ricky,” she said as she started to move. “I truly hope so.”

  The First Battle

  The announcers arrived at roughly the same time. They weren’t exactly friends, but rather professional acquaintances. This was because the announcer business was quite cutthroat, especially in the Upperworld.

  Optical was a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of guy. He was born in the Underworld to a halfling father and a troll mother. The halfling side of him made for a short stature, bushy hair, and oversized feet. The troll side gave him a rich-timbre voice and exacting dialect. He enjoyed public speaking, but he would be the first to admit that he had a face for radio.

  His counterpart for this event was Homer Melvin Durfitz. Homer was a wizard—or used to be until he lost his wizarding license. The records were sealed on precisely what he’d done to lose his Guild membership, but Optical guessed it had something to do with a rigged betting scheme on some type of sporting event.

  Optical had no issues with Homer, personally, though he did find it odd that the man dressed in fancy sport coats and pants so tight that they almost appeared to be painted on. To each his own, was Optical’s motto.

  “Optical,” Homer Melvin Durfitz said with a nod as he donned his swim goggles.

  This was another oddity that Optical recalled about Homer. It seemed that the human felt it best to protect his eyes at UDFC events because body parts and blood tended to hit the crowd during battles. Seeing that they were sitting near the top of the stadium, though, made the goggles rather pointless.

  “Homer,” Optical replied in turn.

  He got to setting up the panel and microphones, putting on his headset and adjusting volumes. They both did sound checks to make sure all levels were set.

  Optical had already familiarized himself with the various fighters, but only so he could run the play-by-play. It was Homer’s job to do color commentary.

  The green light flicked on, signaling that they were on the air.

  “Welcome, everyone, to the Ultimate Dragon Fighting Championship,” Optical said in his smooth voice. “This is event number one hundred in the UDFC and the cards show some pretty interesting warriors. My name is Optical and with me through this event is Homer Melvin Durfitz.”

  “It’s a pleasure to be here, or anywhere for that matter.”

  “Indeed it is, and we should note that this year’s event is being brought to you by Stackowiak’s Pub. Located on Main Street in the town of Planoontik in the Underworld, Stackowiak’s Pub carries beer, liquor, fine wine, and not-so-fine wine. They also offer plenty of fried yummies on the menu. If you want booze, Stackowiak’s has it!”

  “Very good booze,” agreed Homer.

  Optical cleared his throat. “Right. So, what do you see for the event, Homer?”

  “There is a lot of talent on the cards this year,” Homer replied. “Fighters will fight and blood will be shed. There will be swordplay and fisticuffs and dragon flames.”

  Optical sighed. “Thank you for the deep insights.”

  Homer nodded, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and poured a glass.

  “The on-field announcer has just introduced our first contestants and the bout is underway.” Optical adjusted in his chair for a better look at the field. “On the one side we have Emrek the dwarf and on the other we have Toross the elf. These two match well on the card, eh, Homer?”

  “Oh, most definitely. I’d give the dwarf the edge, though, seeing as how his reach is easily half that of the elf.”

  Optical had to think twice about that.

  The bell rang to signal the fighters to begin.

  “And the two take the center of the ring,” Optical said as the action began. “Emrek swings his axe outside the range of Toross, who turns, jumps forward, and stabs the ground.”

  “This is an odd start to the fight,” noted Homer. “Must be nerves.”

  “They’ve gone to pacing around each other as if seeing who will make the first move.”

  Homer took a sip of whiskey. “It’s the standard feeling-out phase of the fight, Optical.”

  “They seem to be having a conversation of some sort,” Optical noted.

  “Insider tip is to get under the skin of your opponent,” explained Homer. “If his emotion gets the better of him, he’ll make more mistakes.”

  “One would imagine,” agreed Optical, “except that they’ve both thrown down their weapons.”

  Homer leaned forward, setting his glass down.

  “Ah, they’re going to go old school and fight hand-to-hand. That’s something we’ve not seen in years.”

  “They’ve moved into a clinch. It looks like there is a struggle to see who can get whom on the ground first and…” He paused and did a double-take. “No, wait, that’s not what’s happening at all.”

  “I count myself as being well-versed in the sport,” Homer said slowly, “but this is definitely a new style of mixed martial arts.”

  “It appears that they’re hugging each other.”

  “W
ell, that’s a strategy you don’t see every day.”

  “And they’ve both thrown in the white towel as well,” Optical said as both men sat there dumbfounded.

  “The crowd isn’t going to like this.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Optical. “In fact, they are launching tomatoes and drinks at the two as they leave the arena.”

  Fight the Knight

  Gungren heard his name announced after Barrie and Muriel got his gloves put on and set.

  His stomach felt strange as he walked down the hallway and out onto the field. There were a lot of people in the stands and they were all cheering. That didn’t make things any better.

  A human with a powerful voice was introducing both fighters, but Gungren was having trouble focusing. Part of it was nerves, but there was also a flicker of something deep in his mind that made him desire to throw rocks. It had to be due to the impending battle.

  It was just one more thing to worry about.

  “You’re fighting the toughest knight in the land here, kid,” said Barrie. “But you’ve got the edge. Get him up against the ropes and keep jabbing him in the gut until he keels over.”

  “There aren’t no ropes, mister,” Gungren pointed out.

  Barrie glanced around. “Oh, yeah. Well, get him up against the wall then.”

  “The wall is out of bounds.”

  “True.” Barrie snapped his fingers. “Okay, so just punch him in the stomach a lot.”

  “But he got a sword.”

  “Nobody said this was gonna be easy, kid.”

  Muriel leaned in. “Just do your best, Gungren. There’s no shame in losing, if that’s what it comes to.”

  “Don’t tell him that,” Barrie said in shock. “He needs the eye of the dragon if he’s to have any chance of surviving this fight!”

  “Chimsley has made it to the semi-finals at every event I’ve worked,” Optical said into the microphone. “He’s tall, muscular, and wears his full plate armor for these events.”

  “Some say that plate armor should be banned as it gives an unfair advantage,” noted Homer. “I don’t see a problem with it, personally. Why shouldn’t a fighter be able to wear a suit of armor that makes him nearly impossible to defeat?”

  “It’s a solid point,” said Optical, even though he knew quite well Homer had meant it sarcastically. “His challenger is a late entrant by the name of Gungren. He is a wizard’s apprentice and a former giant.”

  Homer glanced at the field. “I have to say that the last giant I saw was much taller.”

  The bell rang.

  “And the fight is on. Chimsley charges full on at Gungren, lunging his blade at the smaller man’s midsection, only to miss as Gungren steps to the side.”

  “That little guy is faster than he looks,” said Homer.

  “Chimsley spins and lifts the blade high in the air for a downward arcing strike. Gungren steps in and punches the knight directly in the stomach.”

  “Punching steel plating?” Homer said with a laugh. “His brain must still retain that stereotypical giant intellect.”

  “Or does it?” countered Optical. “It seems that Chimsley has dropped the sword and is gripping at his stomach.” Then both Optical and Homer stood up and stared down at the knight. “By The Twelve, look at that dent!”

  “Maybe this Gungren fellow has lead weights in his gloves?” Homer said, sounding as baffled as Optical felt.

  “I couldn’t say, but Chimsley is having a whale of a time trying to breathe.” Optical nearly had to rub his eyes at what happened next. “Wait a second. It looks like Gungren is rushing to Chimsley’s aid.”

  “Now I’ve seen everything,” Homer said and then took another drink.

  “He’s squeezing the sides of the knight’s armor and the front has popped back out. Chimsley has fallen over, though. The referee is waving his hands, signaling that the match is done. Gungren has won it.”

  The two men sat back down.

  “I must say that this is by far the strangest start to any tournament I’ve been privy to in all my years,” Homer said.

  “That it is,” Optical agreed. “There was that one cage match a few years ago on the amateur circuit where the halfling went around using his massive feet to crush the toes of his competitors.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember that one. It was definitely outside of the norm.”

  “It was a shame to see that fellow get all the way to the semi-final only to face an ogre with steel spikes on his boots,” Optical said, wincing as he recalled the visual.

  Homer shuddered. “Dreadful memory, that.”

  “Indeed.”

  Preparing to Save Gungren

  Heliok, Corg, Misty, and Aniok stood with their jaws hanging slack as Gungren’s hand was raised in victory.

  “Didn’t see that comin’,” stated Corg, unable to tear his eyes from the screen.

  “It was definitely a step up from watching that dwarf and elf hugging each other in the first fight,” Aniok agreed.

  “Aye, that was right disturbing.” He then quickly added, “I’m not one of them who hates elves, mind, but warriors are meant to be trying to cleave each other up. It’s only right.”

  “Yep.”

  Heliok stood next to Misty, shaking his head. She looked just as perplexed as he did.

  “So our Gungren has made it through his first fight,” Heliok said. “This is rather impressive.”

  Misty nodded her agreement. “It’s going to make for excellent ratings.”

  “For both of us, Ms. Trealo.”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, sure, right.” She then glanced around and said, “What happened to West?”

  Heliok cleared his throat. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Collecting Winnings

  Stillwell was all smiles as he saw the little giant’s hand raised in the air. He had put a bet on the fellow after seeing him walk into the ring.

  Typically Stillwell carefully studied numbers and sheets, looking over statistical data and running scenarios before he would put his money on an event. But that had never won him anything, unless you considered being forced into becoming Teggins’ right-hand man as winning.

  So this time he just went with his gut. Something told him that this Gungren fellow would win. Hopefulness for the underdog, maybe? Possibly, but seeing as it was the first time Stillwell had ever won anything, it made it all the sweeter.

  “You won two hundred gold, temporary-boss,” said Bank after doing a quick calculation.

  “Did I?”

  “Yep. I took it off what you owe the boss.”

  “That should put me far ahead,” said Stillwell, thinking that maybe he was free of this world. “I had only borrowed one hundred gold originally.”

  “Yeah, but with interest you was in for five hundred.”

  “What?” choked Stillwell. “That’s impossible. It’s only been a year.”

  “Gotta read the fine print when you is filling out an agreement with the mob.”

  “Ridiculous.” Stillwell knew that organized crime was built on shady dealings, but this was beyond cruel. It was time for his gut feelings to get him out of this mess. “Put me down for another ten on Gungren in his next fight.”

  “You got it, temporary-boss.”

  Bank then clapped his hands and a couple of goons dragged in a man who looked to be in his late thirties. He was wearing a tunic that was likely not as tattered and torn when he’d arrived to confess his inability to pay. The goons certainly roughed him up slightly before delivering him to Stillwell.

  “This guy bet on the knight and lost,” announced Bank, “and he can’t pay up.”

  “It was supposed to be a sure thing,” complained the man, shaking free from the gripping hands of the goons.

  “Ain’t no such thing as a sure thing,” Bank explained, “unless you consider not paying up and therefore having your jaw busted as a sure thing.”

  The man looked utterly lost. “But there’s no way that little guy could ha
ve beaten a knight.” His eyes grew wide. “It’s been rigged.”

  “Don’t know nothin’ about that,” Bank replied without emotion. “I just know that you owe us money. Right, temporary-boss?”

  “So it seems. How much does he owe?”

  “Fifty gold.”

  “How much does he have?” Stillwell asked while staring at the debtor.

  “Twenty-five silver.”

  “I see.” That didn’t bode well for this guy’s ability to continue walking. “What kind of collateral does he have?”

  “Fingers, toes, kneecaps, teeth, jaw, elbows, and his head,” answered Bank.

  Stillwell remembered his call with Teggins and knew that he had to work to get the money from this man, and he also recalled the feeling of power at sentencing others today, but there was something about this guy that gave Stillwell pause. And he knew exactly what that was. It was like Stillwell was looking into a mirror.

  “What’s your name, good sir?”

  “Mooch,” the fellow replied.

  That was fitting. He looked more like a “Kirby” to Stillwell, though.

  “Do you own a house, a vehicle, or property of any kind?”

  “I’ve got a house, yeah.”

  “And how much is it worth?”

  “Bought it for five thousand gold back in the day.”

  “Do you know its value on the market today?” Stillwell asked, his finger hovering over the calculator that Teggins had used the day that Stillwell was dragged into this room.

  “Yeah, it’s worth nine thousand gold now.”

  “Perfect,” said Stillwell. “How much do you owe on the house?”

  “Eight thousand nine hundred and ninety.” Mooch coughed lightly. “We just refinanced.”

  “And got cash-out, I see.” Stillwell sighed.

  Didn’t that always seem to be the case with people? They catch a financial break and immediately just jump right back into debt. It happened to Stillwell every time.

  That gave him a thought.