The Ultimate Dragon Fighting Championship

by John P. Logsdon

  Whizzfiddle waited until they were out of earshot before turning back to Gungren.

  “No rocks,” he said, kneeling down and looking into his apprentice’s eyes. “You have to stay strong.”

  “But it tough, Master.”

  “I know it is, but you can do it.” A moment of inspiration struck. “Besides, you have to remember that if you touch a rock it will sting because of that spell I cast on you back before we left on this journey.” Gungren didn’t seem to care. “Look, just use the spell you made before and concentrate on staying a wizard by reading your book.”

  “Okay, Master.”

  “Promise me,” Whizzfiddle said, knowing how much keeping his word meant to Gungren.

  “I promise.”

  Round 2

  The moment the bell rang, Crazell flapped her wings and launched straight up into the air, obviously making sure that Gungren had no chance of grabbing her leg again.

  But that worked in his favor because he just walked to the middle of the ring, took the box out of his pocket, set it on the ground, and pressed the button on its side. Then he took a seat and started reading about magic.

  His master was right, it did help him take his mind off rocks. This was because it reminded him that to go back to being a giant would mean losing his ability to comprehend the things he was currently reading. That would be such a shame because Gungren really loved magic. It was intricate, complex, and yet so simple and smooth at the same time. Each spell was like a little puzzle to him. He loved magic so much that he’d even considered attempting to learn the elements of witchcraft. Their spells wouldn’t work by eating dirt. They required deep study and practice.

  That was an exciting thought.

  A screeching sound came from off to his right and he glanced over to see the huge red dragon diving at him.

  He casually turned to the next page as a ball of flame erupted all around the area, deflecting off the dome of protection that the little box afforded him.

  The referee blew his whistle and waved his hands as Crazell landed beside Gungren and snaked her head out to look over his shoulder. He knew she was there because she bumped her nose on his shield.

  The judges ran out onto the field, as did Crazell’s manager, and Whizzfiddle.

  “He can’t cast a spell in the ring,” Ricky Schmicky yelled. “That’s a disqualification.”

  “I agree,” the ref said, “but it’s up to the judges. Now just go back to your corner and let us handle this.”

  “He hasn’t done anything—”

  The ref pointed at Whizzfiddle. “Look, pal, rule book or not, you don’t belong out here. Go back to your corner and let the judges handle things, yeah?”

  “But…”

  “It okay, Master,” said Gungren as he pressed the button on the box to shut the shield down. “I got this. The book are helping.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep.”

  Whizzfiddle nodded, gave one more glance at the judges, and then walked back to the corner. Gungren was glad he had found such a good teacher. While he learned more about magic from books than he did from Whizzfiddle, he had learned more about himself than any book could teach.

  “You realize you’re not allowed to cast magic during a fight, right?” the witch named Teresa said to Gungren.

  “Yep.”

  “But you just decided to wing it and do so anyway?” asked Sephnedra.

  “Nope.”

  “Then I would say he has clearly broken one of the—” She stopped and looked at him. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “I not wing nothing,” he answered her. “I plan it.”

  “Speak out, little pal,” Stiermark said as he squatted down near Gungren. “What are ya talkin’ about?”

  “The rule book say that you can’t cast spells in the fight,” Gungren explained.

  Teresa pointed at him. “Exactly, so…”

  “But I not cast a spell during the fight.”

  “There was a magical shield surrounding you, young man,” Sephnedra noted. “We all saw it.”

  “Yep, but it wasn’t ‘cause I cast a spell during the fight,” Gungren argued. “I cast the spell for this at the hotel and put it in a box. That one.” He pointed at the box. “I opened the box here and the spell happened.”

  The ref sighed and pulled out his rule book. Then he rolled his eyes and looked at Gungren.

  “What page?” he asked.

  “Fifty-eight.”

  “Damn it, he’s right,” the ref said with his finger on the text. “He found a loophole. It specifically states he can’t cast a spell, but it doesn’t mention anything about enacting a previously cast one.”

  “Yep.”

  “Ah-ha, wait! It also states that an opponent may not be imbued with the magic of another wizard.”

  “I not inbred,” Gungren said swiftly. “I just look that way.”

  “Imbued,” the ref said again, this time more distinctly.

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll check it out, dudes,” Stiermark said as he popped a shroom in his mouth. “Just a sec.”

  “Oh boy,” said Teresa, “now he’ll be running around and screaming about a big yellow dot with a chomping mouth chasing him.”

  “Nah, gonna use it up when I cast the spell.” He picked up the box that Gungren had made and said, “WHO-CRAFTED-UP-THE-SHIELD-THIS-DUDE-HAS-SPINNIN?”

  A flash of colors surrounded the cube. It was dancing in various hues until finally forming the word “Gungren.”

  “Says this dude did it,” Stiermark stated, pointing at the little giant.

  “Then I would say that there is nothing more to discuss,” Teresa commented.

  Sephnedra looked at Gungren thoughtfully. “It does seem like it’s on the up and up.”

  “At least as far as the rules are written,” agreed Teresa.

  “Correct,” said Sephnedra.

  “Stickin’ it to the man, Gungren,” Stiermark said while slapping the little giant on the back. “Rock and roll, dude.”

  “Thanks,” Gungren replied. “I think.”

  For the rest of the round, Crazell blew flames at the shield, scraped it, bit it and even jumped up and down on it, but it wouldn’t budge. Gungren was as safe as could be.

  Finally, she stopped trying and spoke to Gungren instead.

  “What kind of warrior sticks a shield around himself and just sits there reading a book?” Crazell said in accusation as the crowd looked on.

  “I gotta read this or I’m gonna want to throw rocks at you,” Gungren replied.

  “So throw rocks at me,” she growled. “This is just embarrassing. I have been the champion for years. I don’t want to go out like this.”

  “What do you mean?” Gungren said, closing his book and looking up at her.

  “I mean that I’m going to retire after this tournament. It’s my twenty-fifth win in UDFC 100, and you’re making me look like a fool.”

  “I are sorry about that,” Gungren said, feeling bad. “I didn’t know. But I’m afraid to pick up the rocks.”

  “I don’t care if you’re afraid,” she said as the bell rang to signal the end of the second round. “Just do it and let’s end this thing already.”

  He Is a Clever One

  Corg shook his head in fascination at how Gungren was getting through this event. He knew that the fellow had gumption and was able to stand strong in the face of adversity—that much was proved over his last two quests. But this was beyond fathomable.

  “This is going to be the absolute bestselling show to ever hit the Underworld,” Misty said in that way only a business mogul could manage. “I’m going to be the most sought-after producer in the history of television.”

  “You have to give it to this Gungren fellow I selected,” Heliok said with heavy inflection. “He is quite a miracle worker.”

  Misty clearly hadn’t cared what Heliok had stated. She just kept looking off into the distance. Her dreams had obviously overtaken
rationality.

  “Companies will be lining up and begging for me to lead their teams.”

  “It’s these kinds of selections that mark me as being the one who should have an assistant, too, when you really think about it. I mean, what does Kilodiek do all day but sit there?”

  Corg eyed them both with contempt.

  “What are you two on about?” he said in a harsh voice, interrupting their thoughts. He pointed at Misty. “Yer over there making like ye suddenly poop gold, and it’s gettin’ on me last nerve.”

  “I’d treat me respectfully, if I were you, Corg,” she said. “You’re looking at the soon-to-be most important person in all of the film industry here.”

  “And yer lookin’ at the dwarf who can take yer precious little plans and twist them about during post-production,” he countered.

  Her breath caught. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Not if I’m after bein’ treated fairly,” he stated. “Remember, lass, that I ain’t like these Fates we’re after working for. I can’t be snapping me fingers and havin’ gold coins linin’ me pockets.”

  She was about to reply, but Corg spun on his heel and pointed at Heliok.

  “And yer off whinin’ about not bein’ after havin’ an assistant. What do ye need an assistant for? Anything ye want, ye can have at the clap of yer hands.” He grunted. “Yer just bein’ a dopey Fate.”

  “Hey, you’re right,” Heliok said after a few moments.

  “About which part?” Corg sought to clarify. “I’m guessin’ both.”

  “The clapping of my hands part, thank you very much.”

  “Ah.”

  Corg honestly hadn’t expected the daft Fate would have agreed with the other part.

  “In fact,” Heliok continued while strolling around the little room, “I’d argue it’s a sign of weakness for a Fate to have need of an assistant.” He stopped walking and started nodding. “Yes. Thank you, Corg. I feel much better now.”

  “Aye, okay,” Corg said heavily. “Definitely wasn’t after what I was shootin’ for.”

  Confronting Stillwell

  Stillwell had finished going over the books and calculating how much money would be left if he forgave everyone’s debt. There was still enough to live one hundred lifetimes. Teggins definitely knew how to pack money away.

  Bank opened the door and stuck his head inside.

  “You got company, boss-for-not-much-longer.”

  “Why are you calling me that?”

  A bunch of mobster types suddenly pushed past Bank. They were carrying baseball bats, brass knuckles, and chains, and they didn’t look happy.

  “Oh, I see.” Stillwell’s bladder threatened to loosen again, but he had to act strong. He pointed at the guy who was front and center. “Who are you?”

  “The name is Ruffins,” said the man.

  He wasn’t big, but he looked mean. Now, this was obviously a stereotype, and Stillwell felt bad about that, but the fellow was unshaven, had a scar running down the side of his face, was wearing an eyepatch, had gold teeth and, again, he was carrying a baseball bat that had undoubtedly been used to dent a few heads in its day.

  “I got a phone call from Teggins sayin’ that you was trying to muscle in on his territory,” the guy said.

  Stillwell blanched. “I thought he only had one phone call?”

  “Some of the guards owe him money,” replied Ruffins.

  “Ah.” Stillwell fought to calm himself as he remembered how loudly money spoke. “Do all of you also owe him money?”

  “Of course,” Ruffins replied as if it were a stupid question. “Everybody owes Teggins money.” The rest of the mob nodded their heads. “And by taking you to the cleaners, we get ten percent off what we owe forgiven.”

  It was time to start playing the game. This crew had just tipped their hand. They weren’t interested in putting the hurt on Stillwell just because Teggins had told them to do it. Their goal was to alleviate some of the financial pressure the crime boss had them under.

  “That’s not very much,” Stillwell said.

  Ruffins tapped the bat on his hand. “It helps, pal.”

  “Not really.” Stillwell held up the ledger he’d just completed working on. “You see, I’ve been looking over the books and it seems that Mr. Teggins has inflated his interest percentages and rules to the point where you’d have to pay him off, in full, with an additional thirty days interest to get out of your debt.”

  “Huh?” said Ruffins.

  Bank spoke up. “He’s sayin’ that you ain’t gettin’ out of debt. Ever.”

  “But I’ve been making payments,” Ruffins said, confused. “We’s all been making payments.”

  There were more nods.

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, gentlemen,” Stillwell said sadly, “but for every payment you make, you are further and further behind. You’ll never catch up.” He slowly looked up at their faces. “You’ll never be free from the leash of Mr. Teggins.”

  These guys obviously hadn’t placed in the top ten percent of their classes in school. Honestly, Stillwell imagined they had problems spelling their own names.

  “I don’t get it,” Ruffins said eventually.

  He decided to just get straight to the point.

  “Do you even know what you owe, Mr. Ruffins?”

  “I borrowed twenty-five gold, and I know there’s some interest and stuff, but I gotta be down to like five gold by now.”

  “Sorry, no.” He held up the book again. “It shows here that you currently owe ninety-seven gold.”

  “What?” The bat fell to the floor with a thud. “I’ve been paying that back for two years. Three gold a month!”

  Stillwell couldn’t help but feel pity for the man. Hell, even Stillwell himself had fallen into the same pit and he was in the top ten percent of his class back in school.

  “That just means you should have thirty-six gold paid down on a twenty-five gold loan.” He let that sink in for a moment. “Even at advanced interest, Mr. Ruffins, that is robbery. But again, your new balance is nearly four times what you originally borrowed, and that’s only after two years.”

  He let the book fall on the desk for dramatic effect. It reverberated throughout the room before leaving nothing but silence.

  The goons were staring at the floor in shock.

  “You’ll never get out, unless you win the lottery,” Stillwell said finally.

  “I’ll kill him,” Ruffins said as the angst built on his face. It was soon shared by the rest of the mob. “We’ll all kill him.”

  “Yes,” Stillwell agreed. “I would imagine you may want to, indeed.” He then held up a finger and added, “Out of curiosity, how would all of you like to win the lottery?”

  Ruffins blinked. “Huh?”

  “I’m taking over Teggins’ business, as you know,” Stillwell reminded them. “Clearly, he doesn’t like that, which is why you’re all here.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. “However, if I were to forgive all of your debts, and pay each of you fifty gold for a single favor, how would you feel about that?”

  They were all nodding with such vigor that Stillwell felt a breeze. He wasn’t surprised. If he had been in their shoes at the moment, he would be accepting the offer as well.

  “Bank, please give each of these men fifty gold and have them sign a paper that states they will aid me in the physical demise of Mr. Teggins upon his release from prison.”

  Then he glanced back at the goons.

  “I’m assuming all of you are okay with these terms?”

  Their nods continued.

  “Excellent.”

  The TalkyThingy rang. It was, of course, Teggins. Stillwell had fully expected this. Now he was relishing in it.

  “Want us to go, boss?” Bank asked.

  “No, I don’t,” he replied, feeling stronger than ever, “but I do expect you to remain silent. Understood?”

  Again, nods.

  Stillwell pressed the speaker o
ption on the TalkyThingy and said, “Hello, Mr. Teggins. How is prison treating you?”

  “Did my guys show up?”

  “They have, yes,” Stillwell replied, “and it has genuinely made me rethink things.”

  “I’ll bet it has,” Teggins said with a menacing chuckle. “But you ain’t out of the water yet, Stillwell. I’m still gonna pummel you to a pulp and then when you heal up, I’m gonna pummel you again. Five times of that and I’ll let you live to work cleaning toilets in the lower levels for the rest of your pathetic days.”

  “It does seem fair,” Stillwell said as he winked at the mob.

  They were all wearing greasy grins. The kind of grins you saw on people who knew well that one day they would be exacting revenge.

  “Yeah, it does,” Teggins said. “I’m glad you’re starting to see things my way, Stillwell. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll actually forgive you for this stupid attempt on your part?”

  “That would be a dream come true, Mr. Teggins.”

  “I’ll bet it would be.”

  “Sir, if I may speak to the guard who let you make the call, I’m sure I can work something out straightaway.”

  “You do that and I’ll knock off one of your beatings.”

  “You’re far too kind, Mr. Teggins,” Stillwell said as he rolled his eyes.

  “Yeah, I know.” Teggins called out a second later. “Hey, guard, come here. This guy wants to talk to you.”

  Stillwell was loving every minute of this. He knew if Teggins ever did get to him, that would spell the end of days, but something told him this plan was going to make that an impossibility for the former crime boss.

  “Hello?” said the guard.

  “Hello, friend,” Stillwell said while grinning evilly. “How would you like to have all of your debt forgiven?”

  Round 3

  The bell rang on round three and Gungren walked out to the center.

  He had no magic box to use and he knew quite well that Crazell wasn’t going to let him grab hold of her leg again.

  His thoughts were foggy anyway. All he could think about was throwing rocks. To the outsider, the incessant desire to throw rocks sounded silly, but it was a way of life for giants. It was how they hunted, how they played catch, and how they built rock mounds—they used these in case they went to war, which had only happened once in his lifetime, and it had been against the dragons.