To Duel With a Dragon

Chapter One: Svartálfar

There weren’t always dragons in the valley, said crooked farmer to his son.

But ever should you hear the beat of scaled of wings, run, my son. And run.

There weren’t always dragons in the valley, said noble king unto his son.

But ever should you catch the scent of burning breath, run, sweet prince, and run.

“How to Fight a Dragon,” author unknown.

As seen on a plaque in the Seven Winds Casino, hanging above a a slot machine called Lucky Larry’s Lobster Mania 2.

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Casinos are a science. The sounds, the lights, the music. Jesus, even the smells are engineered to prick those parts of your brain that, when pricked, make you throw your money down the toilet faster than a literal piece of shit.

The ambiance is like nowhere else on earth. The chatter always reminds me of being a child. On Sundays, my parents would have their church friends over for late lunch. I would take a nap. Only, I usually didn't sleep. Not at first. I would lie awake in my bed and listen to the formless sound the jumble of their voices made. The sound would carry me down into a tunnel of opiate sleep that is unappreciated by children, but rarely experienced by adults. That's what I love about casinos. You can drift. You don't need anyone else, but you're part of something so much bigger without even trying.

I'd been coming to the Seven Winds Casino for years now. Longer than I care to think on for long. At first, I had to sneak in. I was still several years away from the minimum legal age. But goddam was it worth the risk. I was hooked immediately. Not to the gambling. I enjoy the risk of gambling, but I'm no addict. Sometimes, I don't even gamble; I just take in the atmosphere.

I made a show of browsing the card tables before taking an empty chair at one near the wall. I was near enough to the sea of zombies playing slots to enjoy the musical cacophony of the machines. Somewhere on the other side of the enormous building, a live band played 80's cover songs. Right now, a saxophone wailed through an impressive solo and somehow meshed perfectly with the timbre of the slot machine music.

"Are you gonna buy in?" the dealer asked. She was a blonde-haired girl who looked too young to be dealing cards. She wasn't fat, but she wasn't skinny, either. The kind of girl that would probably be a drop dead knockout if she lost 10 pounds, but was comfortable enough with herself that she was beautiful anyway. Her name tag labeled her McKaylee.

I smiled at her. She smiled back. "You must be new. I don’t recognize you and you don't seem to hate your life yet." This earned me a chuckle from McKaylee and an impatient groan from the Filipino woman at the end of the table.

“I am new, and I happen to love my job. Are you buying in? Or should we flirt for a few more minutes and piss off Bulawan a little more?” she asked, gesturing to the impatient Filipino woman. I waited a few more seconds to show Bulawan that I was in no hurry, then set two 20-dollar bills on the table. "I'll take some sauce, too, please."

McKaylee looked back at me blankly. After I didn't elaborate, panic began to change her face into something that looked out of place on her. I raised my hands, palms outward, trying to placate her. If you don't think dealing cards is a tough job, you've never been to a casino. She probably thought I was using some sort of card-table lingo she hadn't learned yet. Smiling, I told her, "Okay, okay. Hold the sauce for now." I laughed and that seemed to set her back at ease.

Looks like I'd be playing a few hands. It wasn't exactly part of my plan tonight, but I could think of worse things to do on a Tuesday evening. It wasn't a full table. Other than myself and Bulawan, the ancient Filipino woman with (barely) more stacks of chips than face wrinkles, there was an overweight middle-aged man with a drink in front of him, and a young couple who looked like models. Only the young woman was playing; her young boyfriend stood supportively behind her. He had his hands placed possessively on her shoulders,but his eyes wandered ceaselessly every time a serving girl came through.

I knew what they were immediately.

McKaylee began dealing. A 4 of hearts to the Filipino lady. Ouch. I got a 10 of clubs. Not bad. The models were dealt an Ace. Of course. And the drunk man received a 7 of spades.

I knocked on the table in the models' direction. "Good luck," I said. Then winked at them. She smiled. It was more appreciative than her boyfriend liked, I guessed. His knuckles whitened as he increased his grip. The dealer flipped a king of hearts for herself.

The second round of dealing began. Bulawan got an Ace. She hit and received a 9. She hit again. Queen. Bust. The old woman sighed, but didn't seem too upset. Which made sense since she had roughly $4,000 in chips stacked in front of her.

I was next and got a 10 of spades. I pushed another $10 worth of chips up next to my original bet. "Split 'em."McKaylee split the two 10's. She flipped one card over to cover the first 10. An ace of clubs. Blackjack. Tired applause followed the dealer's smile. She turned another card and laid it down by my second 10. Another ace. Of clubs. I smiled at the applause this time. It was no longer tired, but vigorous. Sincere.

The models looked at me with lips curled almost exactly alike, sneers with just enough plausible deniability to be called smiles. Bulawan was beaming at me.

McKaylee began the motion that would give little Miss Model her second card. It would be a face card. She'd get a blackjack. Without a doubt. She had to get one. Luck followed her kind around like puppies followed children.

I don't mean "her kind" as in "privileged trust-fund girl who has spent more time on her hands and knees than she has earning her own way through life." While that kind does inarguably have their own kind of luck, this was different.

The models were elves.

It was so obvious it was almost laughable. In my experience, elves put the most effort of any of the alt races into disguising themselves. I've never been too sure why exactly, since they resemble humans more closely than any of the others. I've often wondered. I've even asked. But getting a straight answer out of an elf is like trying to chop down a tree with a spoon. Technically, it can be done. But not easily.

McKaylee flipped over the elf's card. It was another Ace. I almost did laugh then; three Aces in a row was laying it on a bit thick. She clapped her hands and giggled with delight, then asked, "What should I do?"

"You should split them.  Your luck seems to be holding pretty well," the drunk man next to her said in a thick accent. Baltic, maybe? I was a bit surprised. He hadn't said a word up until this very moment. His voice was gruff. And weighty.

But his breath was horrible. I could smell it from the other side of the table. Like a rotting corpse; a drunk rotting corpse.

The models didn't seem to notice. They both smiled at him and she slid another stack of chips up next to her original bet. A quick succession of knuckles on felted wood and murmured good luck's followed as McKaylee flipped the first card. A 5 of diamonds. Then the next. A 3 of spades.

My jaw actually dropped.

I was so sure I had the models pegged, but now I couldn't tell. Were they so deep in cover that even their natural luck was somehow being cloaked? All of the alt-natural races had more luck than the average human, and as far as I knew, there was no way to control it. It was an intangible force that had more to do with the relationship between chaos and order than with anything else. In fact, it was an alt-natural law. The more chaotic the race, the more extreme their luck. I had a theory that it was less about some magical law, and more about Darwinian evolution, but I’m no scholar. The chaotic races needed luck just to survive the stupid shit they seemed drawn to do.

In any case, these elves should not have been able control their luck. They should have been given Aces just as surely as I would piss myself if I didn't get to the bathroom soon. Unless they had laid some sort of glamer...

Deep laughter that vibrated my seat tore me from my thought process. The drunk was laughing hard enough to force tears from his eyes. His breath drifted across the the table to assault my senses, making my own eyes water. God it was bad.

And then I realized my mistake.

"Glamer," I whispered.

And the drunk sprung to life. He was so fast that he grabbed the girl model, lifted her out of her seat with one, giant hand, put the other around her waist, and dipped her backwards into a kiss before I registered his movement at all. Everyone at the table stared as the drunk man kissed her so sensually that McKaylee actually blushed and averted her eyes. It wasn't until the man pulled away that the spell was broken. I jabbed a hand into my pocket as the girl's boyfriend grabbed the drunk by the collar and snarled, "You think that's funny, you fat piece of—."

The drunk calmly bat the boyfriend's hand away with one massive hand. I heard the crack of bone a moment before the boyfriend began to scream. The drunk had snapped the bone in half without the slightest bit of effort, and he was now laughing, a deep, rocky laughter that I could feel in my chest like a bass drum. Then, he turned the  screaming boyfriend to face him and continued to laugh as he reared back his head.

I had to do something. The glamer was gone now. My guess is that he had felt me looking for one, even though my attention was directed elsewhere. In any case, I knew him for what he was now. Svartálfar. Black elf. From the ancestral halls of Svartalfheim, deep beneath the mountains of northern Europe. A dwarf. I'd seen dwarves turn walls of cement into sand with their fists. I'd seen them do worse with their heads. This dwarf was about to see what the inside of the kid's chest looked like.

My hand was still in my pocket, fumbling around with the various objects inside. I was trying to find one in particular, but things were moving very quickly now. The dwarf's hands clenched suddenly and his head snapped forward. There! I slipped the ring on my finger and...it caught the hem of my pocket.

The sounds of the casino faded away and were replaced with a ringing in my ears. It didn't bother me. It's what always happened at the high points of my anxiety. Sorry, kid. I squeezed my eyes shut against the inevitable mess that was about to be all over everyone. I heard a sickening crunch and braced myself for the wet pieces of 20-year-old to shower me like...well, a shower. A really gross shower.

But nothing happened.

I peeked through the splayed fingers of my hand held out in front of me with one, barely-opened eye. The ringing in my ears began to fade out, and the sounds of the casino began to filter through. A series of deep grunting noises that vibrated the ground beneath my feet joined them. These were punctuated now and then by sharp, muted cracking noises. McKaylee, the shy, would-be bombshell had the dwarf pinned on the ground, one of her knees placed squarely between his shoulder blades. Whenever he squirmed too vigorously, she would punch him in the back of the head.

I must have been staring pretty stupidly, because she looked up at me and said, "What? Surprised a woman can take a Svartálfar?"

I wouldn't have been more surprised if she had pinched her nipples and squeaked like a dog toy. "Well, mostly I'm surprised your fist doesn't break off at the wrist when you punch his head. Dwarf skulls are one of the most dense materials on earth."

She winked at me and displayed the most dazzling smile I had ever seen. "Not as dense as you, apparently. Don't just stand there. Come help me out, and I'll go get you that sauce."