Fire on the Wall

There weren't always dragons in the valley. Nor were there thriving market places or overflowing taverns, and no one would have ever thought, that crowds would gather for a good, old fashion flogging. But time keeps things changing.

Morbet sat outside the Two Headed Serpent, being a particularly warm sunny day, with that tint of smog that would stop you from burning in the afternoon sun. He turned the page of the weekly Omar Gazette. It’s named after the founder of Gretel’s Valley, which was named after Ozmen Omar’s beloved wife. Legend has it, that it was Gretel’s love for the great outdoors and open spaces, just as long as it was hidden from passers by, led to the valley becoming what it is today.

“Ouch!”, said Morbet, sucking on his bleeding finger from the turn of the page. It’s a known fact that you should wear a chain mail glove when reading the Omar Gazette. It is produced from the discarded scales of one of the most prestige resident of Gretel’s Valley. Very large and very scaly serpents, better known as dragons.

Morbet took a swig of ale to wash down the taste of blood, which most people would have discouraged you from doing, since he was drinking the tavern’s home-brew. It’s that sort of drink that varnish is envious of, but Morbet had become very accustomed to the amber liquid. Well, it just passed as a liquid. Any thicker and it’s classification would be considered closer to a rock. He stood up, had a huge long stretch, snagged his robe on the weekly gazette, pulling out another thread, then adjusted his robe, mostly to hide all the holes. He looked very wizard-like, and since wizards are a kid’s fairytale, most thought he had just never changed after the Annual Witches and Warlock’s Night of Prayer. It definitely smelt that way.

Morbet had got himself a reputation in the valley, one he had worked very hard at. He had the reputation of being the valley’s city drunk. Morbet was a little impressed with this title. He was proud to follow in his father’s footsteps in both reputation and work.

Morbet look at his pocket watch. “Late again, not enough hours in a day”, he muttered. “Late for work again, young Master Montgomery?”, the bar keep commented. “Yes, yes I’m off. Sewers wait for no man or beast, but I’ll be back for Happy Hour. Save my seat”. Happy Hour, the one thing Morbet was never late for. Valley folk could set their time pieces by it, well most did. He took off down the back alleyways. The quickest was to get around the valley, but not really the safest.

“Late again, Morbet! This time I have to dock you”, said Mr Eddie Heartman, the sewerage plant’s foreman. Eddie was a big man, well huge really. Always dressed in a white singlet top that was sort of brown, that showed off his extra rolls of fat, didn’t matter what the weather was. Sewage had a way of keeping you warm, especially when it’s fresh. Morbet was handed a nine-inch plunger, his smile turned to a frown. “You can’t be serious! Why? It’s not my turn! You can’t do this to me! Isn’t there some type of rule about working down pipe 321 more than once a month?”, Morbet said with a little terror vibrating in his voice. “Hahahah!”, chuckled Eddie. “Turn up on time in future, and this is an urgent call out. Major work, three pipes broke down causing total artery congestion, and if this nine-inch plunger doesn’t do the trick (Eddie chuckles louder), looks like you're going in hands first!”.

Forty-five-minute walk down long, dark sewerage pipes, some that got so small, you have to resort to hands and knees, was making Happy Hour seem like years away. Any normal person would have been in tears and heaving up their intestines about now, just to have a nicer taste in their mouth. Yet Morbet was whistling happily, not happy about what he was about to face but happy remembering what his father used to say, “Life, young Morbet, isn’t all roses you know. But a good handful of potpourri in each pocket will get you past any bouncer at any tavern. You mark my words, boy”. But in the back of Morbet’s mind was, “I think I’m going to need more pockets after this job”.

Morbet climbed out of the manhole, onto a stone-cobbled alleyway, taking a huge, deep breath and flopped on his back. The sight of the open orange sky burnt his eyes, how delightful. The smell of urine, paved the cobbled stone. “What a breath of fresh air...”, thought Morbet, trying not to remember what he just went through. Eight years and he had never seen so much faeces squashed into one minute area. The smell had actually burnt his nose-hairs, and he needed a drink so bad, just because.

Morbet could hear yelling coming from around the corner. “Crap, that’s the way I want to go”, passed slowly across his lips, then burnt up in the evening sky. Morbet had picked up a few new smells after his last little job, the sort of smell that was so thick, it might become a new life form. The yelling become screaming, then a sound like a roaring fire. Quite deafening, it left a slight ringing in his ears. Then nothing. Morbet stood to his feet, then heard the scurrying of feet running into the distance. He just waited a little, in case he interrupted whatever made that noise. He decided to take a peek around the corner. Only the call of alcohol could bring Morbet to have this much courage. Every neuron in his brain screamed, with the desire of being drowned by the pure amber liquid. Any other time, he would have run in any direction but this one.

His mouth dropped open and his eyes began to bug. He saw something the valley had never seen. He felt oozy and got a little dizzy. Young Morbet stumbled into a couple of crates, knocking a few down, before getting his balance. Every part of his being now decided - let’s take the long way. He could hear the sound of whistles blowing and the chatter of people getting closer. Morbet was still waiting for his feet to move. It was really time for him to leave. He felt snagged on the crates and pulled as hard as he could. Morbet then stumbled into a run, jumping over the manhole and running from a situation that actually seemed worse than working on pipe 321.

The deputy started heaving, the constable just stood there. On the wall, well, melted to the wall was someone, a person. Not recognisable but still, you could make out the arms and legs, even though bits were dropping off. And the smell of burnt flesh was just hanging in the air, and every breath made you feel like a Cannibal. The deputy started to talk, but was cut off in mid sentence, “Don’t say anything!”, yelled the constable. “Sergeant! Rope off the area. Take measures. Make sure no one comes down here”. But the deputy couldn’t help himself, he had to say what was on his mind. After seeing what he saw, he couldn’t stay bottled up. The words popped out, even with the constable trying to shush him. “A dragon! It must be! What else could’ve made a him all crispy?”. “Shut your trap, deputy!”. But it was too late. A shadow hovered over the top of them. It got larger and larger, then, “THUMP!”. The ground shook ever so slightly, as the dragon priestess landed right in the middle of the crime scene.

Her face was shocked to see the lovely-smelling, crispy corpse on the wall. Her head came round, and look right at the deputy. “Dragons don’t Hurt people. Not intentionally, never on purpose. There is the occasional accident - we wag our tails, someone runs underneath, and they become a little red blotch, and we didn’t even know they were there. So, forget those thoughts of dragons. They couldn’t have done something so horrendous”. She took a deep breath, and started looking around. “High priestess, it’s just that...well, fire is sort of a dragon type of thing, and we...”. “Shush, constable! Not nice when it happens to you”, snickered the deputy. The constable just glared.

“What do we have here?”. She had found the little strand of Morbet’s top that got stuck on the crate. Besides smelling of sewage, it has a very strong smell of fear. This was something dragons could do. Not only could they smell the smells, they could smell emotion. Something that came in handy at parties. The constable couldn't smell the fear, but he could smell Morbet. “Sergeant!”, he yelled. “Let’s get out there and find Morbet. Maybe he can shed light on this situation”. “He went that way”, said the high priestess. “Now, this thing with fire, and relating it to dragons stops here. Do we have an understanding? The thought of dragons actually going out of their way to hurt people, to cook them where they stand, this knowledge, would be too much for the people of the valley to handle. Imagine the chaos it would cause”. “Too right”, replied the constable. “There will be no word of this to anyone”, and they just stood back, looking at the crispy little fellow on the wall.

Chapter Two – The Hunt…