The Black Dragon

“There weren’t always dragons in the valley, my darling.”

“There weren’t always dragons here.”

“Let us be free of the dark terrors, let dragon fire light the way.”

“Bid fealty to the dragons, my darling."

"Or all shall be burnt away.”

"I can see the fear in your eyes but be brave, my darling."

"When the nightmares come dragon of night will appear."

The rest of the verse is mumbled and lost, but old people sing low and eerie like. I don’t know who or where their voices ring out from every morning and night. The voices moan like the wind, terrible and foreboding; I can never tell if the voices belong to the living or dead. The old farts down here reckon it's a warning. A lot of dragon scat, I reckon that is.

But they’re right about one thing.

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. They used to live above the clouds, at the tips of the mountains that surround the valley. Dragons used to be associated with terror, and mystery, like the song says. The dragons used to be the Master of the skies, their great wings like storm clouds, blocking out the sun and raining down fire below. Or so the stories the old farts drone on about and I've had the misfortune of listening to their mad rants.

No one in this lifetime has ever seen a dragon fly; their great wings remain tucked to their sides, the most flying the living have ever seen, is a dragon gliding between the Levels. They’re divided much like humans and never admit it. Some dragons look to the skies with longing, others in fear, and it keeps them grounded. In-between the mad screeching I've heard tales that dragons were bigger than five houses and that their flame could melt steel and gold. That's all it is, rantings of a poisoned mind because the dragons I've seen are no bigger than house cats and are just as tame.

It's like their flame-like ferocity burnt out long ago and all that's left are a pitiful shell of former glory.

When I was younger I longed to touch the skies, feel the cool sting of the wind, and watch the valley turn to specks as the ground becomes further and further away; I wished I was a dragon. I still do. I’m tired of the trash I live in, being seen as less than everyone else because I have nothing but clothes on my back, if you can call them clothes. It would be nice not having to worry about finding food or somewhere to sleep every day, I reckon my life would be better if I left the Levels.

It’s a dream, a result of my imagination listening to the old crow's drone on and on about their stories. No one has ever left the Levels, not even the dragons; we'll live, breathe and die in this troll-hole of a valley. Imagine boxes stacked upon each other, held up by different poles, depending on the level, and creeping along the mountainside. Over time I realized that the people that live in the higher levels don’t have any problems; they flaunt money so their homes can be made of gold and jewel. Where I eat, sleep and breath are what everyone calls The Below. It’s where the poles that hold up everything up are driven into the ground; you don’t have to pay a cent for anything down here because the only thing down here is filth and muck. Then the next level above the Below is the Wooden Level; the people are kinder there, most of them. They understand that they’re on the brink of being forced to move below. Above that is Iron; I’ve never been above the Iron Level as most cheap trades occur there, and the decent people ignore me, might get a little kick here and there. I don’t go to the Iron level often; in my opinion, the smoke smells worse than The Below. It’s filled with clanging hammers, crackling fires, and metalwork. I’ve been warned never to go near the Bronze, Silver, Gold, and Diamond because anyone from The Below that ventures there is never seen again, probably tossed out like trash; I don’t blame them. We smell terrible and we're not exactly eye candy. No-eye Jim, may he rest in peace, was thrown from Bronze to The Below and landed with a splat, all because he asked for a piece of copper, or so the rumors go. I reckon he just walked off a platform.

It's hard to tell when the day begins and ends because the sun is always hidden away. I stare up at the plain wooden boards above The Below waiting and thinking. If any of the poles broke the Levels would fall and everyone down here would be turned to paste, nothing like thoughts of doom to begin the day. I usually start my day of scavenging when the mud trolls begin to warble, gaggle, and screech, it sounds like bloody murder it does. The sound makes you want to tear your ear drums out, it only lasts a few seconds and everyone down here is used to it. I leave my chosen place of rest and begin to walk around as soon as the wake-up call rings out. I kick an odd mud troll or two as I walk along. Mud trolls are hunks of deformed flesh, no bigger than a human head and each one looks different. Some have two eyes, some have ten. I've once seen one of the grey-colored flesh bags with 3 arms and 2 legs, too much inbreeding I reckon. Other than the mud-troll there's the odd, cat, dog, and dragon that live down here, along with the local colony of rats. Mostly it's just rats and mud trolls because either the people or mud trolls eat the cats and dogs, and the dragons keep to themselves. Trickling down a golden pole is safe, cool water, just enough for me to get a few gulps at a time, it's the only safe water down here. I use the water that pools at the base to wash my pits and face. This is a lucky occurrence, very rare.

I pull on my rags; it smells of cat piss, dragon breath, and mold, there’s water sources down here, but I wouldn’t trust it; the water that trickles from anything above usually ends up in the sludge-filled lake, a pit of black ooze, terrible smells and the odd troll or two. I tie the cloth around my body, so it fashions in the form of a one-piece shirt and shorts; I don’t think I’ve ever had to worry about shoes, can’t afford them, and what’s the point of wearing someone’s trash with holes? It defeats the purpose of shoes. I checked my reflection in some broken glass. I found it ages ago; it’s got a two-in-one function. I can use it to make sure I don’t look as ugly as I feel, and when in doubt, it makes a pretty good knife. My hair is short enough, so I look like a boy, it’s black as the sludge-filled lake. I don’t know whether my hair is black from the dirt or it’s my natural color. You don’t want to look like a girl in these parts, lots of nasty people that think with their third leg, another reason why I carry my glass around. When my hair was long, men used to jeer at me, shout their prices, and offer to pay more if I cleaned up. I’d rather be stone poor like I already am than sell myself off, like the other girls down here. I may have been flat broke since I was a kid and have lived in filth my entire life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have standards.

With a rip, the sleeve of my rag tears, and a cheeky trill chuckles at me, a dragon greets me. I look down with a smile; it’s not only people with hierarchical problems but the dragons also have social standing issues. Although they can’t talk or speak, you can tell there’s a pecking order, and it's based on how rich their human friends are. Rumor has it that dragons the color of green, red, and blue vibrantly roam the levels Bronze and above. While the lesser dragons are as worse off than the people of the lower grades. The lesser dragons look deformed and dull. Pitch here earned his name because that’s what he is, pitch black. He is entirely black from his horns to his tail, but he’s pretty a handsome dragon, sleek and fit; he definitely could take a few dragons in a fight. Just look at those teeth, each one of them a dagger. He’s the biggest dragon I’ve ever seen, the size of a large house cat, which is a significant size for dragons. Pitch jumps onto my shoulders; he curls around my neck like a scarf, with a greeting like a huff; I’ve lasted this long because he keeps me warm. Pitch may not breathe fire, but his body is better than a flame. The unique thing about my best bud is that he has ginormous feet and claws; most dragons I’ve seen have elegant-looking, tiny feet, not Pitch; he stumbles and trips over his nails, which is probably why he hitches a ride on me.

“Where shall we go today, Pitch? Get some bread from the baker or grab some iron filings from the smithy, or shall we scavenge the dump?” I ask, knowing I won’t get a response. Pitch scrunches his nose at the word dump. The place is foul, filled with mud trolls and other filth. But I sometimes find a treasure or two which I sell off, might even find some shoes without holes one day. Most people down here stick to the local cuisine of raw mud trolls and rats. It's no wonder why they live such short lives and as terrible as it is I love living and if I must climb over fifteen dragon lengths for a feed, then I will.

I was once brave enough to search the sludge-filled lake, the center of The Bellow, and found a purse with a few coppers in it. I smelt like a corpse for days, but the hot bread bun was worth it. "Oi! Rat!" An old scratchy voice rasps, I roll my eyes, I don't know the old fart's name but he's crazier than a mud-troll in their season of lovers. Everyone call's me rat because I know no other name and I don't really care for one, don't need it.

"What do you want?" I groan as I turn around. A large piece of cloth is sprawled over a frail body, he hasn't got much time left, either he'll die peacefully or the mud-trolls will eat him. Pitch warbles curiously, not understanding why I don't have time for meaningless interactions. The old man's face is covered in mold and dirt, you can see the bones under the filth, and his facial hair makes him look more like a rat than I ever will. The old man lifts his hand shakily, rattling with age, he's one of the lucky ones to make it to the elderly era.

He tries to speak but coughs. Rocks and all manner of stuff fly out of his mouth, he points to Pitch, "they're coming, they're coming, run run, run run, a black dragon... THE NIGHT COMES!" He rasps, mad I say. "Run run little rat, the valley is no longer safe," he wheezes, "dwarves, elves, and all creatures of the living, the filth of the dark come run run...." He stares upwards, his chest no longer rising and falling, Pitch whines his sympathy, the body will be gone by the time we make our way back, and the mud-trolls will feast tonight.

"We all die someday Pitch, some of us peacefully and some of us rambling like a gaggle of giddy old women, spouting crazy nonsense," I try consoling, he still whines and I continue on my way. There are others that are fit enough to make the climb for a bit of bread, my body is used to one small meal a day, if I don't get this bread my intestines will cramp and all plans for the day will be suspended until I get some food. Some eat raw mud-troll for sustenance. I'll die before I do that, I like my brains.

I rub my hands as I stand at the base of one of the wooden poles, my hands are filled with splinters so a few more won't hurt. Breakfast would be an excellent way to start the day. I wrap my arms around the pole and tie the sleeves together to pull myself upwards, about a 9 dragon-length climb to the platform the pole holds up. I crawl along the bottom, my hands holding between the planks of wood as I swing myself onto safety when I reach the edge. It never crossed my mind that if I slip, I will fall to death; I’ll worry about that when it happens. Pitch will miss me, but I’m a nameless rat to everyone else; no human would know I was gone and the other side is probably better than this.

Everyone here is better dressed than I am, cotton pants keep the coolness off their legs, and all manners of shirts and dresses palely cover the tops and bodies of the people here. The shirts are all faded, and it costs too much to buy a new one for people on this level. It’s better than rags, at least. A pleasant smell warms my nose and senses, and both Pitch and I sigh at the smell of freshly cooked bread. The memory of the warm taste that filled the senses and the gentle crackle of the freshly cooked food is what makes me get up in the morning, that and Pitch.

I follow my nose and a little bakery in a wooden box is where I find the source of the smell. I’m not allowed in there; the lady is nice enough to leave a basket of old bread at the front for people such as myself. It’s the same on all levels, residents of The Below aren’t worth talking to, and it’s better to pretend they don’t exist. It’s a lot easier for everyone that way but I know they know I’m there because their faces scrunch up in disgust at the smell that eternally follows me.

I feel something cool hit my cheek and stop in my tracks, "Watch it! I'm walking here!" I snap, someone had spat on me, I know in their eyes I'm filth but some of these dragon-scat brains don't realize they're on the brink of going to The Bellow.

"Bugger of ya filthy rat!" A man I cannot identify snaps back, I'd rather be ignored than confronted about my lifestyle. They can all drown in cat piss as far as I'm concerned. Pitch growls at the man and everyone around us but he's not that threatening to be honest but the thought counts.

I ignore my man and return to getting brekky. There’s a single bun in the basket out in front of the bakery; I break it in half and give it to Pitch, he gulps it down, and a smile decorates a toothy jaw.

I look around; people go about their day chatting, making small talk about the weather. What weather? We get rain because the sheet of clouds blocks the light above it, so that’s about it, our weather is just rain or cloudy. It gets cold for a few months, but that’s the most the temperature varies.

Pitch whines and jumps from my shoulders, he tugs at my sleeve again and motions for me to follow, “Calm it, Pitch, I’m coming,” I blabbed as I tried to keep up with the dragon; he ducked and weaved between people like a snake, no one said a word. "Watch it ya bloody rat filth," people snap at me left and right. I ignore them as I chuckle at the dragon as he trips over his own feet; he makes a warbling grumble but gets back up and continues to where he wants to go. When I eventually catch up to Pitch, I find him staring upwards. At the center of every level, there is an Eye, the only place where you can look up and see the grey clouds that hide the tips of the mountains. I hold Pitch out over the drop; you can look down and see The Below, right under the eye is the sludge-filled lake. Pitch spreads his wings; he must like imagining what it must be like to fly. He really is one of a kind because the dull dragons that sit on the railing stare upwards or there's some hissing from the shadows. One of a kind Pitch is.

"Throw ya self off you worthless cat turd," hurls another insult. Over three acknowledgments of my existence, it's a record.

"How bout I show ya around, get a lay of the land, it's all free," I retort and it shuts whoever opened their mouths up, it feels good to remind people of their place.

Sometimes I like to imagine what it would be like not to smell icky, feel clean, wear proper clothes, and always have a full stomach. I would die to sleep on a feathered mattress, even if it were for a minute. It’s nice to dream but sometimes pointless because you can hear the whispers, ‘once a rat, always a rat.’ The better-off people could call us the Bellowers, but no, they love to flaunt how better off they are and instead call us rats. They probably treat pet rats better. Probably name them as well because I’ve never had anyone give me an official name at all. I call myself a rat because of it.

What everyone down below said is that I was tossed into the sludge lake to die as a babe but by incredible luck, I survived. I don’t know what took care of me but my first memories are of what I’m doing today, staying alive with Pitch. Probably will continue doing this until the end of my potentially short life.

"Beware, Beware because darker things my darling," The voices sing only that the voices are deeper and it sends chills up my spine, this is out of the ordinary as the voices only sing morning and night.

"Hide in the valley, away away."

"The dragons will fight, my darling.

"The storm comes you and I shall be safe."

The air suddenly becomes colder; I pull Pitch into my chest as a violent updraft almost pulls him from my arms. He whimpers; something is going on. The clouds above begin to swirl, and I swear I saw a giant dragon in the clouds, the stuff of legends. The cloud-like dragon roared to the heavens, and then everything went still, the updraft brought some of the smell from The Below with it, but that’s the only change. I hold Pitch closer to me; he looks worried and knows something is going on. All the Dragons begin shrieking after this, and when anything is out of the ordinary, I take that as my queue to leave. I head back down below the way I came.

My feet are squelching as we return to the black and soggy ground below. Pitch jumps out of my arms. He whines at me, scratching the ground, he’s never done this before, “settle down, what’s wrong mate?” I ask him, and he rolls his eyes at me, if only there wasn’t a species barrier. “Whatever, let’s just go scavenging, take a walk around the lake?” He didn’t like that idea, the entire short trip to the edge of the lake he was trying to drag me backward. I move faster as I pass a bunch of old men that jeer and beg at me, I’m just as broke as them. Pitch runs ahead and stops me, he makes several trilling, huffing, and caw-like noises, like he’s trying to explain something. The ground begins to rumble and shake.

"Run, run, run, run, dragons men, and creatures of the sun."

"No longer are we safe, my darling."

"The dragon fire is burnt out and done."

There go the voices again, I swear each time they sing their voices become lower and make me want to bash my brains out.

Pitch whines in fear as something rises from the black lake, it was like a rope. It towered over me. The biggest creature we have down here are the trolls and they’re harmless bags of flesh. But this was something else. Two yellow eyes open from the head of something I believed was a myth, a serpent. I can’t remember the name of it but according to the old farts down here they can swallow a person whole and judging by the size of this thing, I’m a snack. Pitch pushes me away as the snake lunges at me, why would it want to eat me? I’m barely a toothpick. The snake instead swallows one of the men that were laying about, the screams echo throughout the below, hopefully, its new targets give me a chance to get out of here.

I scoop Pitch up into my arms as I climb to the nearest pole, which happens to be the Iron pole. I quickly begin to climb as Pitch’s claws dig into my back. He barks a warning as the serpent tries to follow but after years of making the climb, I’m much faster. As I roll onto the platform I scream, “help! serpent thing!” my lungs screech but as expected everyone treats me like a don’t exist, damn ignorant, cat-gifts.

I put my hand over my mouth and nose to try and filter the smoke, it's worse than a troll turd in my opinion. I cough, the air here is much heavier than where I live. With pleading eyes, I look for help but I can hear the whispers, they all think I’m mad.

I lean over the side to see where the serpent has gone and to my surprise, it’s vanished like it was never even there. Pitch whines at me. Something is going on. My life used to be an easy formula, find food to survive and be on with it. "Damn serpent," I scowl, probably looked like a fool with all the screeching I did.

“Look out!” Someone yells at me, I turn around, and a cloaked figure is sprinting towards me. I pull Pitch to my chest, and step to the side as the person hits the railing, and almost falls off the side. His black cloak hides most of the person’s features, and I couldn’t tell if the voice was more feminine or masculine. I watched as it’s head tilted up and down, looking at me and then at Pitch. “Is that your dragon?” he asks. I hold Pitch tighter.

“He’s no one’s dragon, and he’s not for sale,” I snap; he’s definitely from one of the upper levels and thinks he can get his way by throwing money at everyone. Loud voices and drum-like footsteps hurry toward us. Men are dressed in gold armor; I have never seen that before. Rich people equal more problems .

“Stop right there!” one of the guards demanded, this guard was definitely talking to the hooded person, which was one of the perks of never being acknowledged for existing.

“Um, do you know any way out of here,” he asks me hastily. From what I’ve learned in my short life, you should never help anyone; you’ll always get stabbed in the back. It’s better to look after yourself.

He throws off his hood as the guards surround us; he is too pretty to be from Iron or Bronze. His face is too sharp to have worried about where to eat or sleep. His hair is too clean and neat; it’s a nice orangish color if I must say. Definitely more pampered than a pretty parakeet, squawks like one as well with his weird accent. Blue eyes plead at me to help him, then I notice his ears; they’re pointed. “Please,” he begs.

“Yeah, but there’s a serpent down there,” I warn but his eyes plead for help. I keep telling myself that this will lead to nothing but trouble and painful death. Pitch nudges my face; I think he’s trying to tell me to help him.

“I’ll take my chances with it.”

"I'll let the thing know you're on the menu."

I grab his wrist and pull him off the balcony with me. He screams as Pitch’s claws latch onto my other arm. He beats frantically, trying to slow our descent but I've made this jump before. The boy shields himself, thinking we’re about to crash into the ground; instead of death, we are met with a splash. Only people from The Below would know that there was a lake; it’s not water, more of black sludge. I break the surface and grab Pitch. “You were almost flying, bud,” I joke, the dragon rolled his eyes at me; he knew it was far from flying. I claw my way out as fast as I can, who knows where that monster went.

I slump on the bank, wiping the sludge from my eyes. The cloaked boy with the pointed ears flops next to me, “a warning would be nice; what even is that?” he grumbles, obviously talking about the muck, he stands and throws his cloak off, obviously upset that it’s ruined.

“Dunno, we just call it a black sludge, stop your whining,” I replied as Pitch tried wiping some of the muck off me. Then I remembered that this guy is after Pitch. I pull out my shard of glass and point it at his throat, “If I were you, I’d start answering my questions, like what do you want with Pitch and what the hell are you?!” He stands up straight and frowns at me. He wears a sort of refined clothing. Black boots and pants, which his white tunic is tucked into. His hair is long, longer than mine, and I’m envious, it’s like silk. The long hair brings out his pointed ears, “speak or get stabbed, pretty boy.”

He sighs, “The name is not 'pretty boy' and I’m not from here; I’m an Elf from Alvovia, the Capital of Elvendom,” he explains like it’s common knowledge, and I’m looking for that black dragon, he needs to come with me.” He demands, that he could be from the capital of a book and I still would not give half a cat tail.

But didn't that old man from this morning say something about an elf? "dwarves, elves, and all creatures of the living the filth of the dark comes, run run...." I whisper to myself, maybe the old man wasn't spouting complete madness after all.

"What did you say?" The elf snaps at me and I shake my head, leaving the thoughts for later. What was I doing? Oh, yeah, this son of a trolls-turd was trying to take my best friend.

I grab Pitch and pull him away from the stranger, “bugger off back to where ya, he’s my best friend; he’s not going anywhere,” I huff as I point the glass at him. He sighs.

“Stupid humans,” he mutters.

I jab his arm, making a small cut, “what was that for?!” he gasps, holding his arm, “you’re crazy! good for nothing humanity!" He scowled, I've been called worse by lesser people I won't let this half-brain shake me that easily.

“Keep talking, or I get stabbing, details, or die, you bumbling troll-scat” I demand, trying to sound threatening because he isn't getting Pitch.

He sighs in frustration and glares at me, “Fine! I came looking for the black dragon expecting no one there. To my surprise, there’s a secret colony of humans that by all rights I should report and have you all killed, but if that dragon doesn’t come with me, all existence will cease,” he rambled; I wish I didn’t ask for the full story; I’m now lost.

With a roar, the serpent returns, rearing its ugly head. I push our new ‘friend’ towards the beast hoping he will satisfy its hunger, "Oi, troll-guts here's dinner probably tastes better than me," I yell to the oversized shoelace. I expected the elf thing to be frozen in fear but he draws something I have never seen before. A sword except it was slender, curved, and as he threw it spun, completely slicing its head off. “Okay you’ve got the better stabby, but Pitch is going nowhere, you damn troll-gutted soul.” I stand my ground as he glares at me.

He scowls, “you know what, you can come to,” he snaps, and before I can react, he dodged my slice with the glass and hits me in the back of my head with the hilt of the blade, at least the ground down here is always soft. My ears rang, and my head pounded as I watched the elf shove Pitch into a bag. Pitch is squealing for me, but I can’t do anything as I succumb to sleep.

The voices begin to whisper something, another part of the song and thankfully this elf thing already bashed me over my head so I can't hear it. I try to get up but the world is spinning.

I hate days when I can't eat, sleep, and repeat. This better be a dream because when I wake up, I'll make this son off a rat's brain regret he ever came out of his trolls-hide of a mother.