Taming the Beast, by Kit Campbell

Taming the Beast
Kit Campbell

Mortimer the Magnificent leaned forward, his focus completely on the task in front of him. He almost had it…just a few more inches…

There was a knock on his door, startling him. The replica of Gildrun’s sword, tiny and perfect, fell from his fingers, clanging onto the table in front of his model of the great hero’s historic defense of Longswallow. Mortimer sighed; it never failed.

The knocking continued. Mortimer frowned at his model, but there was no use going back to it, not with that ruckus. He pushed to his feet, crossed the room, and pulled the door open just as the man on the other side of it started to knock yet again. Mortimer calmly dodged the man’s fist.

“Can I help you?”

“Oh, ah, yes.” The man took off his hat, holding it with both hands. “I’m looking for Mortimer the Magnificent.”

Oh, no, not this again. “You’ve found him.”

“I have?” The man tried to discreetly examine Mortimer and failed miserably. “You’re Mortimer?”

Mortimer was never quite sure what they were expecting to see. A slight man in glasses and a worn cardigan never seemed to be it.

The man scuttled back, starting to bow but then apparently deciding otherwise halfway through the motion. He fidgeted with the hat in his hands. “Hector says you got rid of his dragon problem.”

Mortimer had no idea who Hector was, but suspected he knew where this was going. “Yes…?”

The man fidgeted more.

Mortimer glanced back over his shoulder, to where his model sat, so close to being finished. “Is that all you wanted? Because I’ve got—”

“Look, I can’t give you much. I’ve got some savings, and I’d be happy to give you some of my stores from the harvest. But, please, it’s burning up my fields and eating my livestock.”

Mortimer blinked. “What is?”

“A dragon.”

Of course. It had been suspiciously quiet around here. Mortimer brushed some stray hair out from behind his glasses. “Where is your farm?”

“South, near Sowney.”

South. He could clean up the dragon issue and continue on down to Cateville to have another look at the archives there. Make sure his model was as historically accurate as possible.

“All right, I’ll do it. Give me a minute.”

A few minutes later, Mortimer pulled the door to his house shut. Straightening his cloak and travel bag, he picked up a jug of milk from the doorstep. “Lead the way.”

The farmer eyed him, looking faintly bewildered. “Don’t you need a weapon? Some armor? What’s the milk for?”

No matter how many times he did this, they always asked the same questions. You’d think something about his methods might be passed on when they recommended him, but apparently not. “The milk’s magic.”

“Sorcery, huh?” The farmer rubbed his chin, looking none too happy. But he started out of Mortimer’s yard, leading the way, even sorcery being preferable to letting a dragon rampage.

It always was.

Mortimer readjusted his grip on the jug and followed.

####

Mortimer could hear the dragon in the forest, making the same racket it always did. Why? Why couldn’t it ever just stay home and let him get work done?

Well, at least he’d get a trip to the archives out of this.

The farmer hovered nervously at his elbow. Mortimer took a deep breath, then turned to face the man, using his most professional voice. “It’s best if you return to your house.”

“Oh,” the man said, going a bit green around the edges. “Of course. Uh. Thank you, again. Come by the house, when you’re done, for your payment.” He gave Mortimer one last look—and not a confident one at that—then scurried off.

Mortimer watched him go, waiting until the man had been out of sight for about a minute before venturing inside the trees. It wasn’t hard to know where to go, not with all the noise. A few minutes later, Mortimer found it, in a clearing, scratching its scales on a large oak tree.

“Hey!” He placed the jug on the ground and put both hands on his hips. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t just go willy-nilly around the countryside whenever you’re bored!”

The dragon ignored him, which was just like it.

“I’m going to have to lock you in the kitchen again.” With a sigh, Mortimer dug a bowl out of his bag and poured some of the milk into it.

Pausing its scratching, the dragon inched closer, looking between Mortimer and the milk. It crept closer, sniffing, until it was on top of the bowl.

“Uh uh,” Mortimer said. “Can’t have it in that form.”

The dragon glowered at him, but with a flick of its tail, it was gone, replaced by a normal, though a bit large, gray tabby cat. It began lapping at the milk as Mortimer sat next to it, running his hand down the cat’s smooth fur.

“That’s the third time this month, Smoke. How long do you think it’ll be before someone puts two and two together and realizes our house is at the epicenter of the dragon infestations?”

Actually, it might be a while. Mortimer wasn’t sure anybody in the surrounding villages was particularly literate or had the free time.

Beneath his hand, Smoke purred and finished its milk.

“Oh, well, at least we’ll get food and money and get to take a bit of a holiday.” Mortimer stood, scooping Smoke up and placing it gently in his bag. “But, seriously, couldn’t you just kill birds like a normal cat?”

Smoke’s only response was the swish of its tail.