Mortimer the Mortician
A Short Story About Competent Dragonslaying
The thing with slaying dragons is that sometimes, you’re the one who gets slain.
And in quite a variety of ways, too. Of course, there’s the fire, but people forget that dragons are also equipped with teeth, claws, horns—I mean, honestly, you’re equally as dead if a dragon decides to sit on you.
And trust me, I’ve seen my fair share of squished knights. After all, I am the only mortician in Eastwood Fief.
Well, I was a mortician as of three days ago. More recently, I was promoted to the title of King’s Dragonslayer, which led to me standing here in front of the kingdom’s most dangerous dragon, the Crimson Nettlewood.
If that seems like a bit of an unexpected jump on the career ladder to you, I fully agree. Let me fill you in on how I ended up here.
Three Days Earlier
“Mortimer? We’ve got another one.”
I had been in the middle of enjoying my mutton, lettuce, and tomato sandwich when a client (that’s what I call my dead customers) was unceremoniously thrown onto my kitchen table. Which also functioned as my work station.
Probably should have kept those two functions separate, now that I think about it.
“Which breed?” I asked the body collector as I began examining the client, a knight.
“It was a Grimbulous Featherbreaker.”
“Yes, that would make sense,” I replied, noting that the knight was rather flat. Grimbulous Featherbreakers were one of those dragons that quite literally threw their weight around. “When is the funeral?”
“Tomorrow at noon.”
I whistled. That would be a quick turnaround, but I could do it. I’d done a lot of re-inflations before.
“I’ll have him ready by sunrise,” I told the body collector.
“Thanks, Mortimer,” he said before jogging away, presumably to collect another ill-fated knight. The occupation had grown rather hazardous ever since the king disbanded the kingdom’s Dragon Hunters last year. Something about going over budget.
I sighed while I looked over my client. He obviously hadn’t had a clue about the type of dragon he was up against. The armor was enchanted to be fireproof, but Grimbulous Featherbreakers don’t even breathe fire.
It was frustrating—infuriating even—how many knights were killed simply because they knew nothing about the type of dragon they were up against. I mean, was it really that difficult to grab “Bartwit’s Encyclopedia of the Various Dragon Breeds” and just peruse it before facing a murderous reptile with wings?
(For your information, I’ve read Bartwit’s Encyclopedia all the way through six times—it’s simply fascinating. For instance, did you know the Darkwing Slatesmasher is deathly allergic to grapefruit?)
I went to grab my air pump for the re-inflation when I heard the shrill voice of the town crier in the street. Curious, I stepped outside to find a crowd of townsfolk had already gathered.
“Hear ye, hear ye! The magnificent Sir Bonifred Williambergenfieldonhopper has been reduced to ash by a ferocious dragon!”
“Actually,” I corrected the town crier, “he was squished. And the Grimbulous Featherbreaker is usually quite docile unless you purposefully provoke them—which Sir Bonifred apparently did, because he is very squished.”
The town crier stood there with his mouth half open, probably embarrassed to ask me to elaborate on the nature of the Grimbulous Featherbreaker. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that I had just publicly shamed a knight of the realm.
“Um…” he said, unsure how to continue.
“I believe you were telling us about Sir Bonifred’s heroic death,” I prompted him.
“Oh yes.” He turned back to the crowd. “Seeing as this is the hundredth knight to be slain by a dragon in the past month alone, the king has decreed there is room in the budget to reinstate the Dragon Hunters!”
The crowd cheered.
“And what’s more, there shall be a dragon fight held tomorrow in the Field of Trampled Grass to determine who shall be the leader of the Dragon Hunters: the King’s Dragonslayer!”
The crowd cheered even louder and then dispersed in a clamor of excited voices.
This was big news indeed—the Field of Trampled Grass was only a few hours away! If I got up early enough, I could get there in time to watch the contest and see a dragon up close. My mind began racing, wondering which type of dragon they might bring. Maybe a Toadtounge Whimbleback or a Venemous Flatfloot or—gasp—what if they had a Pimpled Toecrucher?!
I quickly re-inflated Sir Bonifred using my air pump and headed to bed, eager for the next day.
I made it just in time to see the knights lining up in the Field of Trampled Grass. I had my beat-up copy of “Bartwit’s Encyclopedia of the Various Dragon Breeds” with me so that I could look up information on whichever dragon appeared on the field.
I found a spot on the wooden benches, smiling when I noticed the children in front of me were braiding dandelion crowns for each other.
In the distance, a covered cage was rocking back and forth—we could clearly hear the roars of the dragon trapped inside. I nervously looked at the transparent, shimmering barrier that local wizards had cast to protect us from the dragon. Hopefully it would be strong enough.
The crowd’s excited rumble of voices dissipated when the announcer stepped onto his stand overlooking the large field.
“Hear ye, hear ye! Today, the leader of the newly re-formed Dragon Hunters shall be determined! The rules are simple: whoever kills the dragon shall become the King’s Dragonslayer. Those who are maimed, turned to ash, squished, swallowed whole, or otherwise killed shall be considered disqualified. And now…”
Here he gave a hand signal, and we could see the cage open up. There was a tense silence as we waited in anticipation.
Suddenly, a burst of green smoke erupted from the cage and a long, snake-like dragon charged toward the group of knights standing below us.
“A Crowned Violet Bloodberry Serpent!” I excitedly informed the man sitting next to me, who was so interested in what I was saying that he never looked my way. “They’re native to the Western Plains and use that green smoke to paralyze their prey before burying them alive!”
I watched as the Crowned Violet raced closer and closer, eager to see what it looked like for competent knights, the best of the best, to employ the proper strategy Bartwit advised on how to swiftly dispatch this particular dragon.
What I saw instead was the whole group of knights begin panicking as it drew closer. One idiot even tried shooting a crossbow at it.
A crossbow. Did he not read that the Crowned Violet had impenetrable scales!?
My excitement wilted into dejected disappointment as not one knight donned a makeshift gas mask to prevent the paralyzing smoke from being inhaled. I sat there glumly as the incompetent men in armor—I couldn’t call them knights —began trying to hack at the dragon with their swords like barbarians. This only served to anger the Crowned Violet even more, who then began to spew even more green smoke. Soon, no one could even see what was happening.
I tuned out at this point, deciding to reread Bartwit’s Encyclopedia entry about the Crowned Violet instead. I was reading the passage about their weakness—the scent of dandelions can send them into a coma—when a sudden gasp from the crowd pulled my attention back to the field.
Multiple knights were banging on the magical barrier, trying to communicate something to us as a mound of dirt moved toward the stands. A moment later, I realized with horror that the mound of dirt was the Crowned Violet burrowing its way beneath the magical barrier.
(Ah yes, I forgot to mention that Crowned Violets are excellent burrowers and use that skill to take their prey by surprise. Very fun fact to read about, very horrifying to experience in real life.)
Screams filled the air as the crowd began stampeding to get off the stands. The beefy man next to me knocked me down in his haste, which let me catch a glimpse of the Crowned Violet erupting from the earth in a spew of green smoke.
People nearest to the beast immediately began dropping, paralyzed from the smoke. A guard tried shooting an arrow at it, but in his fear he horribly misfired and the arrow nearly hit me instead, quivering in the wood a foot from my head.
As the dragon began attacking the people closest to it, I realized one of the children who had been sitting in front of me hadn’t moved. She was quietly crying in fear, the dandelion crown still firmly nestled on her head.
Dandelions.
“Give me your crown!” I whispered to her. Or, I attempted to whisper. I think it actually came out as more of a strangled scream of desperation because the Crowned Violet immediately looked our way and began scrambling up the benches toward us.
The girl screamed, and in sheer panic, I yanked the dandelion crown from her head and chucked it at the dragon.
It was my one athletic moment in life—the crown flipped through the air and landed perfectly on the dragon’s snout. It immediately began to react to the flowers’ scent, its movements becoming uncoordinated and sluggish.
Unfortunately, it had enough forward momentum that it was still going to crash into us—all two tons of it.
Desperate not to end up like Sir Bonifred, I yanked the misfired arrow from the wood and leapt down to protect the girl. I held the arrow out directly in front of me as the stumbling dragon opened its maw to consume us both. We both screamed and I closed my eyes, waiting to join my clients in death.
Except that nothing happened. Well, save for the air suddenly being very humid and something wet dripping down my hand.
I cautiously opened my eyes to find myself in the maw of the Crowned Violet, my hand still holding the arrow, which was lodged into the roof of its mouth.
It took me a few moments to realize the beast wasn’t moving. It took me another full minute before I realized that the arrow was aimed in a way that had probably pierced its brain.
And then it took me another full minute to realize that I had killed it.
Everything after that was a haze of handshakes, people cheering, people removing the dead dragon from atop my body, knights congratulating me, cupcakes to celebrate, the whole nine yards.
Oh yes, and the king knighted me as his Dragonslayer.
Yeah.
By the rules of the contest, whoever slayed the dragon would be the King’s Dragonslayer. It never stated that it had to be a knight, or even that the slaying had to be intentional.
So there I was, my wildest dreams coming true. My exceeding wisdom being acknowledged, knights asking me for advice, people singing my praises—it was wonderful.
Until it all went downhill the next morning.
“So I get to direct the Dragon Hunters on their quests, informing them about the dragons they’re facing, coming up with strategies, and such?” I asked the king.
We were in a private meeting in his personal study the day after I slayed the Crowned Violet, discussing what my role as his Dragonslayer entailed.
“Well, yes, but you’ll also be the lead on these hunts. After all, you’re the Dragonslayer, capable of taking down a Crowned Violet with just a simple arrow in hand!” the king said. “Imagine what you’ll do with the fine blade my blacksmiths are crafting for you right now.”
I laughed. Between all the feasting and speeches following my knighting the previous day, I’d never gotten the chance to explain what had actually happened. I decided to explain that to the king. “Oh, well, here’s the thing. That was a complete fluke with the Crowned Violet. The only reason it ran into the arrow was because it was losing consciousness from smelling from the dandelions.”
The king laughed but looked confused. “Dandelions?”
“Yes, I threw a dandelion crown at it right before it was about to kill me. If I hadn’t done that, it would have definitely bitten me in half. Would have made for a very difficult job for whichever mortician had to prepare my body. I should know.”
“So all that yesterday…was a mistake?”
“Technically, yes,” I said. “But it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t read ‘Bartwit’s Encyclopedia of the Various Dragon Breeds.’”
His confused look only increased.
“‘Bartwit’s Encyclopedia of the Various Dragon Breeds.’ It’s a great book—I learned everything I know about dragons from it.”
“So you don’t actually have any combat experience,” the king said slowly.
“Nope!” I happily replied. “I mean, unless you consider sewing up bodies ‘combat experience.’”
He somehow looked even more confused.
“I’m a mortician,” I explained, which caused the king to promptly bury his head in his hands.
“So let me get this straight,” he said after a moment. “I made a mortician who knows nothing about fighting dragons the kingdom’s Dragonslayer.”
“Erm…yes?”
The king took a deep breath and abruptly stood up from his chair. “Excuse me for just one moment.” He then rushed out of the room, leaving me alone.
I stayed in there for much longer than a moment, unsure what to do. Eventually, I started to examine the books on his shelves. He had a lot of boring titles on political science and law, but then I found a copy of Bartwit’s Encyclopedia!
And not just any copy, no, this was a special edition copy of Bartwit’s Encyclopedia, complete with gilded pages and gold-leaf engravings!!!
The king chose that exact moment to re-enter the chamber, and in my excitement, I forgot all about our awkward exchange and waved the book at him. “Can I borrow your copy!?!”
That’s when I noticed he seemed…different. He was smiling again, but it seemed forced. He barely even glanced at the book before waving his hand. “Of course, Dragonslayer! You’ll actually be needing that because I have my first mission for you!”
“Oh? That was fast,” I said, my excitement over the book fading.
“Yes! I’ve decided that a powerful warrior like yourself should have a strong start to his tenure of service to show how powerful you are!” the king declared. “As such, I have the perfect mission for you. Do you know Maestaff Fief?”
I nodded my head, unsure where this was going.
“And I assume you know about the fearsome Crimson Nettlewood that has plagued that region for these past eight years.”
My stomach suddenly dropped, but I nodded my head again.
“Well, as your king, I hereby decree that the first order I make for my Dragonslayer—who is bound to obey me in everything or face a horrible, torturous death—is that he shall go forth and rid the land of that scourge, the Crimson Nettlewood!”
I had to hand it to him, it appeared that the king had found the perfect solution to his problem. Unfortunately for me, it would involve my death.
Plastering on a wavering smile, I simply replied,
“It would be my honor, your Grace.”
And that about catches you up to the present moment, where I am facing the kingdom’s most notorious and feared dragon, about to die a grisly death.
The Crimson Nettlewood is one of the land’s largest dragons, with blood-red scales that can’t be pierced by any material known to man and curving horns that could easily rip through armor. Best part? According to Bartwit’s Encyclopedia, it has no known weaknesses.
Well, if I’m going to die, I’ve decided I’ll at least do it with style. Raising my sword with a wobbling arm, I begin to yell:
“O great dragon, prepare to meet your doom! I am the King’s Dragonslayer, and I have slain…one other dragon! By mistake! But I am going to slay you! On purpose! With this sword that I have no clue how to use!”
The dragon moves its head toward me, and I close my eyes, preparing to be incinerated. Instead, a voice enters my mind.
You truly have no clue what you’re doing, do you?
Opening my eyes, I find the Crimson Nettlewood looking me in the eyes. Okay, I guess Bartwit’s Encyclopedia is slightly out of date because apparently THE CRIMSON NETTLEWOOD CAN TALK.
“Uh, how could you tell?” I ask the dragon.
Well, aside from the awful speech, you’re holding the sword completely wrong.
“I meant to do that. It’s a new sword stance.”
Sure. Tell me, why are you here? You clearly are not a trained knight, and you’re certainly not the King’s Dragonslayer.
“Well, I actually am the King’s Dragonslayer, but you’re right, I’m not a trained knight. I’m a trained mortician.”
The dragon blinks, and through the mental link, I sense its amusement.
The king named a mortician to be his Dragonslayer. He must be desperate indeed.
“Well… It’s a long story.”
I’m in no rush.
And so, I begin to tell the Crimson Nettlewood my story. The dragon doesn’t interrupt me, and once I finish, it sits in thought for a full minute. Finally, it speaks.
So you don’t actually want to be here.
“To be honest, I’d rather be doing basically anything else than facing a dragon known for turning its victims inside out before eating them.”
The dragon hums with contentment. That is quite fun. But to be honest, little not-knight, it wouldn’t be satisfying for me to do that to you. You aren’t arrogant or even expecting to survive this encounter. Which ruins the fun.
I dare not breathe. Is this dragon actually going to let me go?
I feel the dragon sigh. I guess I’ll just have to eat you normally.
“Wait, that’s not—”
I don’t get any further before I end up in a dragon’s mouth for the second time in the past two days.
I’m not dead. The Crimson Nettlewood swallowed me whole, which is nice because it means that I’ll survive for a few more minutes.
It’s also not nice because I’m going to be dissolved by his stomach acid as soon as it eats through my armor.
I sigh and float on my back, wishing with all my heart I was back at my workshop. Wishing I hadn’t been so obsessed with dragons, with Bartwit’s Encyclopedia. I mean, I even brought the king’s copy with me!
I fish out the copy from my rapidly dissolving bag and look at it in disgust, then chuck it away. It quickly dissolves in the acidic juices, gilded pages and gold-leaf melting until it’s nothing more than shimmering liquid.
That same acid is eating away at my armor; I only have another minute or two. Oh well. At least the people will think I died a hero. Maybe there will be a memorial service for me. A statue, perhaps?
A sudden lurch interrupts my thoughts, the acid sloshing back and forth. Another lurch follows, then another. I suddenly find myself being forced back up the Crimson’s esophagus.
Another moment later, I’m lying on the grassy field again, covered in stomach juices but alive.
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? The dragon’s voice screams in my mind. It’s thrashing on the ground in agony a few yards away, knocking over trees in its distress. I slowly rise, unsure if this is a ruse, another way to mess with me.
YOU WERE CARRYING GOLD, WEREN’T YOU? YOU PLANNED THIS, YOU LITTLE WRETCH!
“Gold?” I think back to Bartwit’s Encyclopedia melting into a shimmering liquid. “Wait, your weakness is…gold? Don’t Crimson Nettlewoods hoard gold?”
WE MADE THAT UP SO HUMANS WOULD HIDE THEIR GOLD FROM US! No one expected a dragon to be weak to the thing it’s rumored to hoard… The dragon says, its voice and thrashing becoming weaker.
I sit there in stunned silence as the spasms fade, and after one final twitch, the creature lies dead.
“I guess the book did come in handy,” I murmur before passing out.
“I get to instruct the new dragon hunters on proper dragon-slaying techniques,” I tell the king. “Bartwit’s Encyclopedia will be required reading; I’ll need at least a hundred copies.”
“Granted,” the king says defeatedly. Ever since returning from what had been deemed an impossible mission, the king has had no choice but to comply with me or face the wrath of his subjects.
“Each knight will also be outfitted with a bag full of dragon poisons,” I tell him, and he just nods his head. Satisfied, I look down at my list and smile. There’s only one item left on it.
“And lastly, after a period of two years, I’d like to be reinstated as Eastwood Fief’s mortician.” The king perks up at this request.
“Really? You’d willingly give up the title of Dragonslayer?”
I nod my head. “There should be whole batch of competent dragon hunting knights by that point, which means my mortician work will be considerably less frustrating. Plus, that will give me time to work on a personal project,” I tell him.
After we negotiate the terms of all the items on my list, I return to my new quarters in the castle, feeling light as a feather. Before I retire for the evening, I can’t help but glance at the pile of papers piled on my desk, the personal project I told the king about.
It’s fittingly entitled “Bartwit’s Encyclopedia of the Various Dragons Breeds: Updated by Mortimer the Mortician.”
Oh man, this story was a labor of love, which is a nice way of saying it took a lot longer than expected but I loved getting to work on it.
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