Fire and rescue

Mortimer dug his knife down into the marmalade jar with a scrape and frowned; he’d been so busy he hadn’t had chance to do his usual grocery shop at Sainsbury’s. Supplies were running low. Thankfully, he did know how to bake his own bread, but what was toast without marmalade? He spread the sad smear on his hot wholemeal toast slice, making sure to get it in all the corners and took a bite.

Then the phone rang.

The old aardvark’s long, grey ears pricked up and he chewed hastily before dropping his breakfast down onto the chintz bone -China plate, wiping his oily hands on his silk napkin.

The phone was on the wall at the other end of the kitchen. He lifted the receiver; “Warlock residence, Mortimer speaking…” he announced in his loftiest British accent.

“Monty!” the other voice was rougher and jovial, “how are you doing, me old mucker? I do hope you’re well. I hear you’re having some renovations done to the castle. Been saying to Benny you should get that moat of yours dug up. Can’t have a castle without a moat.”

Mortimer smiled, “hello Patrick, it’s jolly good to hear from you. I am very well, thank you for asking; as for the moat, well, we shall see, might be more trouble than it’s worth. Knowing my luck, it’ll be a glorified duck pond in days. Now, I know you’re calling for a reason, you always do.”

“That’s right!” the man laughed, “I do, don’t I? We have another rescue that’s outside of our admittance requirements, I’m afraid. Truth be told, we’re slammed, Monty. I don’t suppose you have a spare stable in that nice big barn of yours?”

Monty sucked his teeth, “I might,” he said, reluctantly.

“You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency, but this poor mare needs somewhere to go and, well, she isn’t ex- racing stock, which you know is our main requisite. My niece’s stables are full up already.”

“You can’t sell her as a companion pony?”

“You’ll understand when you see her, Mont. Let’s just say it’s a mercy plea.”

“Oh,” Monty nodded, “one of those. Yes, of course, I can fit her in.”

“Great! I can always rely on you, Mont, salt of the Earth fella you are,” the voice sounded genuinely relieved. “Pop by later, be good to see your long, grey face again.”

“Later, Patrick, old chum.” He put down the phone and sighed. So much for a simple cupboard restock; now he was settling in a new horse.

Patrick was an old human friend; the big, portly, ruddy-faced man ran a rescue farm that took in ex-racehorses to save them from the sad fate of the glue factory. Occasionally, Patrick received calls of help from owners of donkeys or neglected ponies and although his charity couldn’t take them, he was a kind man, who wanted to help and never turned down an animal if he could help it. This of course led to phone calls like that one. In return for his help, Mortimer would receive a significant discount on the maintenance and upkeep of his precious British racing cars, thanks to Patrick’s eldest son who ran a specialist motor garage in Oxford.

He sat back down at the wooden breakfast table to resume his marmalade on toast. The builders promptly began re-pointing the brickwork on the front of the main building, the high hum of an angle grinder taking out the worn mortar. His ears vibrated. Tea sloshed in its floral cup. Breakfast would be taken in the conservatory today, it seemed. He tucked his newspaper under an arm and swiftly moved down the hallway.

The renovations on Warlock Court were long overdue; he had almost given up hope of them happening at all. For many years he had been here alone, the last of the Warlocks who were invested in their family’s unique magical history. Mortimer had come to the depressing realisation that it was all ending with him. His younger brother, Peregrin, had left to make a name for himself in Hell with his succubus wife. Their eldest son, Anar, who had shown so much promise as a true heir to the estate, had been whisked away down to the Underworld as well. So, Mortimer had moped. He had watched the ancient building crumble around him and had done nothing.

Then something truly miraculous had happened. Something that brought him hope… the magic of Warlock Court had been returned. It had been a day like any other, full of menial tasks and misery, until a red Corsa had driven through his gates containing a demon and demonologist. There had been a fight on his porch of some kind, involving the hatchback’s occupants and other Underworld undesirables. He had been cross and tried to send them packing, threatening to call the authorities… until they revealed themselves to be friends of his nephew, Anar, who was no longer in servitude to the Dark Lord Lucifer and had gone AWOL.

Better still, this demon fellow could read the family tome: the Book of Warlock, which Mortimer had kept safe in a glass cabinet as his ancestors had done for the last five hundred years. It was written in draconish – the language of dragons – in its pages contained the story of how the aardvarks had gained, and subsequently lost, their magical power. It also contained the information to open a portal to another world.

That was the best part! On a far-away planet, in another time entirely, his beloved nephew was commanding an army of curious creatures, embracing his destiny as the reincarnation of the family’s first Warlock mage and taking up the mantle of General. It had been life-changing.

Mortimer had promised Anar that he would make Warlock Court glorious again. It was his mission, and one he accepted gladly! One day there would be another great Warlock here, though for now he was only a small toddler: Victus. His great-nephew. He couldn’t let them down. It helped that the Dragon, who had been directly involved in all of this, was willing to provide the ample funds required! He had been a curious, scaly-looking fellow and no mistake…

He finished eating in the quiet glass conservatory that was attached to the main building and opened up the Guardian newspaper, skimming the headlines. He hadn’t got very far when the faint sound of a reversing alarm drifted into the room. That would be Patrick with the horse van. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he said it was an emergency; he must have had the horse loaded up as he’d been chatting! With a final slurp of his tea, Mortimer went out to see what state this poor animal was in.

Patrick closed the van door with a slam and doffed his well-worn flat-cap, cheekily. “Alright, guv’nor?”

Mortimer tutted, “you’ve spent too long with the locals.”

“Maybe I have,” the large man laughed, unlocking the drop-down door at the rear of the vehicle, “you haven’t changed much, I see. Still wearing that favourite tweed jacket of yours. Lording it up,” he winked.

The aardvark feigned offense, “I would never!”

“Ah, those were the days, eh, back in halls at Cambridge? And look at me now, up to my eyes in horse muck.”

“It’s your own fault for studying philosophy,” Mortimer sniffed.

“True that!” He paused. “Are you ready?”

Mortimer set his shoulders and raised his head, “go on, what’s the story?”

Patrick stopped smiling; “she’s in bad shape. It’s one of those,” he said, lowering his voice, “farm gets sold; new owners don’t want her and the old owners claim to know nothing about her. The vet was going to put her down, but… apart from age she’s healthy enough. Just neglected, you know? Breaks your heart. She just needs some freedom and fresh air before the end.”

Mortimer nodded, compassionately, “don’t we all?”

“Don’t we all,” he repeated, sombrely, letting the door drop down. He untied the holding ropes and clicked his teeth, “come on old gal, walk on.”

Unsteady hooves clattered on the metal flooring. Thin legs, followed by a low hanging head, emerged. The mare was a chestnut shade; once bright as a conker, now dull and faded through lack of care and nourishment. On her head was a white star. Her mane was golden brown and in need of a good detangling.

“No name. No shoes. Wormed, though,” he reassured the aardvark, “and her teeth are good. All yours,” he offered the lead rope. “I really do appreciate this, Monty. If you need any new tyres for the Jags or…”

Mortimer took the rope from his old university friend, “thank you, Patrick. I believe the S-Type is due a service, in fact.”

“Benjamin’s always happy to fit you in!” he nodded. “If anything… happens, let me know, there’s a good chap.”

Mortimer rubbed the mare’s velvet muzzle with a grey hand, “of course, it’s the least I can do. Her last days shall be happy ones.”

Patrick shut the rear of the horse van up and sagged, “poor buggers, they don’t deserve bad owners, but what can you do, eh?”

“We can love them in the time they have left,” he replied, firmly.

“That we can, me old mucker, that we can. You’re looking well, anyway, and the castle; nice to see the place getting a new lick of paint at last. We had some fun times here, back in the day. Sad I lost that Ferrari of mine in that game of bridge… you still got it?” he asked, hopefully.

“I loaned it to my nephew. I’m sure he’s taking great care of it. His pride and joy, in fact.”

Patrick smiled again, “I have no doubt! Call me when your building work’s finished, we’ll have a celebratory sherry!”

“Lord it up, you mean?” Mortimer winked.

“Being a Lord isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, if you ask me! Though you always looked the part in tweed.”

“I’m as common as the next man!”

“Yeah, right… be seeing you, Mont,” he shook Mortimer’s hand, chummily.

“Be seeing you, Lord Patrick.”

The van’s driver’s door slammed shut again and chugged out the gates and up the winding, hedge-lined drive.

Mortimer turned to the old mare on her lead rein, “let’s get you settled in, shall we?”

Straw was strewn, water was drawn and the frail pony stood, still, in the centre of her stable stall with her head hanging low.

Mortimer bolted the door shut with a gentle click and watched her a few moments more. It was always sad knowing you were waiting for the end, to turn up one chilly morning and have no neigh for greeting.

It made you think about your own mortality, too. He’d led a life, certainly, but the years seemed wasted now he knew of what could have been. If only the Dragon had come sooner. If only Anar had fought back against his overbearing father… no, Mortimer had to accept that it was he who had not done enough. He had only looked to the past, to the ancient book, to the stories passed down through word of mouth – he had not thought to look to the future. To make a future.

The nameless pony was his mirror; old and tired and spent.

And he did not like that one bit.

“What shall I call you?” he mused. “You need a name. Nobody should go without a name, it’s not proper.” He tapped the wooden door top with his fingers, idly. “Willow? That’s a nice name for a chestnut pony, isn’t it?” Reaching for the chalk to write on the door nameplate, the toe of his rugged boot clinked against something on the sawdust floor. He picked it up and brushed it off.

BROMOR

He blinked. It was an old headband plate. Turning it over, he felt his heart race, peculiarly. A moment of euphoria, almost. He must be due another cup of tea, rest was essential at his advanced age. Either that or he was finally going to have to accept he needed medication.

“Willow it is,” he sniffed, his tidy cursive chalked onto the new pony’s door. “Dinner is at 4. I’ll see you then, lovey.”

But there was only the sound of gentle breathing.

The pointing on the castle brickwork was immaculate; the front of the building looked vibrant and grand. Workmen packed up their tools, done for another day. Mortimer made sure to thank them as he carried his shopping bags in from the boot of his 2-seater Morgan after his much-needed supply trip to Sainsbury’s.

“Made up your mind about that moat, yet?” the gaffer asked.

“Oh, no, I don’t think I shall be having that reinstated,” Mortimer frowned.

The emerald lizard sniffed, “pity. Can’t have a castle without a moat.”

“Technically this isn’t really a castle, we’ve never been royalty, our ancestor just designed it to look as such.”

“Weeeell, needs the moat then, don’t it?”

He was aware of the weight of the bags pulling on his slim arms, “I’ll keep thinking about it,” he said with a nod, “definitely.”

He carried his marmalade and tins into the kitchen, carefully putting them away. A moat would be nice, but it was a lot of upkeep, wasn’t it, really? For a circular pond. Because that’s all it was. A pond in the shape of a ring that went round the house. Then you still had to have access to the front door and a drawbridge was completely out of the question! How would he have any furniture delivered? Oh yes he could have a brick bridge, but if you were going down that route then you may as well not bother with the moat in the first place! That’s why one of his descendants made the wise decision to fill it in and put gravel down. Very sensible.

As he chopped carrots to accompany his duck a la orange he began thinking about the old headband plate. That name – Bromor – had brought about it an emotional response. His heart had shuddered in his chest. He wasn’t ill, he was sure of it, so why had he felt so… excited? Agitated? It was as though he was gearing up to do something. With a huff, he prepared his duck fillets. It would soon be feeding time at the stables. He hoped Willow would eat her nutrient-rich alfalfa mix. If not, he would be going to bed dreading the morning. It was always a difficult phone call, telling Patrick bad news about one of his rescue animals.

“She’s fine,” he tutted to himself, “she’s absolutely fine. I’m fretting for nothing. I need to occupy myself more, clearly. Read a book or something…” he froze, his knife mid-chop.

“Bromor!” he cried, “it’s in the bloody book!”

The Book of Warlock was written in draconish. The page numbers were a muddle; Mortimer knew now that this was deliberate and not just dragon shenanigans: they gave out a portal code. But proper nouns in the tome hadn’t changed.

Bromor was in the book. Bromor had been a horse. Had. Then magic had come along and he had transformed into a wondrous beast…

A Nightmare.

Destroyer.

He scuttled about the kitchen, busily, making sure everything was ready for cooking when he got back from the barn. With a quick wash of his hands, he dried them on his Harrods tea towel and went back to the large outbuilding. It was feeding time.

“Any update on our new mare?” he asked Lizzy, one of his older stable-hands, as she scooped dry food into a large, orange grazing tub.

“Not that I know of, sir, no. All quiet in that corner. We’re almost out of the molasses mix, by the way.”

“Thank you, I shall ring through an order.”

She flicked her long rabbit ears; “oh, Duncan was making a purchase list for the grooms, too.”

“I bet he was,” Mortimer sniffed, darkly, “that boy loves spending my money. Tell him I’ll be with him shortly.”

“Will do!” she hauled the heavy tub out of the feed storage trough and walked away, her rabbit tail poking out of dirty jodhpurs.

Every animal in their care had a feeding plan. It was taped to the back of the feed trough lid and had been edited many times in Sharpie. Willow was now in stall 10, the last in the row, opposite the wash station. Her diet was easily digestible and nutrient-packed. Calories for health. With luck, her coat would soon gleam and her legs filled out and sturdy. There would be no need for shoes; her last days would be spent out in the lush fields once she was eating well.

Mortimer needed two hands for the plastic bucket, he was out of shape since his youth when he would be racing Patrick around the university sprint track and hurdles. Driving everywhere was doing him no favours. He didn’t even horse-ride as much as he’d like, these days. There was a time when he’d join in the Boxing Day hunt with the thrill of jumping five-bar gates to the baying of pedigree hounds. Some of the ditches he’d leaped over on his old horse, Saxon, he’d balk at today.

Willow was stood where he had left her, still breathing steadily, steam gently rising from her flanks. He slid back the bolt from the door with a rough pull and her head whipped up, the freshly-brushed golden hair falling from over her eyes as she looked at him intensely, brightly glowing orbs burning into him, making him falter in his movements with shock as food spilled out onto the stable floor.

Then she shook her head with a snort and she returned to her low-hanging pose, eyes darkened once more.

Mortimer looked around him, his blood thumping; nobody else was around. He blinked. Carefully, he scraped up the fallen nuggets and dropped them back in the tub, keeping the mare in the corner of his eyesight. She was motionless once more.

What had just happened? Had he startled her? Had she been afraid? Startled animals could panic and he didn’t want that, he wanted her to feel safe here. The neglect she’d been subjected to was all over now, this was her forever home. He held out a hand and lovingly pressed it against her soft muzzle, rubbing his thumb between the cavernous nostrils. “It’s ok, lovey, I’m not going to hurt you,” he soothed. “You need to eat, if you eat you can go out into the field with your new friends and run and play. You’d like that, wouldn’t you… Willow?”

His long ears picked up a faint grumble and the heat against his hand seemed to intensify.

“Good girl,” he praised, reaching to pat her thin neck, “good girl.” Dust sprang from her dry coat like a cloud. “Sorry…” he waved it away, coughing. “I’m sure we have some conditioning treatment on one of the shelves.”

He closed the door quietly this time, slipping away to find Duncan with his long list of essential purchases that no doubt would cost a small fortune, keeping horses was an expensive past-time at the best of times, never mind when half of them were sick or in therapy from injuries.

This night was another quiet evening, like all those before it, as Mortimer perused over his open bottle of Sauvignon’s vintage label. It was a very nice drop of wine indeed and against his better judgement he was going for a top-up of his glass. He sloshed the crimson liquid merrily and raised up the cut-glass crystal vessel, “cheers,” he nodded to the portrait hanging on the wall at the other end of the dining table, “to the future!”

His ancestor’s eyes bore down upon him, proud and full of self-confidence, the magical blue orbs currently swirling in the painted open palms of the ancient aardvarkian mage flickering as they rolled. “Found your old steed’s browband plate today,” he continued, chattily. “I must put it up on display.” He stopped, the glass touching his lips, “you wanted a moat, didn’t you? I suppose if I’m not footing the building bill then I should have it dug back up, shouldn’t I?” Mortimer took a large gulp of fine wine. His cheeks flushed, warmly, the alcohol settling in. Like many other things, he didn’t drink much now, not like in the days of playing bridge with his university fellows when there would be crates of empty bottles in the morning. Funny how Patrick brought up that Ferrari he’d lost. The demon Crispin had told him that Anar still had it after all these years. Quite how, when his nephew was somewhere in the farthest flung corner of the galaxy, he couldn’t fathom, but many amazing things had happened recently so he wasn’t about to doubt the funny little horned man.

“You promised me an adventure…” he whispered, “well not you personally, but your new you… I’m not made for adventures, my arthritis flairs up when it’s damp.”

There was silence from the painting.

“I’m going bonkers in my old age,” he sighed, draining the glass, “sitting here talking to myself. Talking to a painting, well that’s worse isn’t it?” With a clank of unsteady hands he collected up his dirty crockery and pushed back his chair.

“Mortimer.”

His head snapped back up to the painting, “did you say something? I know I joked about being mad talking to a picture on the wall but when it starts talking back, well…”

It remained silent as ever.

“Jolly good,” he said, weakly. “I’ll just clear up, shall I?”

“Help us.”

The aardvark sagged, “I knew I shouldn’t have reminded you about that adventure!” He let the plates drop back down on the table, “look at me! I’m an old man. What good am I? I need a walking stick to go to the Post Office! It’s my nephew you want, he’s the… the Intergalactic Hero or whatever he’s labelled himself as on his office door. He’s you! For… goodness’ sake!”

“You are a Warlock.”

Now he was getting drunkenly animated, “oh no you don’t! I haven’t got any of that magic stuff in me! It’s dangerous… I haven’t been trained! I’m going to bed! Stop talking to me,” he snapped.

Despite himself, he paused in the doorway, listening.

“Remember Bromor.”

“Bromor wasn’t even his name; he was Destroyer, Prince of Nightmares! He just couldn’t say it at the time because there was no magic and Nightmares need magic to do magical things like talk…” he stared again at the swirling blue orbs in the painting’s outstretched hands. He remembered the Dragon’s words, clear as a bell:

‘Magic has returned to Warlock Court.’

“Willow…” he dashed to the coat-stand and pulled on his flat-cap, trusty tweed jacket and country boots, flinging the front door open to see the dim lights of the barn shining ahead. There was an orange glow coming from inside the wooden structure.

“Oh no,” he moaned, “no no no!” all at once he was in a flap; there were fire extinguishers in the building, but he should call the fire brigade first, but he was drunk and they might not take him seriously! He could call Lizzy but that would be putting another person in danger! He spun on the spot not knowing which way to turn, whimpering in anguish. What would Anar do? He’d be heroic and put it out himself. What would the other Anar – his ancestor - do? Use magic, that’s what. No help there. It was just him, a fire-filled barn and ten horses who would be panicking.

“Keep talking to me!” he pleaded, “I’m new at this sort of thing!” with an unsteady gait he speeded towards the barn down the woodchip path.

“There is no need for alarm.”

“That’s easy for you to say! My bloody barn is on fire! The only thing in there that isn’t flammable are the horses!” he panted, drawing up close, searching for the extinguishers’ location.

The barn was still glowing bright but there was no heat… no ash nor roaring flames to be seen. No scream of terrified stablemates. No frantic hooves kicking. All was calm.. and cold. There was no burning blaze raging inside to put out.

Mortimer trembled with stress, thoroughly confused.

A girly shriek hit his long ears as Lizzy came swooping up to him, long white ears flapping, “don’t just stand there, call the emergency services!” she screamed, her pink eyes wide.

“There isn’t a fire…” he insisted, “it’s… something else. What are you doing here anyway?”

“I always come back at this time to give Hawthorn his medicine,” she panted, “I saw the orange glow and – and I thought…”

“Me too,” he said, firmly, “but I think you should go.”

She looked at him, her small nose twitching, eyebrows narrowing, “Hawthorn needs…”

“I know. I can do that. You should go,” he repeated, firmly.

She planted her hands on her wide hips, “if there’s no fire, then I’ll do what I need to.” Her thin lips pursed together in an expression of defiance. “How long have I been working for you? We’ve always been a team, no matter what. If someone is stealing our horses…”

He shook his head, “no, no, it’s silent, listen.”

She did. “Huh. So not a fire and not horse rustlers. Looks like I’m back on duty, then!”

He held out a grey hand to halt her, “I am going in first, just in case. You might be right,” he added, soothingly, “but I’d rather be safe than sorry, dear.”

She shrugged, “Tommy probably left a lamp on.”

“That’s one hell of a lamp,” Mortimer frowned. He stepped inside the barn, the concrete floor swept clean after a long working day. He didn’t have to look to see where the light was coming from; the end stall was aglow in fierce hues.

“It’s so bright!”

He jumped, “Lizzy!”

“What? You went in first, didn’t you? Why are you so jumpy?”

“I really want you to go home.”

She sniffed, “I can tell, that’s why I’m not going to. Remember when that development company wanted to buy your forest and had those goons snooping around? I helped you get rid of them. And those crazy vegans broke in and tried freeing the horses, telling them to run free when most would drop dead without their medication? I was there, then, too.”

“This is different,” he pleaded.

Her expression didn’t change.

He sighed, defeatedly, “you know that the whole west wing glows mysteriously at night, don’t you?”

“Yup.”

“Did you ever wonder why?”

“Yup.”

“And what if I told you that it was from a magical battle five hundred years ago?”

“I’d say that makes sense,” she nodded.

“But it wouldn’t worry you?”

She gave a small laugh, “no! People worry me, not magic. Magic is harmless until someone wields it. Come on, let’s check it out together.”

Horses dozed as they quietly walked past their slumbering forms towards the new mare’s stall.

“Hey Hawthorn,” Lizzy hissed affectionately to the old donkey wrapped up in his rug, “I’ll be with you in a minute, ok?”

Mortimer halted with a sharp intake of breath.

In front of him was a noble, high-held head of burning gold, inset with the intensely blazing eyes he had seen momentarily, earlier that day.

Willow’s mane flowed in autumnal hues, a ripple of bright fire in an otherwise dimly lit barn.

“Whooooooah, what kind of horse is that?” Lizzy gasped over his shoulder.

“It’s not a horse, Lizzy. They are Nightmares; magical creatures from another plane of existence entirely. They soak up magic, as dragons do, and use it for transformation into their true forms. Whatever we saw before was merely a front. A façade. This is the true beast before us.”

“That’s mental!” she breathed in awe.

He scuffed away the nameplate chalk, “she will have a name. When she is ready to share it with us herself.”

The mare tossed her head and brought down a strong hoof, snorting, “I am Flamed,” she said curtly, “and you will keep your Warlock oath and help us!”

“Warlock oath?” Lizzy hissed.

“You can give Hawthorn his paste, now,” Mortimer spoke from the corner of his mouth.

“Like hell I will! This is loony!” the rabbit doe grinned. “I’ve been keeping horses all my life and I’ve never seen anything like this. She’s gorgeous!”

Flamed preened at the compliment, ruffling crimson-tipped cream feathers that sprang at her shoulder-blades.

“Get out! She’s got wings! Wings, Mortimer!”

“Of course she has,” he sighed, accepting his fate. “What can the Warlock family do for you, Flamed?”

She stepped closer to them, her glow fading in intensity, “I come to you, as you are the last true Warlock upon this planet, to demand the fulfilment of your family’s oath to aid us as we have aided you in days past. There is a… collector, here in this world, hoarding our kind, draining us of our powers and keeping us bound to him.”

Mortimer dragged his hand over his long face, “a collector…”

Flamed tilted her head, “you know what manner of creature I am speaking of?”

“What’s a collector?” Lizzy hissed.

“She means a dragon.”

Flamed dipped her head in a nod.

“A dragon?! What? Where?” the rabbit whipped her head around, whacking Mortimer with her long ears.

“They collect things. It’s what they do,” he groaned. “I’ve gone through life without encountering a single one and now I’m going to have two in the space of a month.”

Lizzy reeled, “wait, you met a dragon? When?”

He waved a hand, dismissively, “it’s a whole… thing. For another time.” He turned back to Flamed, “why does a dragon need more magic? Aren’t they made of the stuff?”

“You have heard of the Council of Sorcerer’s?”

Mortimer swore loudly and Lizzy visibly flinched, taken aback at this uncharacteristic behaviour from the usually placid aardvark.

The Nightmare continued, “the dragon is sourcing magic to the Council to power their amulets. It’s very lucrative and dragons crave wealth above all else. The dragon is draining its hoard of Nightmares of magic and then selling it on to them.”

He sagged, “you’ve got the wrong guy, you want my nephew: Anar; he’s the Nightmare expert.”

“And is he here, on this planet?” Flamed demanded, haughtily.

He scrunched up his face, “well… no,” he admitted.

“You’ve got a nephew in outer space?!”

“Just.. go with it,” Mortimer pleaded the rabbit. He turned back to Flamed, “so, you can’t approach the dragon or you will be collected, too, which leaves me. To find a dragon selling magic. And the Council already have our family on a watch list because of what happened with our ancient ancestor. Fantastic.”

“You’re on a watch list?!” Lizzy almost sounded impressed.

“It wasn’t me!” he hissed. “I’m a good, law-abiding citizen, that business with the tax discs on the Jaguars doesn’t count! I’ve had no… direct dealings with magic! None! I need to think about this. There’s a dragon out there somewhere… with a massive collection of what seem to be horses, to the everyday folk at least. And they’re selling Nightmare magic to the Council of Sorcerer’s.”

Flamed stamped her hoof again, the sound echoing through the quiet barn, “the Council must not learn about us! If they do… they will do worse than collecting. They have not forgotten about Prince Destroyer. They are terrified of what a Warlock and his Nightmare can do. Rightfully so,” she sniffed.

Lizzy looked from the aardvark to the fire steed and back again, “but… you’re a Warlock and a Nightmare,” she reasoned, “what is it exactly you can do that’s so terrible?”

Mortimer threw up his hands, dramatically, “nothing! I’m not magical, but the Council don’t know that. They will see us as a threat to their authority and shoot fireballs first, ask questions later.”

Flamed nodded, “we have been hiding from them for a long time now, but this dragon is putting us in very grave danger; not only is he leaving us without our only defence, he is possibly alerting the Council to our whereabouts. They will ask questions once they start signing cheques. They will want to know the dragon’s sources. This could be the end of our race here on Earth and you don’t want to be responsible for that, do you, Warlock?” her eyes burned into him, full of challenge.

“I need to speak to Patrick,” he groaned, “if there’s a horse-buyer out there picking Nightmares up, he’ll have a better clue than I.”