How to Slay a Dragon

  They call him Greghart, The Dragonslayer

  But Greg Hart can’t slay a dragon. He’d be lucky to win a fight against one of the smaller girls at school.

  His only real skill is that he can run faster than any other twelve-year-old boy in his class, a necessity, since that’s who he’s usually running from. Oh, it’s not like he’s never been the hero at the center of an adventure. It’s just the kind of adventures he’s been involved with have always been the made-up kind he’s written about in his journal.

  Now the magicians of Myrth have yanked Greg into a strange new world, where the monsters he must run from are far scarier—and hungrier—than anything he’s ever run from before. He tries to tell everyone there’s been a mistake. Ruuan is a very large dragon, while Greg, on the other hand, is neither large nor a dragon. He’s barely much of a boy. Unfortunately, such trivialities could never stop the people of Myrth from believing Greg will rescue King Peter’s daughter from Ruuan. After all, Greg has been named in a prophecy, and no prophecy has ever been wrong before.

  Why, Greg wonders, does he have to be at the heart of the first one that is?

  How to

  Slay

  a

  Dragon

  Journals of Mryth

  Book One

  Bill Allen

  Bell Bridge Books

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  ISBN: 978-1-935661-87-0

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2011 by Bill Allen

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo credits:

  Dragon © Alexey Bakhtiozin | istockphoto

  :Lhd:01:

  Dedication

  In memory of Mom, who, along with Dad,

  inspired more absurdity than anything on Myrth.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Raymond and Barbara Feist for their encouragement in the beginning, to the members of the Brevard Scribblers and the Space Coast Writers’ Guild for their feedback along the way, to Gene Davis for helping give the book its second wind, to Debra Dixon and the many others at Bell Bridge Books for helping me to make Greg Hart’s story a better one, and most of all to my wife, Nancy, for enduring it all.

  The Mighty Greg Hart

  Greg Hart’s name had never caused him trouble before.

  It was nothing like the name for Winnie Weimar, who everyone at school was always calling “Whiney” Weimar. And it was way better than the one pinned on poor Richard Kinickey, more commonly known as “Icky Ricky” Kinickey. It wasn’t even as bad as the one for Dewey Doolittle, who everyone called—well, Dewey Doolittle. No, Greg Hart had a perfectly normal name, which is why, for the most part, the other kids just called him Greg and were done with it.

  Problem was, for twelve years now Greg’s name may have simply been biding its time.

  In the center of the woods behind Greg’s house stood a large oak, where between two boughs rested a smattering of scrap wood that might have been called a tree house, had a person been feeling especially generous. There Greg sat, cross-legged on the creaking wood floor, writing in his journal, his tousled brown hair jutting out in all directions. Another boy might have written about the events of his morning, or even about his apprehension over starting junior high tomorrow, but not Greg. As always he chose stories more to his liking.

  Today he’d been chased by a giant.

  I was a little worried at first. With each step the giant took, the ground trembled and split. Huge boulders dislodged and crashed across my path. Trees toppled. Then it hit me.

  An idea, that is, not the giant. Or a tree.

  I screamed out a warning. The giant yawned. (It’s not that easy to capture the attention of a giant.)

  That’s when I charged. Poor beast never even saw me coming. Imagine its surprise when I wedged my shoulder between two enormous toes and easily brought it to its knees.

  Greg paused and held his pen to his chin. Truth was, he’d be lucky to survive a fight with a classmate, let alone one with a giant—compared to Greg, his classmates were giants—but the Greg Hart from his journal was capable of countless feats Greg would never take on himself, so he shrugged and scratched out an end to his tale.

  A deafening roar shook the forest as the giant teetered first forward, then back, and dropped like a falling skyscraper, splaying the last of the trees. For twenty minutes the ground trembled, short in comparison to the hour it took to climb my way out of the newly formed cavern.

  I didn’t mind. Small price to pay for saving yet another kingdom.

  “Cool,” Greg told himself as he snapped his journal closed and crammed it into the pocket of his jeans. What he wouldn’t give to win a fight against a giant.

  Of course, it’s not like he’d never been in a fight before. It’s just to date his experiences always leaned more toward getting beaten up rather than throwing any punches. About the only thing he had in common with the Greg Hart from his journal was that he could run really fast. Here he had plenty of experience—way more than any boy would have liked—but less, he feared, than he would need at his new school tomorrow.

  No, Greg’s strength was simply not one of his strengths. His smile drained away, and he fell back against the wall of the tree house, ignoring the groan of the buckling lumber.

  Greg had spent all morning exploring the woods behind his house, where it was not uncommon for every bush to hide a monster, for the trees to pick up and move when he wasn’t watching, and for animals to chase him at blinding speeds down the twisted paths, nipping at his heels with every step.

  Imagining you’re a hero could be exhausting work.

  Soon Greg’s eyelids began to droop and his head began to list, but his imagination was just getting its second wind. Before him appeared a courtyard filled with people, all shouting and waving their arms.

  “Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart!” they cheered, and there was Greg at the center of it all, grinning so wide it looked as if his head might split in half. Eyes fully closed now, the daydreaming Greg smiled too. He’d have fought a giant twice the size for half the glory.

  Gradually the picture blurred and reformed, until next to Greg stood a pretty young maiden in a long, flowing gown. A huge man in a

  magenta robe and gold crown strode forward, a king, who spoke in a most grandiose tone.

  “Our greatest thanks to you, young man. I must say, only the very bravest of heroes would have willingly marched into the lair of that fire-breathing dragon. No words can express our gratitude. No words at all. We shall remain forever in your debt.” In his mind Greg saw the maiden reach up on tiptoes to give him a grateful kiss, and the spectators threw their hats in the air and cheered even louder than before.

  Greg woke with a start. Where would he ever find a young maiden who needed to stand on tiptoes to kiss him? Where would he find one willing to kiss him at all? He pushed the thought fr
om his mind and tried to return to the courtyard, but the image wouldn’t come.

  He was still straining when a sudden rustling outside caused him to jump. It was not the sound of a giant, or a dragon, or even some unthinkable monster lurking in the bushes. It was worse. It was the sound of a big kid.

  Greg leapt to his feet and peered between two scrap boards at the trail below. Ogre!

  If only.

  Greg recognized the crooked jaw, the squashed nose and bulging red cheeks, the jet black eyes set deep beneath the single heavy brow. It was a face that would have been happy on a boxer, but no, the face was not happy, and the boy was no boxer—at least not by profession. His name was Manny Malistino, only everyone called him Manny Malice, or better yet, Sir, if they thought he might be listening.

  No sight in the world could have disturbed Greg more. True, Manny was in Greg’s grade, but he seemed bigger than all the other boys at school combined. Surely he’d have graduated high school by now if he hadn’t been let back so often—perhaps even got a good start on a technical vocation, provided he found one where he didn’t need to think.

  A sudden movement caught Greg’s eye, and he knew at once he’d been wrong. There were worse things than the sight of Manny approaching. Kristin Wenslow was there too!

  Quite possibly the cutest girl on the planet, Kristin was an unbelievably tiny thing (though certainly no shorter than Greg himself) with long, brownish hair that turned blond at the surface where the sun struck. Did she always have that many freckles? Too bad she didn’t even know Greg was alive. Not that he was complaining—Greg always preferred going unnoticed to being chased by the big kids who did notice him—it’s just, well, sometimes he wished he could be chased by Kristin. He couldn’t believe she was out with a brute like Manny Malice, or that she of all people was going to be here to witness Greg’s inevitable beating.

  “Last one there’s a rod and egg,” Manny shouted. With a shove he sent Kristin stumbling aside, and Greg wasted a lot of valuable time watching her flail her arms for balance when he should have noticed Manny running straight at him.

  A normal boy would have taken at least a minute to climb the large oak. Manny took a more direct route. He let out a battle cry and jumped, and Greg jerked back as a row of cucumber-like fingers latched onto the edge of the opening in the floor at his feet. Threatening cucumbers, like those left out too long in the sun. Not that they were squishy or anything. On the contrary, they looked big and hard, and Greg had an idea they would look even bigger and harder if Manny rolled them into a fist.

  The fingers squeezed. Greg’s bowels squeezed harder. Maybe Manny did resemble the giant he’d just defeated on the pages of his journal, but Greg would have been a fool to think he could fare as well in real life. Manny’s forearm shot up through the opening and braced against the wood floor. In a moment his head would pop into view.

  Greg bit back a scream. Above was a loose board in the ceiling. Okay, several. He shoved one aside and scrambled through the upper opening just as Manny pried through the hole below. The escape was so narrow, Greg’s feet were still swaying just inches above Manny’s slicked-back hair when Manny’s head popped through the floor and squinted into the relative darkness. Greg’s breath seized in his throat. Only his mind raced on. For the first time in his life he was glad to be the shortest boy at school.

  Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his legs up through the gap, cringing as the wood creaked under his weight. (Fortunately his was the type of tree house that would have sounded more suspicious if it ever stopped creaking.) Not until he made it out undetected did Greg breathe again. He peered over the edge of the roof at Kristin, only to have Manny’s head pop through a hole in the wall not two feet below his own. Greg gasped, threw a hand over his mouth, and eased out of sight.

  “Aren’t you coming up?” Manny shouted down to Kristin in the same taunting voice he’d used countless times on Greg.

  “I guess,” Greg heard Kristin reply. He fought back the urge to peer over the edge again. Instead he lay motionless, straining to hear as Kristin’s grunts and groans marked her progress up the trunk below.

  “What do I do now?” she called out, her voice sweet and innocent and everything Manny wasn’t.

  “You need to jump across,” Manny tempted.

  “I can’t jump that far.”

  “Sure you can. What are you, chicken?”

  Greg listened. Out of the silence came a scream. Greg’s head snapped up, followed by the rest of him, and before he could stop himself he jumped to the rescue.

  What was he thinking? Why should he believe he’d fare any better in a fall from this height than Kristin would? How did he expect to beat her down if he did? Why did stop signs have eight sides? These were just a few of the things Greg contemplated as he fell in agonizing slow motion toward the ground.

  He thought a long while.

  About halfway down he heard Manny ask Kristin why she was screaming. Kristin came up with a rather cute story about putting her hand on a beetle, and an eternity later Greg’s feet struck a small puddle near the base of the tree. Jolts of pain shot through his shins and ankles, his knees buckled, and in spite of his best efforts to be quiet, Greg let out a groan that would have sent even the monsters lurking in the underbrush scurrying, if the splash hadn’t already scared them off.

  From above there came a shout. Shoes like boulders landed with a thud next to Greg’s face. Large boulders, with no toes to wedge a shoulder between. Greg jumped to his feet. He risked one glance up at Kristin’s confused face—could she be any cuter?—and ran for his house, his soaked sneakers squishing with every stride.

  Throughout the pages of his journal Greg had been chased by monsters of every kind known to man, and more than a few of his own invention. None posed a bigger threat than the creature behind him now. His legs ached from the jump, and he could hear Manny panting just steps behind, but he didn’t dare look back. Instead he shot down the path as though his life depended on it. Anyone who knew Manny would have agreed it was worth the effort.

  Yet Greg was strangely hopeful. True, he was running for his life, but the fact he was able to do so proved he was good at it, and Manny was too heavy to handle the tight bending trails. Greg knew he couldn’t be caught.

  Unless, of course, he tripped.

  A nearly hysterical scream split the air. It lingered there for a second, or as Greg measured it, five heartbeats, and then Greg found himself struggling atop a thorny bush, unable to get up, as the sound of Manny’s footfalls grew nearer.

  Twenty more heartbeats passed, during which Greg swore he heard a tree fall and at least two boulders dislodge. What happened next he wasn’t exactly sure, only that it began with a blinding white light and a very long tunnel. He decided at that moment he must have been right. He had been running for his life, but apparently this one time his feet had not been up to the task.

  Hart-Felt Greetings

  “Is he alive?”

  “Of course he’s alive. Give him room. He may be a hero, but he still needs to breathe.”

  When Greg opened his eyes his first reaction was to close them again instantly. This turned out to be his second reaction as well. He might have given it a third go had one of the hooded figures hovering over him not poked him with a sharp stick before he could get to it. Instead Greg yelped, and his eyes popped open.

  He was no longer in the woods. He lay on a hard flagstone surface lit by a dim, flickering light. What little air managed to squeeze its way to him reeked of something familiar, though Greg couldn’t quite put a finger on it, and wasn’t sure he would if he could.

  Greg shrank back as the surrounding figures drifted closer. Everywhere he looked, nothing but black robes and sticks. Inside the many hoods, only darkness. Finally one figure leaned over and peered down at him, and Greg felt a glimmer of relief at seeing the shadowed face of a man, even if that face was scowling.

  “Doesn’t look like much of a warrior to me,” the man said in an icy voi
ce that would have made Death himself envious. “Are you sure you got the right one?”

  “Of course, Mordred,” said another. “Look at his eyes.”

  “Those are warrior eyes, all right,” said a third. “My Uncle Cedric had eyes just like ’em—only his were blue now that I think about it, and more bloodsho—”

  “Yes, yes, Dimitrius,” Icy-Voiced Man nearly spat. “We all remember Cedric. Why do you suppose his feet are wet?”

  “Uncle Cedric didn’t have wet feet.”

  “Quiet, everyone,” said the man who had poked Greg. “Stand back, you’re smothering him.” He jabbed Greg again, but Greg sent him shuffling quickly backward by yelling twice as loudly as before.

  “Careful, Agni,” someone shouted. “I think you hurt him.”

  “Are you kidding? Do you know who this is?”

  “I say we find out,” said Icy-Voiced Man. He raised one hand, causing Greg to flinch, but he was just drawing back his hood. His dark eyes stared without compassion past his stringy black hair as he locked gazes with Greg. “Who are you, boy? Tell us your name.”

  “W-what?” said Greg, his voice two octaves higher than normal. He surprised himself by wishing it were Manny Malice staring down at him. Only, where was Manny? Or Kristin? For that matter, where were the woods behind his house?

  “See. I told you the boy was no hero.”

  “Wait,” came a voice from behind. “Give him a chance, Mordred. He’s probably just disoriented from the trip. Go ahead, sir, tell him who you are.”

  One by one the remaining figures lowered their hoods. Greg was relieved to see that beneath each was a face, some gleeful, others excited or anxious, a few that might have even been wary, but none as disapproving as the one from the man named Mordred.