How to Slay a Dragon Read online

  “I-I’m Greg,” he told them. “Greg Hart.” Throughout the room men gasped.

  “Wait,” Mordred commanded, holding up a hand for silence. He leaned closer and stared, as if daring Greg to lie to him. “Tell us, boy, are you from Earth?”

  Greg swallowed hard before replying. “Do I look like an alien?”

  Mordred’s expression gave no hint of what he might be thinking.

  “Where else would I be from?” Greg clarified.

  One man slapped his knee and laughed. “I knew it!” A few others clapped, though they stopped rather abruptly when Mordred directed his stare their way.

  A voice called out, “You did it, Lucky. You did it.”

  A boy about Greg’s age stepped forward and hovered over Greg, his mouth drawn into a wide smile, his green eyes gleaming. Unlike the others, he wore a bright orange tunic and tights that clashed badly with his even brighter red hair. “Of course,” he boasted. “Did you have any doubts?”

  “Plenty,” someone shouted.

  “I know I did,” said another.

  “Me too,” came a voice from behind. The boy’s smile temporarily faded as a general rumble of agreement erupted throughout the room.

  “Never a one,” came a booming voice so commanding Greg couldn’t help but roll toward the sound. High above towered an enormous man whose shoulders rose above everyone else in the room. For an instant Greg thought he’d found Manny Malice, but then he noticed the luxurious robe of magenta velvet, and the speckled gray hair peeking out from beneath a golden crown. The man put a hand on the redheaded boy’s shoulder. “If we could count on anyone to find him, I knew it would be you.” He winked and added, “Good job, by the way. Always an amazement.”

  The boy flushed as red as his hair and bowed. “It was nothing, Your Majesty. I’m only happy to serve you.”

  “Please. It’s just me, Peter, remember?”

  “Sorry, Your Majesty—I mean—Peter.”

  “Hah! You keep trying. You’ll get it someday.” The man turned his attention to Greg then. “So, Greghart, you all right? You look a bit peaked. Can you stand?”

  Greg debated. If he did he’d surely just drop this way again. Even so, the boy in orange helped him up as the robed figures replaced their hoods and eased into the shadows.

  “Forgive me,” said the boy. “I should introduce you. This is King Peter Pendegrass the Third.” Out of the side of his mouth he whispered. “He’s in charge here.”

  With a great deal of effort, considering the distance he had to go, the king bowed low, as if he were the one in the presence of royalty. “I am quite honored to make your acquaintance, Greghart . . . and please, if you could just call me Peter.”

  “Oh, and I’m Lucky,” the boy in orange added quickly.

  Greg stared at him dumbly. “Good for you.”

  “No, I mean my name is Lucky. Short for Luke.”

  “Actually it’s longer,” Greg said. “Hey, where am I?”

  “Inside Pendegrass Castle, my dear,” replied a woman who stepped up from behind King Peter’s elbow, “in the Kingdom of Myrth.” Like the boy, she had red hair, but with wisps of silvery gray, and like the king, she wore a velvet robe and crown. Well, not exactly like the king. The crown was similar, but her robe was about a third the size of her husband’s and flowed with a grace befitting a queen, while King Peter’s looked more like someone’s feeble attempt at decorating a bear.

  “Myrth?” Greg repeated.

  “I think you’ll find it a lovely place,” the woman told him, “that is, if you don’t get too caught up in your noble purposes to enjoy it.” She smiled reassuringly. “Just promise if you get the chance you’ll pause every now and then to savor the peace, agreed?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Greg said, though he had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Oh, where are my manners?” Lucky cried. “Greghart, this is Her Majesty, Queen Pauline Pendegrass.”

  “Queen Pauline?” Greg muttered.

  The queen’s smile widened. “I’m sorry, dear. I suppose this all must seem a bit overwhelming. Is there anything we can get for you?”

  Greg felt his mouth open and close. A new mind might be good. Apparently he’d lost his old one.

  Queen Pauline laughed, a soft, lilting sound. “Well, if you think of anything let me know. I promise we’ll get through this as quickly as we can. I hate to subject you to it at all, really, but I’m afraid we have no choice. So many people have come to be a part of this historic event, and they’d be so terribly disappointed if they didn’t get a chance to at least shake your hand.”

  “Historic event?” Sure, Greg would describe this as one, but why would anyone else?

  “Of course,” said King Peter. “I know we may look fancy in all this festive grandeur,” he said, indicating his robe with a sweep of his hand, followed by a roll of his eyes that only Greg could see, “but we’re a humble people, really. It’s not every day we get to see a prophecy fulfilled.”

  “Prophecy?” Greg said.

  With a light press on the shoulder, King Peter guided him toward a huge oak door set in the middle of one wall. “Oh, didn’t we tell you about the prophecy?”

  “You didn’t tell me about anything.”

  “Then I guess that would include the prophecy, wouldn’t it?”

  Greg stared at the man. “What prophecy?”

  “Oh my. Well, I’m afraid we have no time for explanations. Everyone is waiting.” King Peter paused at the door. “Tell you what. If anyone presses you for details, just excuse yourself and say you need your rest. I’m sure they’ll understand. After all, they can’t expect you to go off hunting dragons without a good night’s sleep, can they?”

  Dragons? What was he talking about? Before Greg could object, King Peter pushed open the door and bright light spilled into the room. Greg protected his eyes with a hand, but he didn’t need to see to know what waited outside. Just like in his daydream a short time ago, as soon as the thousands of spectators spotted him, they raised their voices as one and began to cheer and shout Greg’s name.

  “Greghart! Greghart! Greghart!”

  Greg’s mouth dropped open. To each side of the door stood a row of men with trumpets raised, cheeks puffing in and out with effort, but any music they might have made was lost beneath the deafening chant. Jugglers, court jesters and mimes worked the room, their antics unnoticed, as all eyes were glued on Greg, and Greg couldn’t have been more uncomfortable had those eyes actually been pasted to him.

  In one big rush the crowd pressed forward. Greg tried to turn and run but bounced off the king’s stomach and dropped hard to the floor. A multitude of hands reached out and lifted him back to his feet, though Greg found it difficult to stand, as his knees had gone all wobbly.

  “I touched him!” someone shouted. “I touched Greghart.”

  “Ooh, I want to touch him too. Get out of my way!”

  Limbs thrust out from every angle and knocked into Greg again. Surely he’d have fallen back to the stone floor, had he more room to work with.

  “Order, people! Order!” In spite of King Peter’s informal manner, the crowd backed up at once and bowed.

  Greg used the extra elbowroom to drop back to the floor.

  “Careful, Greghart.” Lucky rushed forward to help Greg up again and used a bright orange cap that matched his tunic to brush the dust from Greg’s jeans. Queen Pauline floated into the room to join her husband, but the men in black robes stayed behind, nearly invisible in the shadows.

  “I hate to get caught up in formalities,” King Peter called to the crowd, “but I feel we must observe some sense of order here, if only to avoid crushing our young hero.” He winked conspiratorially and added, “We don’t want to hurt him before the dragon gets a shot at him, do we?”

  Everyone chuckled. Everyone but Greg, that is. Is the room closing in on me? No, just the people in it. Not until the room quieted did he manage to find his voice. “What’s this about me slaying a d
ragon?”

  The king didn’t seem to hear. “Let’s see, where should we start? Ah, yes. Greghart, you must meet my eldest daughter, Penelope.”

  “But you didn’t answer my ques—”

  Once again Greg’s mouth lost the ability to form words. An older girl, about seventeen or eighteen, stepped from the crowd and approached with the same grace Queen Pauline had displayed. Her elegant gown wafted out as she walked, adding fluidity to her movements, as did her fiery red hair, and Greg quickly decided he’d been fooling himself when he thought Kristin Wenslow could possibly be the prettiest girl in the world.

  Then again, this didn’t seem to be the world he was used to.

  Princess Penelope stepped within arm’s reach, where she towered over Greg by a full head, and looked down at him in more ways than one. “You’re hardly what I expected.”

  “Ha! Isn’t she lovely?” blurted King Peter. He slapped a palm over his daughter’s mouth and helped her, with no small amount of effort, to raise a hand toward Greg’s lips.

  Greg craned his neck backward to the limit, but, after considerable pressure from King Peter, the princess’s hand followed. Seeing no other option, Greg kissed the creamy white knuckles awkwardly, only to have the princess yank her hand back the same way Greg had once done when he was gathering firewood and accidentally grabbed the tail of a snake.

  “Just lovely,” King Peter muttered. He guided his daughter to her mother’s side much the way a lion guides an antelope to the ground, and no sooner had his palm left Penelope’s mouth than Queen Pauline’s flew in to take its place. Greg watched the veins in Penelope’s neck bulge nearly as big as Manny Malice’s biceps as her mother led her away amidst a chorus of muffled protests.

  “Let’s see, who should be next?” King Peter said. His smile faded, and a look of sadness came to his eyes. “I wish you could meet my youngest, Priscilla, but . . . I’m afraid she couldn’t be with us tonight.”

  “What was it you were saying about dragons?” Greg tried again.

  King Peter pulled himself together enough to offer a disapproving look.

  “Introduce me!” a woman called out from the crowd.

  Greg ignored the outburst. “You did say dragon. I’m almost sure of it.”

  King Peter strengthened his glare. He called Lucky forward and whispered something into the boy’s ear.

  “Yes, sire. As you wish.”

  “Peter, Lucky.”

  Greg felt Lucky’s hand lock over his wrist. He might have pulled away had he not so appreciated the support.

  “I’m sure you will all understand,” King Peter announced to the crowd, “if the Mighty Greghart needs his rest.” The resulting groan shook the floor, though the effect was lost on Greg, who felt the floor had been shaking plenty already. Clearly all these people thought he was some sort of hero, and while Greg had to admit it brought out feelings he’d never felt before, and quite good feelings at that, he would have far preferred to wake up in the woods behind his house with mud on his face and a large lump on the back of his head.

  The crowd stared in silence. Greg stared back. He felt compelled to say something, but just as he opened his mouth, a grip stronger than any monster from his journal yanked him from the room.

  Outside, Lucky pulled him along what seemed like hundreds of passageways. With each turn Greg became more and more lost, a waste given how lost he’d been before the trip even began. The entire way Lucky refused to answer Greg’s questions. Eventually the boy pushed open a random door and stepped into a side room, dragging Greg along behind.

  Under different circumstances the stately furnishings inside might have stolen Greg’s breath away, but Greg had no breath left to steal. He’d squirreled away just the one little bit, which he spent now to ask the question pressing heaviest on his mind.

  “What was King Peter trying to say back there about a dragon?”

  Lucky smiled, the expression so genuine, for just a moment Greg nearly forgot he was literally in a world of trouble.

  “His name is Ruuan, Greghart. You’re going to slay him. But all that can wait. You need to get to bed. Like King Peter said, you don’t want to go off chasing dragons without a good night’s rest.”

  Greg’s jaw dropped. He didn’t want to go off chasing dragons, period.

  “Well, good night,” Lucky said.

  “Huh?” Greg cleverly replied as Lucky stepped from the room and drew the door closed. Greg rushed forward and grabbed the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. To his horror he heard the sound of a lock being latched.

  “Sorry, Greghart,” came Lucky’s voice from outside. “King Peter’s orders. Don’t worry. It’s for your own protection. I’ll see you in the morning, okay? Sleep tight.”

  “No, wait,” Greg cried, but he could already hear Lucky’s footsteps echoing down the hall. Only then did he realize he was trapped.

  What’s worse, if he didn’t somehow find a way out of here, it looked as if he would be off hunting dragons in the morning.

  Hart-Wrenching Farewell

  It was no great mystery of the world—not even this new world—that Greg found it impossible to sleep that night. He paced the room until he’d worn a noticeable path in the stone floor, then crawled up on the bed and pulled out his journal and pen. For the first time ever he found no need to alter the events of his day. Somehow being transported by magicians to another world for the purposes of slaying a dragon seemed exciting enough.

  Once he’d recorded the entire odd sequence of events, Greg set down his journal, lay back on the bed, and sleeplessly awaited the sunrise. Do they even have a sun here? The thought left him twice as restless as before.

  Hours passed. Greg tossed and turned and thought about how much more he liked adventures when they were floating about in the back of his mind, or on the pages of his journal. Yesterday he might have said otherwise, but today he would freely admit he’d rather fight Manny Malice than a dragon.

  Finally, a knock sounded on the door. “Morning, Greghart.”

  With a click the lock turned, the door swung open and in stepped Lucky, wearing the same bright orange tunic and carefree smile from the night before. He carried a bright red pack slung over one shoulder, and an even brighter pile of red fabric draped across one arm. “Oh, good. You’re up.”

  “Lucky, you’re back.” Greg scrambled off the bed and rushed to the door. “There’s been a terrible mistake. I don’t belong here. This isn’t even my world.”

  Lucky’s face beamed. “Of course not. The prophecy said you would come to us from a great distance.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It’s not me you’re after.”

  “Nonsense, Greghart. That’s just pre-dragon-hunting jitters talking. I’m sure you’ll be fine once we hit the trail.”

  “What? No, I’m not going anywhere.” He grabbed Lucky by the shoulders and shook him, but from the look on Lucky’s face this was not acceptable behavior on Myrth. With the calmest voice he could muster, he tried again. “You’re not listening. This prophecy of yours isn’t about me.”

  Lucky slid his pack back up to his shoulder and eyed Greg cautiously. “No, you’re not listening. Of course the prophecy is about you. I picked you myself.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Last night, remember? When the magicians cast their spell. I was the one who told them when to open the portal. Of course, I knew I could do it all along. When it comes to matters of chance I can’t lose. King Peter calls it my talent. He says I’m the luckiest boy on Myrth, maybe even the luckiest kid who’s ever lived.”

  “Wait. You’re saying the only reason you think this prophecy is about me is because you picked me and you’re lucky?”

  “Well, yeah. Think about it. The prophecy says Greghart from Earth will slay Ruuan. What are the chances the portal opened on Earth in the exact spot where a hero named Greghart was standing, but that you’re not the right Greghart from the prophecy?”

  Greg had to admit it didn’t s
eem likely, but if he agreed with Lucky, he was just one step away from volunteering to slay Ruuan. He felt the pressure of the world behind his eyeballs and debated if that might be where he misplaced the Earth yesterday. “I’m not a hero. And my name’s not Greghart. It’s Greg Hart.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  Lucky’s expression had not changed. “No need to yell. I think I’ll stick with Greghart anyway, okay? Believe in prophecies and they’ll never let you down, but start to doubt and—well, all chaos might break loose. If we go around saying you’re not Greghart, people may start believing you’re not a hero.”

  “But I’m not!”

  Lucky shushed him and leaned over to close the door. “That’s only because you haven’t rescued the princess yet. Give it time.”

  “Princess?”

  “Yes. Ruuan will have her for a quick snack if you don’t rescue her according to schedule, which is why we shouldn’t be dallying around here arguing. According to all the songs we’re to be on the trail ‘in the early morn.’”

  Only then did Greg remember King Peter last night mentioning a second daughter, Priscilla, who couldn’t be with them. Now Greg

  understood why. “Are you saying the dragon is going to eat King Peter’s daughter?”

  “Of course not,” said Lucky. “You’re going to rescue her. But not if we don’t get out of here soon.” He held out the pile of fabric he’d draped across his forearm. “Here, I brought you a tunic and tights.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Greg said, ignoring Lucky’s outstretched arm. But Lucky was serious, and object as he might, Greg soon realized the only way he’d ever get out of this room was to cooperate. This might have bothered him more if he had any intention of leaving the room.

  “Come on, Greghart,” Lucky said, still holding out the clothing. “We need to get moving.”

  Greg stared back for several long seconds. Finally, resigned to his fate, he reached out with trembling fingers. The tunic was so bright it glowed. He was almost afraid to touch it. “You expect me to wear this? Kind of loud, isn’t it?”