How to Slay a Dragon Page 3

  Lucky’s arm dropped, along with his jaw. “For a moment I forgot who I was dealing with. I thought you’d want something bright to scare away monsters, but if it’s drab colors you want, well . . .”

  “On second thought, that outfit looks fine,” Greg said, grabbing for the pile.

  But Lucky pulled it out of reach. “No, I wouldn’t think of it. I can get you something else. It’ll just take a minute.”

  “No, really, I—”

  “Say, where’s your sword?”

  “What? I don’t have a sword.”

  “How can you not have a sword? What kind of dragonslayer are you?”

  “I keep telling you, I’m not a dragonslayer.”

  “Cut it out, Greghart.” Lucky’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Let’s see, I’m going to need a drab tunic and a sword. Anything else?”

  Greg stared at him, dumbfounded.

  “Okay, be right back,” Lucky said, and darted out of the room.

  This is not happening!

  Greg realized he never heard the lock turn, but where could he go? And would he be safer inside or out? He took too long to decide.

  “Here we go,” said Lucky, who was already back and holding out an outfit so drab, Greg nearly missed it. Greg didn’t see a sword either, but he decided not to say anything. If they really did encounter a dragon later, maybe he could use this as an excuse to run for the castle.

  Reluctantly he changed into the tunic and tights and a pair of incredibly comfortable boots that Lucky just happened to guess the correct size for, and then he and Lucky were off, much like the evening before, twisting though endless passageways. Well, not exactly endless. They eventually reached a small isolated door that looked rarely used. Lucky pushed it open and stepped through, and Greg followed, squinting into the bright sunlight. At least that answered the question about whether they had a sun here, though Greg took little comfort in the thought.

  Like a crack of thunder the chanting took up again. “Greghart! Greghart! Greghart!”

  Greg frowned as he took in the crowd gathered outside. How could so many people be deluded into thinking he could slay a dragon? Well, it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t ask to be here. Still, he hated to be responsible for all these people losing their faith.

  “Greghart, my good boy. This way.”

  There was no mistaking that commanding tone. King Peter stepped from the crowd to offer a greeting. He needn’t have bothered. As tall as he was, Greg could have seen him perfectly well from across the yard. Queen Pauline was there, too, dressed in her best finery, as was Penelope, though it did look as if the princess would have rather been anywhere else.

  King Peter waved the boys forward, and the crowd parted to allow them to pass. All around Greg could hear murmuring, something about being drab and how you could barely see it.

  “. . . blatant disregard for the proper coloring of tunics,” he heard one young girl say.

  “Hush, Mary,” whispered the woman next to her. “This man’s a great hero.” She smiled nervously at Greg and added, “Little ones. Where do they come up with these things?”

  “Well, this is it, Greghart,” King Peter said. “Allow me to say once again how honored we are to be with you here at the start of your journey.”

  “About that, Your Majesty—”

  King Peter met his eyes with a scolding glare, and Greg remembered what Lucky told him. For the sake of those watching, Greg knew he must hold his tongue . . . at least until he could figure out something to say that might make people listen.

  King Peter stepped close and made a show of straightening Greg’s tunic.

  “I’m going to slip something into your pocket,” he whispered. “Now, don’t take it out until you’re on the trail, but then you’ll want to wear it about your neck, and you must have it with you when you face Ruuan.”

  “Face Ruuan? But—”

  The king strengthened his glare, and Greg found himself incapable of disobeying. He looked down at his pocket. “What is it?” he ventured.

  “An amulet. It belonged to Ruuan himself.”

  “Why are you giving it to me?”

  “Lending it, Greghart. I’m lending it to you. As I understand, you’ll need it when you battle the dragon.”

  “But—”

  “Hush. Now I don’t know just how to use it, but I can only assume you’ll figure that out along the way.” He shot Greg another glare then, cutting off any objections before he could voice them.

  “A song, Your Majesty?”

  Out from the crowd stepped a tall, slender man in a fiercely purple tunic. The wide grin on his face proved he had no idea what was happening here. King Peter matched the expression.

  “A splendid idea, Bart, but just one. These men need to get on the trail. They have a dragon to slay, after all.”

  “Of course.” The man approached and stared as though Greg were from another world. It only took Greg a second to remember he was. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you,” Bart said. “This is so strange.”

  “For you, too?” said Greg.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a bit smaller than I imagined. Who would have thought the Army of the Crown would allow themselves to be led by one so young?”

  “We are in a hurry, Bart,” King Peter called.

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” Bart reached across his shoulder and withdrew a lute he had slung across his back. Then, after an acknowledging nod from his king, he began to sing and play.

  Hear the tale, one and all,

  Of a boy, who though small,

  Took on goals that were tall by most’s measure.

  A courageous young man,

  From a much distant land,

  He was led by his heart, not by treasure.

  Tho’ the outcome seemed dire,

  He set off for the spire

  With no weapons, no horse, and no wagon.

  From the House Pendegrass,

  Past the trolls at Death’s Pass,

  He would rescue a lass from a dragon.

  Greg had to back up, for when Bart broke into the chorus he began to dance around the clearing.

  Oh, Greghart was his name,

  Dragon slaying his game,

  And he didn’t fear a thing on this Myrth.

  He’d face any sensation,

  Laugh at decapitation,

  Even incineration, or worse.

  The crowd began to clap, but faded once they realized Bart was just getting started.

  He would hike ‘cross the land,

  Till too weary to stand,

  Face much worse than I’d planned for this tune.

  He’d dodge hot lava pitches

  And dark evil witches,

  To rescue the princess from Ruuan.

  Off to make his last stand,

  Amulet in his hand,

  With a small band of friends he would gather.

  Though he never sought fame,

  Now we all know his name.

  Prophecy to fulfill. That’s what matters.

  This time Greg spotted the chorus coming and backed out of the way as Bart finished.

  “Oh, very good, Bart,” King Peter said. “Very good.”

  “But, I have three more verses . . . .”

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid we have no more time. If Greghart’s going to get on the trail in the early morn’ like the prophecy says . . . well, we’re already pushing it as it is.”

  “I could listen to more,” suggested Greg.

  The king shot him an increasingly familiar glare. “There really is no more time.”

  “Yeah, we need to get going, Greghart,” said Lucky. The boy smiled happily as he bid farewell to Queen Pauline and Princess Penelope, and then forced Greg to do the same—bid farewell, that is. It would have been tricky getting him to smile.

  But Queen Pauline wasn’t smiling either. In fact, Greg noticed a barely perceptible quiver in her lower lip.

  “You don’t believe in the prop
hecy,” he said.

  A murmur arose from the crowd as the queen glanced worriedly from side to side. “Of course, I do.” She leaned in close, as if to adjust the tunic King Peter had already straightened, and spoke in a voice only Greg could hear. “But this is my daughter’s life we’re talking about.”

  She looked like she wanted to say more, but then Lucky grabbed Greg’s arm and pulled, and the crowd swarmed in around them, blocking her from view.

  “Come on, Greghart.”

  The pair headed across the castle lawn toward the edge of the woods, with the crowd moving right along beside them, pointing and staring every step of the way.

  Greg paused. To his amazement the crowd paused too.

  He swayed back and forth nervously. The crowd swayed with him.

  If his situation weren’t so dire, he might have tried dancing the Hokey Pokey. Instead, Greg focused on the edge of the forest, where a foreboding path extended straight through the trees as far as he could see.

  “Well, this is it,” Lucky said. “You ready?”

  “Actually—”

  “All right then.” Lucky took the first step off the castle lawn onto the path, and in celebration of the momentous event, the crowd erupted into boisterous applause. Startled by the noise, Greg dove after Lucky, to which the crowd screamed and clapped all the more.

  “Wait up,” Greg said. He had to run to catch Lucky, who in his determination to fulfill his destiny barely stopped even when Greg managed to clasp Lucky’s shoulder.

  “What is it, Greghart?”

  “Slow down,” Greg said, puffing. “You’re getting too far ahead. What’s your plan, anyway? Duck out of sight, I suppose. Wait for everyone to go home before we sneak back.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

  “You think it would be better to wait until after dark?”

  “We can’t go back, Greghart.”

  “Greg. And sure we can. Everyone will go away soon.”

  “No, I mean we really can’t go back,” Lucky repeated, pointing in the direction they had just come.

  Greg followed Lucky’s finger and felt his stomach knot up tighter than one of Manny Malice’s fists.

  It was not what he saw, but what he didn’t see that bothered him. He didn’t see King Peter. He didn’t see the crowd. He didn’t even see the castle lawn. Although he and Lucky had walked only a few steps into the woods, the opening they passed through was now nowhere to be found. Somehow the trail behind had been completely cut off by a sudden growth of dense trees and impenetrable vines.

  The Enchanted Forest

  “What happened to the trail?” Greg screamed.

  “It’s okay,” said Lucky. “It was there when we needed it. Come on. We have a long way to go. We don’t want to find ourselves in this forest after dark.”

  “I don’t want to find myself here now.”

  “That’s funny, Greghart. Seriously, let’s go.”

  “Greg,” Greg said, but Lucky had already started off again. Greg rushed to catch up. The forest followed, and while he might have been amused when the crowd did the same back on the lawn, Greg could only interpret this as a bad omen. Oddly, Lucky whistled while he walked, as if being chased by a forest were an everyday event.

  “Lucky, did you realize the trees were . . . well, they’re following us.”

  “It’s okay, Greghart. They won’t hurt you.”

  “Oh yeah . . . uh, I knew that.” Greg was quiet for a time as he debated how this situation could possibly be acceptable. “Hey, aren’t you at least scared about fighting a dragon?”

  “I’m not going to fight Ruuan,” Lucky said. “You are.”

  Greg frowned. “Then why are you even here?”

  “King Peter thought you might need a guide. Besides, the writing’s not very clear. We’re not sure if the prophecy was supposed to say, ‘Greghart was lucky to survive’ or ‘Greghart and Lucky survive.’ This way we have both angles covered.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Can’t you see all this prophecy stuff is nonsense?”

  “Shh.” Lucky stopped so abruptly Greg ran right into him. After a quick glance about the surrounding forest, Lucky whispered, “The woods have ears.”

  Greg, too, scanned the trees. When a vine snaked its way over toward his ankle, he couldn’t help but wonder if the woods had teeth as well. He was glad when Lucky resumed his hurried pace.

  “That’s all we need is for it to get back to Mordred that you don’t think the prophecy is true,” Lucky said.

  “Mordred? Oh, yeah, that guy who kept poking me with the stick last night.”

  “No, that was Agni. He’s just mean. If that had been Mordred we’d have needed to rush you to a healer. He despises you.”

  “But he doesn’t even know me.”

  “He knows of you, and he doesn’t think you’re the Greghart in the prophecy.”

  “I’m not,” Greg moaned. “I can’t slay a dragon. I’m just a kid.” He stomped to a halt, and might have stayed that way, too, if the forest hadn’t sauntered up from behind and nudged him forward.

  Lucky never noticed. “Did I see King Peter hand you something back at the castle?”

  “What? Oh, yeah, an amulet. Thanks for reminding me. I was supposed to wear it once I got on the trail.”

  Greg fished around in his pocket for the amulet and held it up by the chain. It was about the size of a quarter, pie-shaped, and covered with tarnish and scratches.

  Lucky stopped short, and his mouth dropped open. “An amulet? Greg, do you know what that is?”

  “I guess so. King Peter said it belonged to the dragon.”

  “It’s the Amulet of Ruuan!”

  “I just said that.”

  Lucky reached out and lifted the artifact delicately, as if it might shatter at his touch. “I know. It’s just that, well, the Amulet of Ruuan is famous. I can’t believe King Peter just gave it to you. I guess it must have something to do with the prophecy. Didn’t Bart mention something about an amulet in his song?”

  “Don’t know,” Greg said. “I quit listening when he started singing about decapitation.” He slipped the chain over his neck while he still had one and tucked the amulet down the front of his tunic, where it tingled warmly against his chest.

  “Well, I was listening,” said Lucky. “I’m pretty sure he said you’d have it with you when you made your last stand against the dragon.”

  “Last stand?” Greg repeated. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “You want to make more stands against Ruuan?”

  “No. I—”

  But Lucky had already stalked away again.

  As the two boys walked, Greg tried not to dwell too much on dragons and last stands, but all he could find to distract him were the towering trees and dense underbrush, which, considering their unacceptable behavior, did little to relax him. As if the commotion from behind weren’t bad enough, loud rustling noises kept erupting from the brush to either side of the trail, too. Greg snapped his head toward every sound, but not once did he catch a glimpse of anything lurking behind the bushes.

  “What was that?” he asked, after one particularly loud episode.

  “Relax, Greghart,” said Lucky. “I’m sure it was just a monkeydog.”

  “A what?”

  “Surely you’ve run across them before. Monkeydogs are everywhere. They love to lurk in the brush just to the side of the trail and make impossibly large rustling noises.”

  Another noise sounded, and Greg tried to peer right through a tree trunk to discover its source. A few fronds swayed briefly back into place, but Greg spotted little else. “Um—are these monkeydogs dangerous?”

  Lucky shrugged. “Can’t say. No one’s ever seen one.”

  “Then how do you know they exist?”

  “You just heard one, didn’t you?”

  The two boys went back to walking in silence after that. Well, relative silence. Th
e rustling in the bushes kept on, strong as always. Stronger, if you asked Greg.

  As the morning progressed, Greg grew more tired than he’d been all summer. Hotter, too, except possibly for those few seconds yesterday, when Manny Malice had him cornered in the tree house. Greg’s tunic was drenched with sweat by the time Lucky finally set down his pack and motioned for Greg to sit.

  The loaf of bread Lucky dug out looked to Greg to be longer than the pack that held it. With it Lucky provided a slab of very dark meat, though Greg was afraid to ask what sort of meat it was. Later, after Lucky pulled out a huge watermelon, twice the size of anything Greg had ever seen on Earth, Greg looked at both Lucky and the pack with new respect.

  “Something wrong?” he asked Lucky, who had laid the melon on the ground and was staring down blankly.

  “I forgot a knife. Oh, wait.” Lucky stooped and opened the pack again. With all the prestidigitation of a stage magician, he somehow withdrew a four-foot-long sword from the small bag. “You want to do the honors, Greghart? You should probably get the feel of this.”

  Greg felt too horrified to be amazed long. “You’re not expecting me to use that against Ruuan, are you?”

  “Well, I guess you could go up against him empty-handed if you want.”

  “You’re crazy. All of you here are crazy.”

  Lucky shrugged, then hefted the sword and swung it down at his feet, slicing the melon cleanly in half. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about fighting Ruuan,” he said, lining up the melon for a second blow. “Really, I don’t see what the big deal is. We know from the prophecy everything’s going to turn out okay.”

  “Are you listening to yourself? If I’m not the right Greg Hart, it doesn’t matter what the prophecy says, does it?”

  The sword fell, separating one of the watermelon halves into quarters. Lucky chuckled as he handed a section to Greg. “Look, I already told you I picked you myself. Are you questioning my talent?”