How to Save a Kingdom

by Bill Allen

  “Why don’t you ask them yourself?” Nathan said.

  “Huh?” replied Greg.

  Nathan stopped and motioned toward an opening in the woods ahead.

  Greg’s stomach had attempted many unusual gyrations over the last few weeks, but nothing compared to the way it flipped over now. Ahead, the woods opened onto the highly manicured lawn of Pendegrass Castle, only today it was impossible to see even a single blade of grass. Every square inch was covered by spireling warriors, each standing with a double-bladed axe poised at his or her side, no doubt awaiting Queen Gnarla’s command to attack.

  The Battle of the Spirelings

  “Wait!” Greg shouted.

  The two closest spirelings turned at the noise, and their faces broke into wide, toothy grins.

  “Gnash?” said Greg. “Gnaw?”

  One of the spirelings laughed. “I am Nibble,” she said, her voice much more feminine than her appearance. “And this is Nip. Queen Gnarla is anxiously awaiting your arrival. We will take you to her.”

  Only then did Greg notice that Nibble and Nip were not the only two who had turned and recognized him. Every toothy face in the crowd had spun his way, and the entire yard was abuzz with excitement. Spirelings everywhere were shouldering each other out of the way just to catch a glimpse of him, an odd enough behavior in its own right, but even odder when you considered that every spireling present could have viewed him just as well from the other side of the kingdom as long as just one of their kind got a good look.

  “Make way, make way,” Nibble shouted as they pressed through the crowd.

  “The Mighty Greghart coming through,” Nip called excitedly beside her.

  Nathan had to struggle to move along with them, since the entire length of the yard spirelings tended to crowd in behind Greg as he passed, nudging the magician out of the way. About halfway across the lawn a low chant was started.

  “Greghart! Greghart!” the spirelings screamed, and where normally it might have taken a few minutes for the chant to riffle through the crowd, here even those farthest away knew it had been started with the very first call. By the third “Greghart!” the noise was so deafening, Greg thought he would be crushed by the sound. The whole world had gone mad.

  When he reached the front of the lines, just steps from the castle wall, and spotted the others standing next to a very nervous-looking Brandon Alexander, Greg couldn’t have been happier. Well, that’s not true at all. He would have been happier just about anywhere else, doing just about anything else, but at least he was happier now than he’d been a moment ago.

  Queen Gnarla stalked into view, accompanied by King Peter, Queen Pauline and Princess Penelope. The spireling queen stopped in front of Greg and called for silence. Her face had changed so much since Greg last saw her that he didn’t recognize her at first. Okay, he probably wouldn’t have recognized her anyway, since all spirelings looked alike to him, but still something about her was different. And then he realized what it was. She was regarding him not with contempt but with admiration.

  “Congratulations, Greghart,” said King Peter. “I’d ask how you were doing, but from what Queen Gnarla has been telling me, things are going quite well.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Bring The Book,” Queen Gnarla called to no one in particular.

  Within moments the spirelings to Greg’s right pulled back so another of their kind could pass. He was taller than most of the others, and dressed in finer chain mail. Even the jagged cuffs of his pants seemed slightly straighter. With him he carried some sort of object, which he took directly to Queen Gnarla. He bowed and held out his hands, and Greg could then see that he held a bound volume. Something about it seemed oddly familiar.

  “My journal.”

  “Then it is true,” said Queen Gnarla, taking the book. “You are the Mighty Greghart.”

  Greg wasn’t sure how to respond. “Uh . . . I don’t know how mighty, but yes, I’m Greg Hart.”

  The queen smiled, and throughout the crowd, spirelings chuckled at his remark. “Such modesty. How refreshing.”

  “Where did you find my journal?” Greg asked.

  “The Book was found inside the Passageway of Shifted Dimensions, near the Forbidden Door.”

  “Forbidden Door?”

  “The one leading to the dragon’s chambers,” Queen Gnarla clarified.

  “Of course,” said Greg. “I must’ve dropped it when I left Ruuan’s lair.”

  Queen Gnarla’s expression changed. “There is but one thing We do not understand.”

  Greg nodded. “Just one?”

  “When We found The Book and read the history recorded within, We knew We had found an artifact of great import. The hero described on those pages was someone even the bravest among Our warriors could admire. He had single-handedly faced the most dangerous creatures of Myrth and won, and even some We had never heard of—bizarre creatures from a strange world We can only imagine. This human has quickly become an inspiration to Us . . . but still, We do not understand.”

  “You don’t understand?” Greg said.

  Queen Gnarla glanced at the men scattered throughout the yard, and then at Greg. She moved her lips, but no sound emerged.

  “Did you say something?” Greg asked.

  Again she spoke so quietly, Greg could barely hear. Greg stared back blankly.

  “My, you humans have dreadful hearing. We said, the last adventure described in The Book described the destruction of Ruuan. Yet We have seen the dragon with Our own eyes. How can that be?”

  Greg hesitated before answering. He couldn’t believe a race of warriors like the spirelings could possibly have come to admire any human, let alone someone like himself. But it was more than just admiration. It was almost as if they worshiped the hero from his journal. What would Queen Gnarla do if she found out the stories described on those pages were nothing more than a fabrication of Greg’s imagination?

  He was afraid to tell her the truth, but he was even more afraid to lie to her. Confused, he looked to Nathan for support. The magician smiled with his warm blue eyes and nodded, indicating Greg should trust his own judgment. Greg turned back to Queen Gnarla and spoke barely above a whisper.

  “I wrote about that last fight before I ever went inside the dragon’s lair.”

  “Quiet,” Queen Gnarla warned. “It is supposed to be a secret.”

  Greg frowned. “To be honest, I never expected to survive my meeting with Ruuan. I wanted to record the battle, but I—I guess I just didn’t want to write the story the way I imagined it would go. I wanted whoever read my journal to think that the Mighty Greghart had remained a hero to the end.”

  “We see,” said Queen Gnarla, and it looked to Greg as if she was trying to decide if she approved. “What about the other stories in The Book? You didn’t write those before they happened, did you?”

  “Absolutely not,” interrupted Nathan, stepping up from behind the queen. “I can attest to the fact that not one of the events described on those pages occurred after they were written.”

  Greg held his breath while the queen considered Nathan’s words. Technically Nathan hadn’t lied to her. None of the events in Greg’s journal happened at all. He didn’t like the idea of deceiving the queen, but he had an idea the omission was the only thing standing between him and hundreds of thousands of swinging axes.

  A muffled noise drifted around from behind the queen. Greg leaned to his left and observed Nathan with his hands clamped over Melvin’s mouth. An odd blue glow appeared beneath Nathan’s palm. When Nathan pulled his hand away, Melvin’s own moved up to take its place, and the boy took to fighting with his own mouth.

  “We see,” said the queen, oblivious of the events behind her. Greg was just glad she and the other spirelings considered him such a great hero. With thei
r gazes fixed on Greg, not one noticed Melvin’s struggle, but if just one had seen, then all would have seen, and then surely Queen Gnarla would have demanded to know what the boy was trying to say.

  “Eez ndda hrro!” Melvin insisted. No one bothered to listen.

  “We can’t say We approve of your falsifying a historical record,” said the queen, “but We can understand how you would not expect to survive your encounter with the dragon. And yet here you are, alive in one piece without so much as a scorch.”

  “Yes,” Greg chuckled nervously. “I was quite lucky.”

  “Nonsense,” Queen Gnarla said. “We have read The Book. The dragon was the lucky one.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Ah, there is that modesty again.”

  “Queen Gnarla, if I may interrupt,” said Nathan.

  “You already have,” said the queen, clearly annoyed.

  “We must discuss the upcoming battle. It would not be wise to forget the trolls amassing to the south.”

  “Not south,” she told him. “East. Two of Us have been marking their progress. They are just a couple of miles away now, near the edge of the Weird Weald.”

  “But how?” asked Priscilla. “They should still be a week from here.”

  Greg nearly fainted when a large grizzly stepped up from behind King Peter. Then he realized it was not a bear at all but Marvin Greatheart, dressed in a full-length fur coat. The runner Zappas appeared at his side. “I’m afraid we may have had something to do with that.”

  “Marvin? Zappas?” said Greg. “How’d you get here?”

  “If you mean, how did we escape Mrs. Alexander,” Zappas said, “we waited until she retired for the evening and then slipped out while she slept.”

  “But we left you less than two weeks ago,” said Priscilla. “How did you make it back so soon?”

  “Zappas knew a shortcut,” said Marvin. “Oh, sorry . . . apparently now the trolls know it too.”

  “Then we must act quickly to prepare for their arrival,” said Nathan. “They’re expecting to find us locked in battle. I suggest we give them what they want.”

  Greg felt a fever rush through his entire body. “Nathan . . . are you listening to yourself?”

  “You wish to fight Us?” said Queen Gnarla. Two of her strongest-looking warriors stepped up from behind and raised their axes.

  “No, I only want to make it appear as though we’re fighting,” said Nathan. “When the trolls attack they’ll be expecting us to be weakened, but if we’re not, together we can fight them and win. They might be defeated by either the Canarazas or the entire Army of the Crown alone, but at what cost? Together we can run them out quickly with a minimum of losses.”

  Queen Gnarla did not look convinced. “What about our amulet?”

  “We have a plan for its recovery,” said Nathan, “but we must deal with these trolls first, or we cannot hope to succeed.”

  Queen Gnarla studied him long and hard before replying.

  “Very well.” She turned toward Greg and flashed a grin full of pointed teeth. “We will enjoy fighting side by side with a warrior of the Mighty Greghart’s caliber.”

  Greg felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. Ever since he got here he’d been dreading the thought of fighting the spirelings. Now that he realized he’d be fighting with them instead of against them, he was dreading it no less. The spirelings thought him some sort of superhero, and he hated to disappoint them. Plus he had seen the trolls.

  For a moment Queen Gnarla looked deep in thought. Within seconds one of her warriors rushed forward and handed her a small vial filled with a swirling blue liquid. She turned and regarded Greg with pride in her bulbous eyes. “I know you need no help from Us in the battle to come, but We would like to give you this just the same.”

  “What is it?” asked Greg.

  “A spell. Normally it would be reserved for one of Our leaders, who would swallow it just prior to stepping into battle. With it, your abilities will be increased tenfold. You will be stronger, quicker and more agile than you have ever felt before. We can only imagine for someone with your extraordinary abilities, that with it you will prove unstoppable.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .” said Greg.

  “We understand,” said the queen. “Of course you do not need it. According to the magician, the prophecy says you will fight with just the strength of ten men, and We are sure you could do that without Our help. But still, We would like to do this for you.”

  Greg thought about what the queen was offering. With this gift he might hope to survive the day. Then a disturbing thought struck him. “But it’s not me who’s supposed to fight with the strength of ten men. It’s Melvin.”

  “Zzme,” Melvin said, prying at his jaws with both hands.

  Queen Gnarla looked at the boy. “This human child with the bad puns is Melvin, correct? We heard you announce your slaying theory earlier, but We naturally assumed you were joking. Are you saying now that you were serious?”

  Melvin made a muffled noise, the best he could manage without opening his mouth. Nathan waved his hand over the boy’s face, and Melvin responded with a fitful bout of coughs and sputters.

  “Did you say something, child?” Queen Gnarla asked.

  “Greghart’s right,” Melvin nearly spat. “I was the one who slayed the dragon. I should get the spell.”

  Greg explained his theory again. Queen Gnarla had heard it before, of course, when Greg told it in front of Gnash and Gnaw, but now it held new meaning, as the Mighty Greghart himself was insisting it was true.

  “We see,” said the queen. “Very well. You shall have your spell, young dragonslayer.”

  Melvin glanced sideways at Greg and lifted his nose into the air. Greg frowned. Sure, Melvin was the one who should get the spell, but still . . . it was a hard thing to give up. The little brat could at least appreciate the sacrifice.

  “And you shall have a spell of your own, as well,” Queen Gnarla told Greg, and no sooner had she said it before one of her warriors rushed up and handed her a second vial. She was about to take it from him when her hand stopped in midreach. “They are coming.”

  “Who?” said Greg.

  “The trolls. They are pouring from the Weird Weald as We speak, spilling out onto Pendegrass Highway just about a mile from here. We must hurry.”

  She asked Greg and Melvin to stand before her while she waved the two vials above their heads and chanted. Her fists began to glow a fluorescent red. Smoke emerged from between her fingers. When her hands opened, the vials were empty.

  “I don’t feel any different,” said Melvin.

  “Are you sure it worked?” Greg asked.

  Priscilla stepped up beside him and gave him a brief hug. “You be careful, Greg Hart.”

  “Wait, I’m not sure the spell wor—”

  “Come along, Priscilla,” said King Peter. “I want you inside with your mother.”

  “But I want to talk to Greg a moment,” she said, tugging on Greg’s arm to lead him away from the others.

  Greg tried to pull away but was no match for her grip. This was supposed to be the strength of ten men? “Didn’t you hear? I said I don’t think the spell worked.”

  “Yes, yes, but I need to talk to you about something important. Nathan told me what you said about me.”

  “The spell is important. Wait, what did Nathan say I said?”

  Priscilla blushed. “You know.”

  “No, I don’t. What did he say?”

  Priscilla stepped up and adjusted the collar of Greg’s cloak, staring into his eyes in a way that disturbed him nearly as much as the thought of the trolls approaching. “Just that you think I’m pretty,” she told him.

  “He said what?”

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to be
embarrassed.”

  “I’m not embarrassed.”

  “Really? Then why is your face all red?”

  Greg slapped his hands over his face. “It’s not. And I never said that.” He pulled away and made a point of messing up his collar again.

  “Men,” Priscilla said, stomping her feet. “Fine. Go out and fight your trolls. I don’t care anyway.”

  “You don’t?”

  “They’re coming,” someone shouted.

  “Positions everyone,” ordered Queen Gnarla.

  The king’s soldiers began moving about the yard, scattering themselves among the warriors. Some drew their swords and prepared to act as if they were locked in battle, while others lay sprawled out in the grass, as if they’d already fallen.

  “No, no, everyone,” Queen Gnarla called out. “Trolls may be imbeciles, but even they will never believe this. We need more human soldiers on the ground.”

  “Priscilla,” urged King Peter, “you need to go now.” He started to take his daughter’s hand, but she pulled away and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I’m not ready.”

  Greg felt someone tugging on his arm.

  “Greg, what’s the matter with you?” It was Lucky’s voice. The boy was holding up the magic sword he’d been carrying in his knapsack. “Come on, take it. They’re almost here.”

  Ryder stepped from the crowd with General Talbout at his side. “We figure we should stick close to you,” he told Greg. “After all, the prophecy says we’ll be fighting at your side.”

  “Hey, that’s supposed to be my side,” said Melvin.

  “It’s okay, Melvin,” said Greg. “We can all stick together.”

  Priscilla gave up her pouting, rushed forward and hugged them both. “You two be careful.”

  “We will,” said Greg. “But you shouldn’t be out here. Get inside the castle like your father told you.”

  Priscilla’s nostrils flared. “Why? Because I’m a girl?”

  “No, because I don’t want you to get hurt.” Her mouth dropped open, and she stared with that same look she’d been using on him all week. “And you’re a princess,” he added quickly. “You owe it to the people to stay out of harm’s way.”