by Bill Allen
“Whoa!” said Lucky.
Greg was unable to say anything at all. The dragon’s home seemed to tower over all the land. One side gleamed like metal, a deep charcoal gray, its cracks and crevices highlighted by deep black shadows. The other simply refused to accept the sunlight, so dark not a speck of detail could be seen in the surface of the rock.
“I can’t believe I never knew this was here,” said Lucky. “I must have passed that tree a thousand times.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Priscilla. “You know, you really ought to stop now and then and enjoy the world around you.”
“You sound just like your mom.”
“Thank you. Mother is a very wise woman.”
Greg barely heard them. He followed the outline of the spire up and up until it disappeared into the clouds, taking his breath along with it. Part of him, the part that always drove him to explore his woods back home and write about his adventures, wanted more than anything to get a closer look, to have a chance to climb that spire and explore every nook and cranny of its surface. Another part of him—a much bigger, far more nagging part—wanted to run away screaming.
“You okay, Greg?” It was Lucky’s voice. Greg had no idea how long the boy had been talking.
“Oh . . . sure, I guess.”
He smiled with little success and tried to ignore the spire, which was a little like trying to ignore a huge glob of whipped cream stuck to the tip of his nose. No matter which way he turned, it managed to dominate his entire view. The effect was as nauseating as it was terrifying. Greg reached out a hand for balance and felt the tips of the grain beneath his fingers. “Whoa, soft,” he said, “like feathers.”
“I know,” Priscilla squealed. “You’ve got to try running through it.” And with that she tore off through the field. The grain should have been trampled in her path, but instead it yielded out of her way and back again as if she’d never passed. “Whoopee!” she screamed and curved around in a wide arc.
Pretty immature, Greg thought, but then he and Lucky exchanged eager grins and tore off after her, followed by a bounding Rake. Greg managed to forget all about the spire as the grain drifted like silk across his skin. He sensed only the slightest of tingles, and might have run for hours if Nathan hadn’t called them back.
“But we’re almost to the spot where I once saw a falchion,” complained Priscilla, a few feet ahead.
“A falchion?” said Lucky. He stepped from the field behind Priscilla, and the grain shifted soundlessly back into place. “Aren’t they dangerous?”
“Only if you startle them.”
“What’s a falchion?” Greg asked.
Lucky regarded Priscilla with uncharacteristic intensity. “Well, wouldn’t you think they might be startled if you ran into one?”
“What’s a falchion?” Greg repeated.
“A bird,” said Priscilla.
“Oh, you mean a falcon.”
“No,” said Priscilla. “These are bigger, and I don’t think they can fly.”
“Bigger is an understatement,” said Lucky. “Falchions are huge. And as fast as they run they don’t need to fly. They have razor-sharp beaks, too. In fact, that’s how they got their name. Believe me, you don’t want to frighten one if you can help it.”
“You coming?” Greg heard Nathan shout.
“Coming,” Lucky called back.
But something else called back as well, and the sound rivaled anything Mrs. Sezxqrthm might have produced as the loudest, highest-pitched squawk Greg had ever heard. To make matters worse, the call was answered by at least a dozen others, each closer than the last.
Greg’s walking stick flashed upward, barely missing Rake, who had come racing out of the grain and leapt at his chest. The shadowcat disappeared beneath Greg’s tunic as Greg instinctively adopted the sensen stance Nathan managed to ingrain in him over the past week. For the briefest of moments Greg thought he smelled ozone drifting upon the wind.
“What on Myrth was that?” said Priscilla.
Greg scanned the field in the direction of the distant mountains. More squawks sounded, even louder than those before, and now he could hear a low rumbling as well. He craned his neck to peer over the grain, and though he was too short to see much, what little he did see made him wish he were shorter still.
As if some giant hand had ladled out a coal black soup, a swath of darkness flowed down one of the distant hilltops and spread toward the field. Gradually the stain grew closer, and suddenly Greg realized it was not solid at all, but comprised of thousands of the most enormous birds he’d ever seen, so tall they towered over the very same grain Greg struggled to see over now.
“Falchions!” shouted Lucky. “Run for your lives!”
Lucky and Priscilla tore off toward the safety of the twisted oak, but Greg couldn’t find his legs. He stared at the raging stampede, his walking stick held high. Already the falchions had closed half the distance.
“Get out of there, Greg,” Nathan cried. “You’ll be killed!”
Rake popped out from under Greg’s tunic, screeched, and leapt for safety, digging his claws deep into Greg’s shoulder. Greg was literally spurred into action. He began to run, and while a normal boy would have stood no chance at all, no normal boy had Greg’s experience at fleeing from danger. He sprinted as fast as his legs would carry him, and when he could move his feet no faster, he lengthened his stride.
Greg’s ears pained from the many panicked shrieks, not the least of which were his own. He couldn’t believe the falchions weren’t upon him. Ahead Nathan stood atop the ridge, framed by twisted branches.
“Run, Greg. Run!” Nathan screamed, and Greg squeezed out a tad more speed as he covered his final steps. No, not final steps, his mind screamed, just the last ones before safety.
Nathan rooted him on until the last possible second, then turned and dropped out of sight. Greg hit the ridge three strides later. He leapt over the top without slowing, lost his footing and tumbled down the incline toward the old tree, certain of his fate.
Rough hands grabbed his tunic, yanked him to one side. He cringed and tried to roll into a ball half his size as the front line of falchions whooshed by amidst a choking cloud of dust, shrieking and gnashing the air with their sharp beaks.
The roar of the birds’ passage ruled the air forever. The ground shook, and the dust swirled, until finally the herd thinned, the rumbling diminished, and with the exception of a few scattered falchions, darting over the ridge and scrambling to join the others, the danger looked to have passed.
Only then did Greg pull his eyes from the spot where he’d nearly been trampled. He was crouched next to Lucky and Priscilla at the base of the twisted oak. Nathan remained poised in sensen position, ready to fend off anything that came within reach. Amazing he could stand at all, what with Greg shaking so badly against his knees.
Greg felt Rake’s cheek bump reassuringly against his shins. Nathan exhaled slowly. He planted his staff in the ground, barely missing Greg’s boot. “Odd,” was all he said.
“That was a close one,” breathed Lucky. “Hey, great idea about running through the field, Prissy.”
“Sasha! And it’s not my fault the falchions went berserk. They’ve never done that before.”
“No, I’ll bet they haven’t,” Nathan said as he helped the princess to her feet. “Oh, I can see one or two of them getting spooked if you happened to startle them, but nothing like this. I’ve never seen more than a half dozen together in one spot in my entire life, and then they were too concerned about fighting each other to worry about much else. Very territorial birds, falchions, not sociable at all. To find them traveling in a herd like this . . .”
“What was that?” asked Priscilla.
Nathan’s stick instantly shot back to sensen position. Everyone listened to the silence.
“I don’t hear anything,” said Greg.
“Shh,” said Priscilla. “There it is again.”
“Wait, I think I heard it tha
t time,” said Nathan. “It sounded like music.”
Greg strained to hear, and finally, when he held his head at just the right angle, he caught the faintest of sounds drifting upon the wind.
“Yeah, I hear it now, too,” said Lucky. “Well, that explains what spooked the falchions.”
“It does?” said Greg, feeling rather stupid for not being able to see how it explained anything at all.
“Where other creatures might be calmed by a soothing melody,” explained Nathan, “falchions are well known to behave just the opposite. Even a short poem can enrage them.”
“They must have been fleeing the music,” surmised Priscilla.
“Yes, but why were so many of them in one place to begin with?” said Nathan.
“And who was playing the music?” added Lucky.
“Hey, you don’t think whoever’s out there intentionally angered the falchions, do you?” asked Priscilla.
Greg’s nerves had been starting to calm since the last of the falchions scampered over the ridge. Now they knotted up tighter than ever. If the stampede had been started on purpose, that made three attempts on his life. So far he’d managed to narrowly escape serious harm, but would he be as lucky next time?
“Wait,” he said. “I smelled it again. The ozone. Just before the stampede.”
“Ozone?” said Lucky. “Then it must be Mordred.”
“It is not Mordred,” insisted Nathan.
“How can you be so sure?” asked Priscilla.
Nathan looked reluctant to say more, but finally he spoke. “Mordred and I go back a long way. I know it seems like he hates you, but he doesn’t. Not really, anyway.”
“Are you friends with Mordred?” Greg asked.
Nathan smiled grimly. “Once. No more.”
“It’s gone now,” announced Priscilla.
“What is?” said Lucky.
“The music. Whoever it was stopped playing.”
Greg looked at her curiously. Aside from a few barely perceptible notes that might have been nothing more than wind, he’d never heard a thing to begin with. It was hard to believe Priscilla could be so sure of the sound. “How can you possibly hear that?” he asked.
She glared at him as if he’d somehow offended her. “I am a woman, you know.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” said Lucky.
Priscilla turned her glare on Lucky then, much to Greg’s relief. “Everyone knows women have better senses than men,” she said. “We have to, so we can recognize danger and protect our young.”
“What are you talking about?” Lucky said, laughing. “You don’t have any young. Heck, if anything you are the young.”
“I am not,” she cried. “You take that back, Lucky Day.”
Lucky muttered something under his breath.
“What did you say?” Priscilla demanded.
“If you were a real woman, you’d have heard me.”
Priscilla’s face turned to stone. She sputtered a few unintelligible syllables and then spun on her heel and stormed off toward Pendegrass Castle. Lucky picked up her pack along with his own and ran after her.
“Wait up,” he shouted. “Was it something I said?”
Celebration of the Hart
“You’re joking.”
Priscilla smiled and shook her head. “No, Greg, that’s why they call it Guano Trail. The whole path’s buried ankle deep in gooey bat droppings. Well, you’ll see when we reach the turnoff at Harpies Ridge.”
Earlier, when the group left Fey Field, the princess was so angry she wouldn’t talk to Greg simply because he’d been traveling with Lucky when she met him. Eventually though, Lucky had apologized, saying he was wrong and that Priscilla certainly could have young if she wanted, to which Priscilla promptly disagreed.
“Only grown women can have young. Even a child knows that.”
When Lucky had opened his mouth to object, Greg coughed and shook his head. Priscilla shot Lucky a smug look and started hanging closer to Greg after that. Since then, she had been talking to him endlessly. Greg didn’t mind. Being a princess, Priscilla had more fascinating tales of adventure than even Greg had in his journal.
“It’s still way better than having to climb the White Cliffs of Darius,” she told him now. “At least the bats at Guano Trail come out only at night. The birds at the cliffs circle all day long, dive-bombing anyone who trespasses through their territory. Of course, you don’t dare let go of the rock to cover your head, so you always end up drenched in watery bird droppings. Eeuuww. It’s so disgusting . . . what are you staring at?”
“Oh, sorry,” said Greg quickly. “It’s just that . . . well, you’re a lot more fun to talk to than Lucky.
“Priscilla smiled knowingly. “His carefree attitude starting to get to you?”
“You could say.”
“Try growing up with him. Sometimes he can be so annoying.”
Greg stared at her expression and had to smile too. To think, a few days ago he thought Penelope, with her fancy dresses and pasty white skin, was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
The best thing about Priscilla was that she helped Greg take his mind off what lay ahead, not to mention who lay behind, possibly waiting to kill him. Although everyone kept their eyes, ears, and noses open, they had heard no more music and hadn’t seen or smelled evidence of anyone or anything unusual in the woods since leaving Fey Field.
Now, as Lucky and Priscilla set down their packs for a short break at a nice spot where a fallen tree offered shelter against the wind, soft music filled the air, so close it might have come from their own group. Startled, Greg spun toward the sound and raised his walking stick. Nathan smiled approvingly.
“Shh!” Priscilla insisted, though no one had uttered a sound.
“Over there,” Lucky whispered, pointing toward a small copse ahead.
Nathan motioned for the others to wait. He hoisted his staff and moved in the direction Lucky pointed, his steps astonishingly soundless in the dried leaves that littered the forest floor.
Not surprisingly, Priscilla ignored Nathan’s orders and followed after him, moving nearly as stealthily as Nathan. No doubt secure in his talent, Lucky followed too. Greg’s heart pounded so strong he could hear it, but he edged forward anyway, and nearly shrieked when Rake’s tail brushed across his calves.
Ahead, Nathan and Priscilla crouched behind a tall flowering plant, peering between the leaves. Greg was just wondering if he dare speak when the music started up again. It came from a stringed instrument of some kind, perhaps a lute, and the tune seemed disturbingly familiar. Soon it was joined by a man’s voice, so close Greg could make out the words.
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 . . .
Priscilla sprang upright. “Bart! What are you doing here?”
Greg straightened up hesitantly. He and Lucky made their way over to where Nathan and Priscilla were already greeting the familiar bard from Pendegrass Castle.
“Princess Priscilla?” Bart said. “Does your father know you’re out here?”
“My father knows I can take care of myself,” she said with a huff.
Bart spotted Lucky and Greg, and his face broke into a wide grin. “Greghart, is that you?”
“Uh, yeah,” Greg said uncertainly. He wasn’t about to forget the music they’d heard after the falchion stampede.
“Oh, this is such an honor.” Bart’s smile faded when he saw Greg’s expression. “What’s the matter, Greghart? You seem upset.”
“What are you doing out here in the woods?”
“I’m a bard, remember? I earn my keep traveling the kingdom and playing songs.”
“Oh, right. Well, were you in Fey Field earlier today?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“That’s what we figured,” said Lucky, smiling happily.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Bart said, extending his hand toward Nathan. “I’m Bart.”
“Nathaniel Caine,” said Nathan, the distrust in his voice unmistakably clear.
“I think this is the guy who’s trying to kill me,” Greg announced.
“Kill you?” said Bart.
“Bart?” Lucky said. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve known him my whole life.”
Nathan regarded Bart from beneath a creased forehead. “Pardon Greg for being suspicious, but there was an incident involving music earlier.”
“Oh no, I missed it, didn’t I?”
“You know about the falchions?” asked Lucky.
“Oh, so it was falchions, was it?” Bart said.
“We were almost trampled,” Greg said accusingly. “Afterward we heard music in the distance.”
“No!” said Bart. “You’d have to be crazy to play music around a falchion. Drives them crazy.”
“We know,” said Nathan. “Greg here was almost killed.”
“Then I did miss it,” Bart said, his disappointment clear.
“So you knew about it, then,” Greg said.
“Of course. Everyone knows about the Mighty Greghart’s adventures. Just not the details. How many falchions were there?”
“Hundreds,” said Lucky. “Maybe thousands.”
“Ridiculous. Falchions don’t travel in groups.”
“We know that, too,” said Nathan, “but Lucky’s right. I’d say five hundred, maybe more.”
Greg met Bart’s eye. “It’s almost as if someone herded them together specifically to set them on us. It wouldn’t be the first trap that has been sprung on me this journey.”
Lucky quickly explained about the footbridge on the edge of the Shrieking Scrub and the bollywomp attack in Wiccan Wood.
