by Bill Allen
“Priscilla?” said Melvin. “You mean Penelope.”
Tears flushed the dust from Greg’s eyes. “Hurry? Did you see how fast that dragon flew? By now Ruuan must be back at his spire crunching on Priscilla’s bones.”
Melvin let out a derisive snort. “How do you guys put up with this? Hey, troll head, did you forget about the prophecy? How are you going to rescue the princess if Ruuan’s already eaten her? Really, you call yourself a hero?”
Greg shot him a nasty look. He hadn’t liked the little brat much even before he found out Melvin was trying to kill him.
Nathan’s expression turned grim. “I know, Greg. I don’t see how she could possibly survive for long with a creature like that, but if there is even a slight chance the boy is right, we had best hurry.”
“I’m not a boy!” said Melvin. “I’m going to be a great dragonslayer one day, just like my brother, and my father, and his father before him.”
“Perhaps you will,” said Nathan, “but right now you’re about an inch away from getting your hide tanned by my staff. Now, I think you better come with us. I’ll trust you more where I can keep an eye on you.”
“Fine,” Melvin huffed. “I’m not afraid to go to the dragon’s lair. I’ll show you how to handle a beast like Ruuan. Then everyone will know who the real dragonslayer is.”
Greg exhaled a shaky breath. He hated the thought of Melvin traveling with them, but as Nathan pointed out, it might be worse if the boy were loose in the forest. Besides, what could Melvin possibly do that was any worse than what was waiting for Greg at the end of his journey?
The end of his journey.
How much more that expression meant now. Before this moment, Greg had always thought of the end of his journey as the day when he would talk sense into the others, that magnificent day when he would be sent back home, well before he ever laid eyes on the dragon.
But it hadn’t happened that way, had it? He’d already seen Ruuan, and the dragon was more terrifying than anything even someone as experienced as Greg could have imagined.
Now Ruuan had Priscilla, not Penelope, and in spite of all his fears, Greg knew he must help. Perhaps he stood no chance against the dragon—okay, there was no perhaps about it—but the thought of Priscilla struggling under Ruuan’s grip still burned in his mind.
He knew one thing better than he had ever known anything in his life. Hero or not, he could never leave her to such a fate without at least trying to save her.
“Keep moving,” Greg said, his voice hollow but determined.
“No,” said Nathan, “it’s too dangerous. We will have to stop until morning.”
Where previously his evening chikan sessions had been nothing more than a fun pastime, tonight Greg paid closer attention than ever, aware that one tidbit learned now might tip the balance in battles yet to be fought. Melvin sat to the side with Rake, watching the lesson with obvious curiosity. Occasionally he’d call out about how that move would never trick anybody, or how he could do better, but Greg wasn’t fooled. He could tell Melvin was impressed. He even thought of asking the boy to join in, but he doubted Melvin would accept unless the invitation came from someone else.
Besides, he didn’t like the thought of Melvin armed with a stick.
Greg wasn’t even sure why he cared. After all, Melvin clearly hated him. And then there was the whole plotting Greg’s death thing. Still, Greg could almost understand. Melvin had probably spent his whole life thinking he was going to be the next great dragonslayer of Myrth. But if people started looking to Greg to handle their dragon issues, what was Melvin now but a has-been’s baby brother?
Besides, in much the same way Rake appeared to vouch for Bart, the shadowcat rested in Melvin’s lap now, affectionately banging its whiskers into Melvin’s leg. Obviously Rake must sense some good in the boy.
If only Melvin would show Greg a bit of his good side as well.
That night Greg slept little, drifting off only after Rake curled up next to him and began his incessant purring. In contrast, Melvin seemed to sleep quite peacefully, a fact that helped calm Greg, since up until the moment Melvin started snoring, Greg had been afraid to close his eyes for fear the boy might try to kill him.
Morning came slowly, but it did eventually come. Greg paced nervously while the others finished wolfing down breakfast, and then finally they were off. They entered a new section of forest Lucky referred to as the Weird Weald, and while Greg felt a little better
knowing he was at least taking action, he still felt they needed to hurry more.
“Oh, no,” Lucky said a few miles into their journey.
“What’s wrong?” asked Greg.
“We forgot the whole reason we came back, remember? You were supposed to lead the Army of the Crown to the Infinite Spire.”
“He’s right,” said Bart. “According to the prophecy, Greg will ‘lead the Army of the Crown through the Weird Weald, over the Smoky Mountains and past the White Cliffs of Darius to the base of the Infinite Spire.’”
“We can’t go back,” Greg insisted. “There’s no time.”
For once Lucky seemed even more upset than Greg. “But Simon said you needed the army.”
“Yes,” admitted Nathan, “but it doesn’t mean we have to go back for them. King Peter knows the prophecy as well as anyone. I’m sure he’ll send them along.”
“But Greg’s supposed to lead them,” insisted Lucky.
“Yes, well, we’ll be going first, and they’ll be following after. In a sense Greg will be leading them.”
“Look,” Greg said, “we don’t have time to go back. We don’t have time to argue about it either. We need to keep moving.” He picked up his pace.
Greg tried not to think about what Lucky had said. Having the Army of the Crown behind him when he faced Ruuan sounded like a good idea, but not half a day’s march behind. How could he hope to defeat the dragon now?
“What’s the matter, Greghart?” Melvin taunted. “You look pale. You’re not nervous about fighting Ruuan, are you?”
“Shut up, Melvin,” said Lucky. “You’d be nervous, too.”
“Would not,” said Melvin. “I’ve fought lots of dragons.”
“When did you ever?”
“Last summer,” the boy boasted. “Marvin took me hunting, and a dragon surprised us on the trail.”
“Really?” Greg said. Perhaps the boy could be useful after all. “What did you do?”
“I walloped him with a stick. And then Marvin finished him off with his sword.”
“You walloped a dragon with a stick?” Lucky said doubtfully. “Are you sure this wasn’t a wyvern?”
“Wyvern, dragon, what’s the difference?”
Lucky chuckled. “About two or three hundred feet, depending on the dragon.”
“I still walloped him with a stick,” Melvin insisted.
“I’ll bet it was a baby wyvern at that,” said Lucky.
“Was not!”
“Look,” said Greg, “if you want to be the one to slay Ruuan when we get there, that’s fine. Just so we rescue Priscilla and get out of there alive, okay?”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, I’m not about to do your dirty work for you. After Ruuan blasts you with his flame, then I’ll step in and handle things, not a moment before.”
“Shut up, Melvin,” Lucky said again, but the damage had already been done. The brief mention of the dragon’s fire squashed any hope Greg had of surviving the prophecy. He’d witnessed Ruuan’s flames at the celebration and knew nothing could survive that blast. Maybe little Melvin would step up and handle things in the end, but surely not before Greg met his doom.
To Greg’s surprise Melvin made no move against him that night either, but then why should he, when he could just bide his time and let Ruuan do the job for him? Eventually morning came, this one the coldest yet, and Greg pulled his cloak tight and rubbed his hands together as Lucky poured what smelled like hot cocoa from an open pitcher he’d pulled f
rom his pack. Greg turned his down.
“You can drink that as we go,” he told the others. Before they could reply he was up and walking. “How much farther?” he asked Nathan a short way later.
Nathan looked unwilling to say. “Quite a bit, I’m afraid.”
“But Ruuan’s got Priscilla now.”
“Sorry, Greg,” said Nathan. “I don’t know any shortcuts.”
“My brother would ride a wyvern there if he had to,” said Melvin.
Greg shot the boy a glare. “Your brother isn’t here. If he was, I might not be in this mess.”
“It’s not Marvin’s fault you’re trying to horn in on his territory,” said Melvin. “If you’re going to pretend to be a dragonslayer, you have to face the consequences.”
“Look,” Greg said, coming to a halt and spinning to face the younger boy, “I’m not trying to—Watch out!”
When Greg witnessed the small band of trolls moving through Giant Forest earlier in the week, it had been from behind thick bushes, not to mention Nathan’s thick fingers, which had been clamped over his face. Still he recognized this one instantly just the same. Perhaps it was the low, bulging brow that clued him in. Or the rippling musculature of the upper body. But most likely it was the gnarled wooden club poised high above Melvin’s skull.
Without thinking, Greg whirled his walking stick up and around. He spun with the movement, redirecting the momentum straight between the troll’s eyes . . . and felt his stick snap.
At least it made the troll stagger backward. Melvin’s crystal-blue eyes stretched wide. For an instant, Greg thought the boy had frozen with fright, but then the troll bellowed its rage, and Melvin found the strength to crabwalk out of harm’s way. Greg weighed the broken stick in his hand. It didn’t weigh much. He began to dance about the circle, barely maintaining his rhythm with the short weapon.
The troll hesitated, though from the Manny-Malice-like expression on its face, Greg doubted it was smart enough to remember the pain of that last blow. Greg contemplated his chances of surviving a preemptive strike. They didn’t seem good.
Suddenly Nathan came somersaulting through the air, his weathered staff leading the way. The wood struck the troll in the eye before Nathan’s feet even hit the ground.
Greg cringed and looked away.
But the troll had survived worse. It might have even shaken off the blow if, when it tried to clasp a hand over its injured eye, it hadn’t struck itself in the forehead with its own club. Instead the beast shook the forest with its howl.
Nathan rolled past and struck another crushing blow to the back of its knees.
Greg didn’t stick around to watch. He ran to Lucky and flipped open the boy’s pack, and after pulling out two huge watermelons and a steaming roast turkey, he found what he was after. He grabbed the magic sword by the hilt and spun.
Nathan had the beast distracted with its back turned.
Greg rushed up and aimed. Afraid to get too close, he threw the sword with all his might. A blinding light flashed as the sword found its mark. The troll jerked, then suddenly, it lay face down on the ground.
“Whoa, you got him,” muttered Melvin, still sitting crab-like on the ground
Nathan yanked the sword free of the beast’s back with a sucking sound Greg would have been happy to miss. “A brilliant display, Greg.” He winked and added, “You must have had a good teacher.”
Melvin looked like he wanted to say something, but instead crawled to his feet and stormed off down the trail.
“Ungrateful guttersnipe,” Lucky said. “He didn’t even thank you.”
“Thank me?” said Greg. “I half expected him to tell me his brother would have done better.”
“The boy definitely has issues,” said Nathan, and for the first time since Priscilla was taken, all three of them smiled.
Greg noticed Bart hopping about, talking to himself. “What’s wrong, Bart?”
The bard threw up a hand. “Hang on. With but a stick, not a sword, not a dagger . . . he struck the troll and made him stagger. This is great stuff. I think I can get a whole song out of this one incident alone.”
Nathan frowned. “We better go. Where there’s one troll there’s likely to be more, and Melvin’s out there alone.”
“I don’t think we need to worry about Melvin,” said Greg. “I’m sure he’ll keep his eyes open from here on out.”
“I meant he’s where we can’t see him,” Nathan clarified.
“Oh,” said Greg, “right.”
Nathan headed after Melvin, followed closely by Lucky and Bart. Greg stayed temporarily behind. He jogged up the trail a few seconds later, a new tree branch in his hand.
“Everyone should have a stick,” Greg reminded the others.
Hart of a Leader
“What is that?” Greg asked. The clamor arising from the woods to the east was so loud, Greg could only pray they had stumbled across a whole den of monkeydogs. He asked the others if they thought this might be the case.
“Too loud for monkeydogs,” said Lucky.
“I think I’d be concerned if it were,” Nathan noted.
Greg raised his walking stick and waited anxiously as the noise grew louder.
And louder.
And louder still, a little too reminiscent of the herd of stampeding falchions at Fey Field.
“I can’t imagine what could possibly make such a sound,” Nathan said. “We must hide. With luck the danger will pass.”
Greg crouched in the bushes next to Melvin as, unbelievably, the noise continued to grow. At least Melvin was trembling too, Greg noticed. To their left, Lucky and Bart hid behind a heavy bole. High above them Nathan climbed, trying to get a better look.
“It’s a crossroads. Well, I’ll be.” Nathan let out a shrill whistle and scrambled down from the tree. From within the forest a man’s voice rang out. The noise ended abruptly, leaving a sudden quiet that seemed worse by comparison.
“Hail,” a man’s voice called from a distance. “Who goes there, friend or foe?”
“Nathaniel Caine,” Nathan called, “accompanied by Lucky Day of Pendegrass Castle; the talented bard, Bart, of the Kingdom of Myrth; Melvin Greatheart, brother to Marvin Greatheart, the famous dragonslayer; and the legendary Greghart, also of dragon-slaying fame.”
The bushes rattled in a much more monkeydog sort of way, and a lone man stepped from the woods. He wore a bright, royal blue tunic over loose-fitting trousers and walked with the rigid posture of a soldier.
“Nathaniel,” the man cried, “I can’t believe we found you.” A huge scar split his heavily weathered face, and Greg might have found him frightening if not for the deep smile lines around his eyes.
Nathan’s face broke into a grin. “Ryder Hawkins, my old friend. It’s been a long time.”
“Considering the type of circumstances in which we typically meet, not long enough.”
Greg and Lucky exchanged curious glances. In all their hours spent on the trail, Nathan had revealed almost nothing of his life before their meeting in the Molten Moor. He was a man of secrets, and Greg worried that if pressed too hard, Nathan might abandon him in his quest.
Nathan laughed. He and the stranger banged chests in a quick hug and slapped each other’s backs.
Then the stranger regarded Greg curiously. “So I’m guessing this is the Mighty Greghart everyone’s talking about, more proof that it’s not size but spirit that matters.” He reached a heavily callused hand Greg’s way, and Greg stared at it dumbly.
“Well, shake his hand,” said Nathan. “This is Captain Hawkins, First in Command of the Second Division of the Army of the Crown. It seems you’ll be leading his men to the Infinite Spire after all.”
It took a moment for Nathan’s words to sink in, but then Greg grabbed the captain’s hand and shook it like he was pumping a well.
“Careful, man.” Captain Hawkins pulled his hand away and laughed. “Save some of that for the dragon.”
“Oh, sorry—you just ca
n’t imagine how glad I am to meet you.”
“Started to worry the prophecy might not be accurate, I’ll bet. Well, I can see where that might put me a bit off, too, if I were in your boots.”
“Yes, sir,” Greg replied weakly. The captain seemed a very insightful man.
“Sir?” said Captain Hawkins. “What are you, a soldier now? Listen,” he whispered, as if revealing a confidence, “most my men don’t even call me sir. You call me Ryder, okay? Everyone else does.”
“Don’t let him kid you,” said Nathan. “Ryder commands enormous respect from his troops. There’s not a man here who wouldn’t lay down his life to protect the captain from harm.”
Ryder laughed again. “Which only goes to show, you don’t need to be brave to lead an army.”
“Good to know,” Greg muttered. “Maybe I can do it after all.”
“Hah!” Ryder said with a slap to his knee. “I like this kid’s sense of humor.”
Greg and the others followed the captain back through the woods, where a short way off an entire army of men in royal blue tunics stood patiently waiting in two perfectly straight lines that extended into the woods as far as Greg could see.
“The Mighty Greghart,” Ryder announced, and granted his men leave to cheer and applaud accordingly.
Greg endured the attention until the ruckus finally died away. He took in the hundreds of determined faces and actually felt a glimmer of hope. With this many men behind him, maybe he could defeat Ruuan.
Wait, who was he kidding? He couldn’t win with these men behind him. They’d have to be well in front. Perhaps he could suggest this to Ryder once he got to know the man better.
He noticed not all of the men wore the blue uniform of the crown. One was garbed in a black robe. One of King Peter’s magicians.
“Don’t be Mordred. Don’t be Mordred,” Greg whispered as he strained to see under the man’s hood. Then the man turned, and Greg was only slightly relieved to discover it was Agni, the mean magician who had kept poking him with a stick when Greg first arrived.
The magician offered him a hateful look and turned away again.
