by Bill Allen
It took only a moment to realize he stood in a normally dark tunnel holding a bright light for anyone to see. He threw down the torch, dousing the area in blackness so close it pressed against his eyes.
But didn’t Hazel also say something about the spirelings being able to see in the dark?
Greg snatched up the torch again and stuffed it down the collar of his tunic, where he could grab it when needed for sudden bursts of light. The quick flash of the torch sparking to life and dousing out again left behind big orange spots that moved in front of his eyes no matter which way he looked. Even so, he pressed on, shuffling his feet and holding his walking stick before him so he wouldn’t run into the walls. Suddenly it felt very small and awkward in his hand.
Ahead the voice sounded again, this time joined by a second.
Greg eased forward, debating with himself whether he dare reach for his torch. To his relief he caught a faint glimmer ahead. He hoped that meant the spirelings had a limit to how well they could see in the dark. He moved closer to the light, and the voices grew louder. So far he’d heard only two, both deep in pitch, far more booming than he would have thought possible from the short creatures he’d seen outside.
Greg flattened himself against the wall. The guards were garbed exactly as their brethren, in tattered pants and light chain mail draped across their bare chests. One sat comfortably on the hard stone with his heavy, double-bladed axe draped across his lap, the other with his axe resting by its handle on his shoulder. Greg felt a horrible churning around his middle and wondered at his chances of sneaking past Lucky, the spireling army, and all of Ryder’s men.
Then he saw it. On the wall behind the guards, ornate carvings showcased a small alcove dug into the wall. From the alcove came the glow he had seen from far down the passageway. Greg knew immediately he’d found the spirelings’ amulet. He just needed a distraction.
Or maybe he didn’t.
As if the guards knew he’d been there all along, they leapt to their feet and spun to face him, their bulbous eyes locked on the spot where Greg stood. Greg’s hand leapt to the torch, and the passageway exploded with blinding light. The last image he saw was of the two spirelings screaming and covering their eyes, and then he was off, retreating down the passageway as fast as his legs would carry him.
Terror welled up inside him, yet a part of him felt exhilarated by the chase. He’d used his speed to save himself for as long as he could remember. But what about the wagon blocking the end of the passage? Sleigh, he heard Lucky’s voice scold him. Wagons have wheels. Either way, if Lucky hadn’t managed to clear the passage, Greg would soon find himself trapped at a dead end.
No, not a dead end, he scolded himself, just an end.
Er . . . how about just a wagon . . . okay, a sleigh. Get a grip. Just don’t fall. Lucky will have the escape route clear by now.
The slapping of spireling feet gained so quickly Greg might as well have been standing still. Fear rose up inside him even faster. His heart beat so strongly he thought it might burst from his chest. He’d never been so scared in his life. Not when the ogre chased him through the Enchanted Forest. Not when the bollywomp’s claws raked across his flesh in Wiccan Wood. Not even when he narrowly escaped the stampeding falchions in Fey Field. But he couldn’t possibly outrun these creatures, and where would he go if he could?
Greg knew he must act now, this very moment, or die. He pushed back his fear, planted his feet firmly in front of him, and spun to face his pursuers.
The closest spireling rocketed toward him in a blur.
Greg dropped the eternal light, freeing both hands to wield Nathan’s staff. Blackness engulfed his vision, but the sight of the spireling diving toward him stayed etched in his mind.
His eyes actually pained him, he strained so hard to see, but the darkness was thick as the surrounded stone. Then he closed his eyes and allowed his many evenings practicing on the trail to serve him. He ducked and thrust his stick the way Nathan had taught him, and felt the impact up his arms, clear through to his shoulders.
There was a grunt and a thud and the clank of metal on rock as the guard’s axe skidded across the floor. Greg felt something, too: an electrical charge in his hands where the smooth wood of Nathan’s staff met his skin, and another where the Amulet of Ruuan pressed hard against his chest.
He felt more than heard the whoosh of the second spireling soaring though the darkness. Again he spun toward the sound, whipped his stick up and around to protect himself, and connected. The force drove him backward, knocked him off his feet, but then he heard the thuds of the spireling hitting first the wall and then the floor, followed by a feeble groan, and the clink of a metal axe easing onto stone.
Greg groped frantically for his torch. Once again white light flooded the passageway, blinded him, forced him to blink away the pain. The first of the spirelings lay unconscious or dead several feet away. The other sat propped against the wall, its axe just out of reach, a grimace etched across its face. It cringed from the light but was too hurt to raise an arm to shield its eyes.
“I-I’m sorry,” said Greg. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I-I just . . .” His voice trailed away. Nothing he could say would make this better.
The spireling did not acknowledge Greg’s words. It closed its eyes and exhaled shakily. Greg wondered if it would die.
Or is it catching its breath?
Fighting back hysteria, Greg ran over and kicked the spireling’s axe out of reach, then scurried over to retrieve the weapon as best as he could on his newly throbbing foot. The axe was even heavier than it looked. Greg didn’t have the strength to lift it. Instead he dragged it back up the passage toward the shrine.
As he’d thought, the shining light originated from an amulet identical to the two he had given Hazel, mounted in a depression in the stone. Greg reached in and removed it from its setting, dousing the light. He backed away, holding the amulet, still warm with power, at arm’s length.
To his right he heard a groan and spun toward the sound. One of the spirelings had tried to follow, but it now lay unconscious on its stomach, evidently too weak to catch him.
Greg pushed back his guilt. He vowed that if it were at all possible he would see the amulet returned to the spirelings one day. He hated taking it to Hazel, but knew he must. Something told him it wouldn’t be wise to break a promise to a witch.
Well, now he’d done as she asked. What next? If he could believe Hazel, his only hope of reaching Ruuan’s lair was through this passage. Still he hesitated. He couldn’t stop thinking about how quickly the fireproofing spell had been wearing off earlier. What if Lucky never made it past the wagon?
Sleigh!
And what about Princess Priscilla? Could she possibly still be alive in Ruuan’s lair? Only if Ruuan were protecting her from the heat for some reason. Greg hated to think what would happen if that protection ran out, how Priscilla would feel the painful burn of the air against her skin and in her lungs.
He stood frozen, uncertain which way to go. Then he heard it, a high-pitched whine from far above that grew louder and dropped in pitch the way a bomb does just before impact. The analogy spurred Greg’s mind into action. He sprinted from the sound, back toward Lucky, hopping over both fallen spirelings in a single stride.
Greg ran with all his might, but with each step the noise grew louder, until his ears felt as if they might bleed. Still the sound bore down from above, pressing in on him from all sides. He cringed, expecting to be flattened by more spirelings, or worse, but to his surprise, the sound passed overhead and descended as fast as it had come. Within seconds it was gone. Greg exhaled deeply, disbelieving, feeling lucky to be alive.
Lucky!
Greg raced toward the main tunnel, panting and gasping until he caught sight of the sleigh still wedged in the end of the passageway ahead.
“Lucky!” he screamed. “Lucky?”
To his horror, he heard only silence. He dropped to his knees and peered beneath the sleigh. The dr
agon scale Lucky wedged under the runner rested on the tunnel floor just feet away, but a few yards farther, rocking back and forth silently, lay a second scale, and Greg knew now what had caused that deafening noise.
Ruuan had just left through the tunnel.
Fighting back his panic, Greg slipped Nathan’s staff through the narrow gap between the top of the sleigh and the doorframe. With a clatter it dropped into the bed. Still holding the torch in his other hand, Greg wedged a shoulder against the sleigh and heaved.
It wouldn’t budge. Greg slipped the torch through the gap, too, leaving him in total darkness but with both hands free. He wedged his shoulder again until he felt the sleigh move slightly. Before he could think to congratulate himself he heard a voice in the distance. At least one of the spirelings had awakened.
Greg pushed even harder, the tendons in his neck bulging, and the sleigh moved again. Not an inch or two, not even a foot. No, it jumped from the passageway as if shot from a cannon and started down the tunnel. It was all Greg could do to get a hand on the rope to keep from losing it altogether.
Even with dragon spit spread across the soles of his feet, Greg couldn’t rein in the sleigh. For a few feet he was dragged behind it like a water-skier on a towrope. Then one runner ran aground on a dragon scale, and the sleigh stopped. Greg stopped too, but not until he smacked into the wood. The sleigh pivoted on the stuck runner until it was facing downhill and then kicked loose again. Still maintaining his death grip on the rope, Greg was swung hard into the wall, where he bounced off only to land in the bed of the sleigh.
He scrambled upright and peered down the tunnel, but without his torch, all he could make out was blackness. The wind in his face forced him to close his eyes, but he didn’t need to see to know how fast he was going. The sleigh sped so swiftly down the spiraling tunnel that Greg could feel it climb the walls. Centrifugal force pinned him to the bed and kept him from groping the darkness for the eternal torch that should have been within easy reach.
Down and down he went at mind-numbing speed, but even his numb mind could predict the only two possible outcomes to this ride. Either he would crash before the bottom, find himself dragged behind the sleigh for the final mile, his skin peeled off after the first fifty feet, or he could get lucky, make it all the way to the end and fly out of the cave mouth, only to land on a sleeping spireling, awaken the whole camp and be chopped to tiny pieces by their many double-edged axes.
Greg tried taking a quick peek ahead. The rushing air caused his eyes to water, but he was able to make out a faint glow ahead, more of a dark charcoal gray highlight to the otherwise black surroundings. The end of the tunnel drew near, and Greg thought his fate surely lay with the spirelings.
Terrified, Greg ignored the wind and fought to keep his eyes open. The brightness increased until he was convinced the cave mouth would surely pop into view around the next bend (a safe bet in the sense that the next bend was the same bend he’d been following all along). But then the light cut off abruptly, and when he rounded the final stretch, in the brief instant just before launch, Greg managed to make out not the open cave mouth ahead but the enormous face of a dragon. Ruuan had chosen that exact moment to peer through the opening, no doubt curious as to the source of so much racket.
Too late the dragon pulled back. The sleigh rammed into Ruuan’s heavily ridged forehead, splintering timbers in all directions. Greg felt as if he’d been splintered, as well. Blackness crept into the sides of his vision and flowed steadily inward until he could see nothing at all. This time his other senses refused to step up to the plate. He lay helpless, unable to move, as the world of Myrth slowly faded away.
When he came to, Greg lay face to face with Ruuan, though he’d have needed to be at least twenty paces farther back to realize it.
Why is that rotting piece of ogre meat wedged between those two stalactites? Wait . . . those are teeth.
Greg scurried back. Ahead, he spotted a small wedge of light. Given the choice between the dragon’s mouth and the cave mouth, he chose the latter to dive through.
Once his eyes adjusted to the bright moonlight, Greg saw the dragon’s limp form extending the length of a football field away from the spire. Throughout the valley the spirelings were still fast asleep. Even better, Lucky lay resting just a few feet away, his eyes half open.
“Lucky, you’re alive!”
“I am?” Lucky said with a groan.
“But how? What happened?”
Lucky tried to sit up, winced, and lay back again. “Ruuan came down the tunnel,” he said, gasping, “ran over me . . . dragged me along under his belly.”
“Whoa,” Greg said, bending down to check on him. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
Lucky nodded. He tried to give Greg one of his I-told-you-so looks, but it came out more like I-am? He took a moment to catch his breath and then said, “Good thing Ruuan was braking hard for the end of the tunnel by the time he hit me. Any faster and I would have been disintegrated on impact.”
“I can’t believe you weren’t,” Greg said. “All that noise . . .”
“What about Ruuan?” said Lucky. “Where’d he go?”
Greg realized Lucky was too close to the dragon to recognize what it was. “He’s right here . . . I think I killed him.”
Lucky peered up at the enormous mound beside him. “I wish I could die.”
“But Lucky, don’t you see? I killed Ruuan. It’s all over. You should be excited.”
“Inside I’m jumping up and down with joy,” Lucky said, wheezing. He forced himself to a sitting position and shook about a cup of dust from his ears. “Where’s Priscilla?”
If Greg’s eyes hadn’t already been filled with tears from the ride down the tunnel, they would have surely welled up now. “Still in Ruuan’s lair, if he hasn’t eaten her.”
“She’s still in the lair? But you were supposed to rescue her, and by the way I don’t think there was anything in the prophecy about you running Ruuan down with a wagon.”
In a moment of hysteria Greg nearly grinned. “Sleigh, Lucky. I ran him down with a sleigh. You might say I ‘sleighed’ him.”
Lucky frowned. “Are you making fun of the prophecy?”
“No, listen,” Greg said. “We’ve never actually seen it written out, right? Maybe we’ve been assuming too much.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Lucky said.
“No more than your silly notion about having some supernatural talent that keeps you from harm.”
“But it does.”
“What? Look at you,” Greg said. “You can’t even stand. You just got dragged for miles under the belly of a speeding dragon. How lucky is that?”
“Very,” Lucky answered angrily. “I’ll have you know it was getting awfully hot in that tunnel, and my half of the fireproofing spell had worn off. The only thing keeping me alive was the air spilling from the passage. If Ruuan hadn’t come along and dragged me out of there, I’d have been baked to a crisp.”
Greg started to argue but just couldn’t bring himself to do it. The fireproofing spell had been wearing off quickly. He only managed to survive himself because he escaped into the Passageway of Shifted Dimensions.
“Wait, if you’re so lucky, what were you doing in the tunnel to begin with? What kept you from making it inside the passageway with me, where it was cool?”
“I don’t know.” Lucky moaned. He managed to push himself to a seated position and rested there a moment, breathing heavily. “Because then things wouldn’t have worked out, I suppose. Maybe you wouldn’t have made it to the amulet with me tagging along. You did get the amulet, didn’t you?”
Greg felt the lump beneath his tunic and nodded. He thought about the two spireling guards and how lucky he’d been to defeat them in the dark. Would things have worked out as well if Lucky had been in that cramped passage with him? And if he hadn’t gone back out to the main tunnel to check on Lucky, he never would have had the chance to sleigh the dragon. Maybe it was destiny.
/> No. Greg refused to go along with the madness. “What about Priscilla?”
“No problem, Greg. Ruuan won’t be eating her now that he’s dead. We just need to go up and get her.”
“How are we supposed to do that? The fireproofing spell wore off, remember?”
“I don’t know,” said Lucky, reaching out a hand for Greg to help him up, “but there must be a way. The prophecy won’t be complete until you rescue the princess.”
Greg pulled Lucky to his feet and helped him balance the way he might help a rope stand on one end. “Wait, there is!” Greg held out the spirelings’ amulet. “Hazel said the spirelings used this to protect them from the heat of the spire.”
“I CAN THINK OF ANOTHER WAY,” came a booming voice from behind Greg.
As both boys spun to face the sound, the wall behind them surged upward, and a section of it arced around to stare Greg directly in the eye. Greg tried to gulp but couldn’t bring himself to it. Ruuan was less dead than he first appeared, but certainly more enraged than anyone within the length of, say, a football field would have wanted.
Captive Hart
Greg found the second trip up the tunnel much quicker than the first, what with the dragon assisting by carrying him in its jaws. Earlier he’d thought there couldn’t be any worse stench than the smell of dragon spit, but now he knew that a single vial of the stuff could hardly compare to an entire dragon’s mouthful.
The darkness lasted but a minute. Then Ruuan’s mouth flew open, and Greg was blinded by the white-hot rock lining the dragon’s lair. He caught only a brief glimpse of the enormous cavern full of jewels and precious artifacts before being roughly deposited into an opening in the glowing rock wall.
