How to Slay a Dragon (13 page)

“I worry, too,” Nathan said, “but there is no other way.”

Exhausted by the end of each day, Greg slept soundly through the nights, even when Rake was not around to help him. Each morning he woke feeling a trifle less sore than the morning before. Day by day he grew stronger, until one morning he woke feeling as if he’d been hit by a small car, perhaps just a motorcycle, instead of the usual truck. By mid-morning he’d walked off all of his aches, and by the evening chikan session, he was actually feeling reasonably good.

“Excellent, Greg,” Nathan said, as Greg repeated one particularly difficult move. “It’s as if you were meant to do this.”

Greg frowned, thinking Nathan was referring to the prophecy, but then he realized the man was offering a genuine compliment. Greg really was a natural at chikan. The other night Nathan had let the boys spar, and Greg found he was able to disarm and pin Lucky, who Nathan claimed to be the second best he’d ever taught, every two out of three matches.

For once in his life Greg actually felt strong, making him wonder if he might actually be building muscle on this adventure. He hoped so. Sure he was short, but maybe when he got home to his first day of school he wouldn’t be the scrawniest kid in class as well.

Only his first day of school had come and gone long ago, hadn’t it? It seemed as if he’d been hiking in the woods of Myrth forever. By now his parents must have given up all hope of ever finding him, and his friends had probably forgotten he even existed.

What friends
? Greg caught himself thinking. He scowled and stabbed the air with his stick the way Nathan demonstrated.

“Breathe,” Nathan scolded. “Breathe.”

Greg moaned.
“Did you get the number of the truck that hit me?” he asked Lucky at breakfast.

“What’s a truck?”

Nathan paused with a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth. “I think Greg was being facetious, Lucky. A truck is a sort of magic wagon.”

Greg looked at Nathan. “How do you know what a truck is?”

Nathan regarded him coolly. “I know many things.”

“Yes, but this thing isn’t possible for you to know.”

Nathan smiled. “Look at you, telling me what is possible. But you must realize, Myrth is not the only world I have seen. You, of all people, should be able to identify with that.”

“Oh.” Greg had never stopped to consider King Peter’s magicians might have brought others to Myrth. “What other worlds have you been to?”

“Ah, well, my home planet of Gyrth for one, but that is something I am not willing to discuss. I suggest you worry more about your own affairs.”

Greg didn’t need to be told to worry. He had kept going over the upcoming conversation with Simon in his head, and each time the scene played out the same. He heard the prophet saying that there had been no mistake.
“Of course, the prophecy was meant for Greghart from Earth. Why, Greatheart from Myrth just wouldn’t make any sense.”

A part of Greg—a very small part that he’d have stomped out of existence if ever he caught it lurking about—also fretted that even if he did get out of this and make it safely back home, Marvin Greatheart might not show up in time to rescue Princess Priscilla. Greg wished there were some way
he
could help the princess, short of fighting Ruuan himself, of course, but clearly there was nothing he could do. Best not to dwell on the matter. Instead he focused on his promise to Queen Pauline to take note of the scenery. She was right. The forests here were incredible, even more exciting than those described on the pages of his journal. He didn’t even need to make up monsters to chase him here. They really were lurking behind every bush.

Wait, she said this would be pleasing.

“Trolls!”

Little more than a gasp to start with, the sound cut off in Lucky’s throat. Greg got the message just the same.

Nathan rushed forward and peered through the bushes. “How many?”

“Half dozen,” Lucky whispered.

“About six more than we want to tackle, then,” Nathan surmised. He motioned to the boys, and the three of them slipped into the brush to hide.

Within seconds the trolls were upon them. Smelly, hulking beasts with sloped foreheads and dull looks across their ugly faces. Like a half dozen Manny Malices. Only in all the years he’d know him, Greg couldn’t recall a single instance when Manny had sniffed the air in search of prey.

Greg held his breath as they passed and silently congratulated himself for not screaming, even if his ability to keep quiet was largely due to the tightness of the hand Nathan clamped over his mouth. In moments the danger was gone.

Nathan breathed a sigh of relief. “Lucky we were downwind of the beasts.”

Greg thrashed his head about, trying to shake the putrid troll stench from his nostrils. “You sure the upwind side wouldn’t have been luckier?”

Nathan glanced around the woods. “I must say, I am surprised. Normally I wouldn’t expect to hike an hour anywhere on Myrth without running afoul of at least one hideous creature or another. It’s hard to believe these are the first we have seen.”

“Ah, it was nothing,” said Lucky, dragging his toe through the dirt.

Greg had to admit fortune had been on their side, but he also imagined a forest on Myrth was the last place he wanted to be when his luck ran out. Maybe the last place he
would
be.

Lucky pointed ahead to a lush section of forest. “Wiccan Wood.”

“Wiccan?” Greg repeated nervously. “Are there more witches here?”

“Don’t know,” said Lucky, “but if so, they must not be the same sort as Hazel. You saw how the trees couldn’t survive in the Shrieking Scrub. Nature and evil don’t get along.”

“I suppose,” mumbled Greg, but still he kept his eyes and ears open.

He should have focused more attention on his nose.

He was still pondering over a familiar scent when the bushes began to shake. At first he was going to pass it off as just another monkeydog, but then an orange blur flashed behind the brush. Rake wailed in his ear and dove for cover, leaving a series of gashes in Greg’s shoulder.

“Something moved!” Greg shouted.

“Relax, Greg,” Lucky said, “it was probably just another monkeydog.”

“But I
saw
it move.”

In a flash Nathan fell into sensen stance, staff held out before him, breath calm but deliberate. “Take cover,” he urged the boys.

He needn’t have bothered. Lucky had dove behind Nathan’s legs the instant Greg said he’d seen movement, only to find the spot already claimed by Greg, who didn’t want to face anything that would concern either of his companions so.

A large branch snapped. Greg gathered the courage to peer out from behind Nathan’s knee. The underbrush shook violently and parted, and a huge creature with reddish-orange fur bounded onto the path ahead.

Tiger!
Greg thought, but then realized no cat could be that huge.

The creature stood on hind legs like a bear, stretching impossibly far upward, its muscular, human-like arms held wide. Gleaming white fangs curled below its pointed chin, and a row of foot-long daggers jutted out of each paw. Its bellowing roar shook the entire forest, although the sound was nearly lost beneath the ear-piercing scream Greg offered.

Nathan visibly relaxed and lowered his walking stick to the ground. “Whoa, I must say that had me scared for an instant.”

Greg screamed again, but his throat had closed up so tightly, he managed little more than a squeak.

“Relax, Greg,” said Nathan. “It’s just a bollywomp. It won’t hurt you.”

Greg tried again to speak, but no sound would come. He shot Nathan a look that suggested he didn’t believe for a second this creature wouldn’t hurt him.

Lucky stood up. “He’s right, Greg. Bollywomps don’t like the way people taste. They only eat rabbits and mice and things.”

The bollywomp roared again, and Greg offered a sidelong glance at Lucky. “It’d have to eat at least one person before it knew whether it liked the taste, right?”

Lucky’s eyes darted back to the bollywomp, but the creature dropped to all fours just then and started to wander off. “See, nothing to worry about.”

Then the bollywomp paused and sniffed the air in the same disturbing way the group of trolls had done earlier. Greg’s breath caught in his throat. He could only pray the creature couldn’t smell fear, because he was drenched in it. The bollywomp met his eye, and Greg released a feeble whimper.

Suddenly the beast charged, bounding toward the three of them, though Greg was sure it was after him alone. The bollywomp sprang, its muscular arms with their razor-sharp claws slashing the air.

Even if Greg’s eyes hadn’t been squeezed tightly shut, he would have likely missed the blur of Nathan’s swing. The bollywomp howled as it passed, so close Greg could feel claws rake across his tunic, but Nathan’s defensive skills were masterful, and the creature’s vulnerable underbelly was no match for his staff. The beast fell with a thud, and Greg felt the ground shake before he could bring himself to open his eyes again. Before him lay the bollywomp in a huge, reddish-orange mound that steamed in the chill air.

Nathan wedged a foot against the body and jerked loose his staff. He crouched and stroked the monster’s fur. “I don’t understand. Bollywomps are usually such gentle creatures. I’ve never known one to attack.”

Greg rose unsteadily to his feet and leaned cautiously forward. “You sure this is a bollywomp?”

“Your tunic, Greg,” said Lucky. “Are you okay?”

Greg glanced down at his side where Lucky was staring. His tunic was slashed wide open, and beneath the ragged edges of cloth, a red stain nearly as bright as Lucky’s hair ebbed across his skin. Nathan said something, but from a long way off. For a moment Greg felt as though he were falling. Then something hard struck him sharply across the back of the head, and day turned instantly to dark.

Damaged Hart

“What happened?” Greg asked when daylight finally fought its way back into his vision. He was lying on the hard-packed trail, staring at a faint blue sky through a thick canopy of tree branches. Rake sniffed around his mouth, checking for breath.

“You fainted,” said Lucky.

“I did . . . why?”

Then he remembered. He bolted upright. “The bollywomp!” A sharp pain exploded in his side, and he fell backward again, coughing and gasping for air.

“It’s okay, Greg,” Lucky assured him. “It’s gone now. How do you feel?”

“I-I don’t know,” said Greg, and this was true. He couldn’t decide whether he felt more as if he’d been repeatedly beaten with a hot poker or as if someone had tried unsuccessfully to turn him inside out.

Nathan’s face appeared between Greg and the sky. His usual smile had been replaced by a disturbingly sober expression. “You’re going to be fine, son. It’s only a shallow wound. It could have been much worse.”

Greg looked at Nathan helplessly. “I thought you said bollywomps wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Normally, they wouldn’t . . . Lucky, could you give us a moment?”

“Um, sure.” Lucky meandered off toward the edge of the clearing, returned hastily for his walking stick, and left again.

“Listen, Greg,” said Nathan, once Lucky was out of earshot. “I know that boy has you convinced he has nothing but good fortune all the time—”

“He is awful lucky,” Greg interrupted.

“That depends on how you look at it.”

“You mean like with your eyes open?” Greg said. He tried once again to sit upright, but he might as well have tried to fly.

“The boy is lucky in the sense that King Peter took him in when he had no one else,” Nathan said, “but I’m afraid there is little more to it than that.”

“King Peter took him in?”

“About a year ago, when the boy’s parents died and left him alone. It only made sense. Everyone already thought he had royal blood anyway.”

Greg’s side stabbed at him until he shifted to a more comfortable position. Yes, he decided, it definitely felt more as if he’d been turned inside out. “Why did they think that?” he asked.

“His hair, obviously.”

Greg offered Nathan his best blank expression.

“Haven’t you noticed?” Nathan said. “Lucky’s the only one in the entire kingdom outside the royal family with red hair. I guess you could say that was one more thing he was lucky about.”

“What happened to his parents?”

“Killed by trolls, I’m told. You saw how his carefree attitude disappeared when we spotted those beasts yesterday.”

Greg nodded. “Wait a minute. I thought you just met Lucky when you met me.”

“I did,” said Nathan, “but I’ve known King Peter most my life.”

Perhaps it
was
more like the beating, Greg debated, as he tried once more to sit upright. “What does all this have to do with Lucky’s talent?”

“Don’t you see? Lucky’s the kind of boy who could get struck by lightning twice in one week and still tell you how lucky he was not to be killed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He puts a positive spin on everything,” Nathan said. “Where you and I might construe being attacked by a bollywomp as bad luck, he’d just smile and say you were lucky because you came away with only that scratch.”

Greg stared at the crimson bandages Nathan had used to cover Greg’s wound. He didn’t feel lucky. “So why are you telling me this?”

Nathan bent to inspect Greg’s bandage and nodded as if he approved of his own work. “Because every time Lucky pushes himself to the brink of death and survives, he’ll consider himself lucky to be alive, but one day he’s going to push himself too far, and . . . well, then he won’t be around to consider his fortune one way or another.”

“I still don’t understand what that has to do with me.”

Nathan frowned. “Look, Greg, there’s nothing wrong with maintaining a positive attitude—it certainly has worked for Lucky so far—but you’re about to face some pretty insurmountable odds. I think you’d be wise not to trust your fate to chance alone.”

“If you’re talking about the prophecy, I couldn’t agree more.”

“I’m talking about the rabbit’s foot. I don’t care if you do think it will bring you good luck. You have no business carrying something like that around out here in the forest. Why, it practically got you killed today. How lucky is that?”