How to Slay a Dragon (18 page)

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.

Bart was not as upset by the news as Greg would have liked. In fact, the bard hadn’t stopped smiling. “Oh, sorry, Greghart. It’s a terrible thing that someone’s out to get you, but—well, think of the songs.”

“Bart,” Priscilla scolded. “That’s a bit callous, don’t you think?”

“I said it was a terrible thing.” He reached up and wiped the grin off his own face.

“Are you sure he’s not out to kill me?” Greg asked.

“You don’t have to worry about Bart,” Priscilla assured him. “He’s been like an uncle to me. Even Father trusts him to carry messages for the crown from time to time.”

Greg eyed the bard suspiciously. “If you say so.” He made a mental note to keep his distance from the bard, just in case. But then Rake strolled up and rubbed affectionately against Bart’s shins. Greg didn’t know why, but he was sure Rake would know if Bart meant him harm.

At least he adamantly hoped so.

“Say, would you all mind if I tagged along with you a while?” asked Bart.

“Sure,” Lucky shrugged. “Why not?”

Because he might be trying to kill me, Greg thought.

Rake rolled over on his back so Bart could scratch his stomach.

“Oh, excellent,” Bart said. “Think how much better my songs will be if I get to know Greghart personally.”

“Do you have any new songs, Bart?” asked Priscilla.

“Of course. I haven’t seen you in a shadowcat’s age. Why, you’ve probably not even heard my Ballad of Greghart.”

“I’m not sure,” said Priscilla. “How does it go?”

Bart smiled and raised his lute as if about to play.

“Wait!” said Greg. “Isn’t that the one about decapitation and incineration?”

Bart’s smile widened. “I’m flattered you remembered.”

“Don’t you have anything else?”

“Oh . . . ” Bart said uncertainly, “um, sure. Well, here’s one I think you’ll enjoy.” He put his hand to the lute, strummed the instrument once and allowed the tone to die away to nothing, then he burst into song.

For all who knew the dragon Ruuan,

It’s so hard to believe

A boy alone would raid his home,

A princess to retrieve.

The beast be there to guard its lair

Within the glowing spire,

And the boy would be toast, when the dragon roast-

-ed him with his scorching fire.

O’—

“Stop!” Greg shouted.

“What’s wrong, Greghart?” asked Bart.

“We don’t have time for this. I say break’s over.” Under his breath he added, “I’m about as relaxed as I’m going to get.”

“We’re here!”
Priscilla announced.

It had been a long day. Already the sun dipped low in the sky. Priscilla pointed to her left, where two streaks of mud split the weeds bordering the forest. “The castle is just a few miles down Pendegrass Highway.”

Greg hurried in the direction she pointed. Before long they passed a small group of people traveling in the opposite direction, a well-dressed couple and their three daughters. When the girls spotted Greg their eyes bugged out, and they whispered and giggled excitedly.

“Lovely evening, don’t you think?” Lucky said as Greg’s group rushed past. The wife smiled, and the husband took off his cap and bowed stiffly, but Greg and the others were already gone.

A short way farther a second family passed, another couple and their two small boys. Again Lucky greeted them. The boys pointed and screamed Greg’s name, each shouldering the other out of the way to get a better look. Even the parents grew flustered, gawking not only at Greg but at Priscilla as well, as if not in the habit of meeting royalty. But neither party stopped. As rushed as Greg’s group was, the family seemed just as eager to be on their way, continuing their hike in the middle of nowhere toward what Greg could only guess must be the other side of nowhere.

The closer they got to Pendegrass Castle, the more families they passed. Everyone knew Lucky, and many were impressed at seeing Priscilla, but the obvious attraction of the day was Greg himself. After the celebration King Peter prepared for his arrival, Greg was not overly shocked by the interest, but one thing did strike him as odd. Not one person seemed overly surprised to see him back from his quest. It was almost as if they expected him to be here.

“How does it feel to be a hero?” Lucky asked Greg after one woman nearly fainted at the sight of him.

Greg didn’t dignify the question with an answer. “Why isn’t anyone shocked I’m back?”

“Because it’s all in the prophecy,” said Bart. “Let’s see, how does it go? ‘The Mighty Greghart will brave the fires of the Molten Moor, risk decapitation within Wiccan Wood, and narrowly avoid being crushed by the creatures of Fey Field, only to arrive too late to prevent the princess from being taken.’”