How to Slay a Dragon (2 page)

Greg bit back a scream. Above was a loose board in the ceiling. Okay, several. He shoved one aside and scrambled through the upper opening just as Manny pried through the hole below. The escape was so narrow, Greg’s feet were still swaying just inches above Manny’s slicked-back hair when Manny’s head popped through the floor and squinted into the relative darkness. Greg’s breath seized in his throat. Only his mind raced on. For the first time in his life he was glad to be the shortest boy at school.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his legs up through the gap, cringing as the wood creaked under his weight. (Fortunately his was the type of tree house that would have sounded more suspicious if it ever stopped creaking.) Not until he made it out undetected did Greg breathe again. He peered over the edge of the roof at Kristin, only to have Manny’s head pop through a hole in the wall not two feet below his own. Greg gasped, threw a hand over his mouth, and eased out of sight.

“Aren’t you coming up?” Manny shouted down to Kristin in the same taunting voice he’d used countless times on Greg.

“I guess,” Greg heard Kristin reply. He fought back the urge to peer over the edge again. Instead he lay motionless, straining to hear as Kristin’s grunts and groans marked her progress up the trunk below.

“What do I do now?” she called out, her voice sweet and innocent and everything Manny wasn’t.

“You need to jump across,” Manny tempted.

“I can’t jump that far.”

“Sure you can. What are you, chicken?”

Greg listened. Out of the silence came a scream. Greg’s head snapped up, followed by the rest of him, and before he could stop himself he jumped to the rescue.

What was he thinking? Why should he believe he’d fare any better in a fall from this height than Kristin would? How did he expect to beat her down if he did? Why did stop signs have eight sides? These were just a few of the things Greg contemplated as he fell in agonizing slow motion toward the ground.

He thought a long while.

About halfway down he heard Manny ask Kristin why she was screaming. Kristin came up with a rather cute story about putting her hand on a beetle, and an eternity later Greg’s feet struck a small puddle near the base of the tree. Jolts of pain shot through his shins and ankles, his knees buckled, and in spite of his best efforts to be quiet, Greg let out a groan that would have sent even the monsters lurking in the underbrush scurrying, if the splash hadn’t already scared them off.

From above there came a shout. Shoes like boulders landed with a thud next to Greg’s face. Large boulders, with no toes to wedge a shoulder between. Greg jumped to his feet. He risked one glance up at Kristin’s confused face—
could she be any cuter?
—and ran for his house, his soaked sneakers squishing with every stride.

Throughout the pages of his journal Greg had been chased by monsters of every kind known to man, and more than a few of his own invention. None posed a bigger threat than the creature behind him now. His legs ached from the jump, and he could hear Manny panting just steps behind, but he didn’t dare look back. Instead he shot down the path as though his life depended on it. Anyone who knew Manny would have agreed it was worth the effort.

Yet Greg was strangely hopeful. True, he was running for his life, but the fact he was able to do so proved he was good at it, and Manny was too heavy to handle the tight bending trails. Greg knew he couldn’t be caught.

Unless, of course, he tripped.

A nearly hysterical scream split the air. It lingered there for a second, or as Greg measured it, five heartbeats, and then Greg found himself struggling atop a thorny bush, unable to get up, as the sound of Manny’s footfalls grew nearer.

Twenty more heartbeats passed, during which Greg swore he heard a tree fall and at least two boulders dislodge. What happened next he wasn’t exactly sure, only that it began with a blinding white light and a very long tunnel. He decided at that moment he must have been right. He
had
been running for his life, but apparently this one time his feet had not been up to the task.

Hart-Felt Greetings

“Is he alive?”

“Of course he’s alive. Give him room. He may be a hero, but he still needs to breathe.”

When Greg opened his eyes his first reaction was to close them again instantly. This turned out to be his second reaction as well. He might have given it a third go had one of the hooded figures hovering over him not poked him with a sharp stick before he could get to it. Instead Greg yelped, and his eyes popped open.

He was no longer in the woods. He lay on a hard flagstone surface lit by a dim, flickering light. What little air managed to squeeze its way to him reeked of something familiar, though Greg couldn’t quite put a finger on it, and wasn’t sure he would if he could.

Greg shrank back as the surrounding figures drifted closer. Everywhere he looked, nothing but black robes and sticks. Inside the many hoods, only darkness. Finally one figure leaned over and peered down at him, and Greg felt a glimmer of relief at seeing the shadowed face of a man, even if that face was scowling.

“Doesn’t look like much of a warrior to me,” the man said in an icy voice that would have made Death himself envious. “Are you sure you got the right one?”

“Of course, Mordred,” said another. “Look at his eyes.”

“Those are warrior eyes, all right,” said a third. “My Uncle Cedric had eyes just like ’em—only his were blue now that I think about it, and more bloodsho—”

“Yes, yes, Dimitrius,” Icy-Voiced Man nearly spat. “We all remember Cedric. Why do you suppose his feet are wet?”

“Uncle Cedric didn’t have wet feet.”

“Quiet, everyone,” said the man who had poked Greg. “Stand back, you’re smothering him.” He jabbed Greg again, but Greg sent him shuffling quickly backward by yelling twice as loudly as before.

“Careful, Agni,” someone shouted. “I think you hurt him.”

“Are you kidding? Do you know who this is?”

“I say we find out,” said Icy-Voiced Man. He raised one hand, causing Greg to flinch, but he was just drawing back his hood. His dark eyes stared without compassion past his stringy black hair as he locked gazes with Greg. “Who are you, boy? Tell us your name.”

“W-what?” said Greg, his voice two octaves higher than normal. He surprised himself by wishing it were Manny Malice staring down at him. Only, where was Manny? Or Kristin? For that matter, where were the woods behind his house?

“See. I told you the boy was no hero.”

“Wait,” came a voice from behind. “Give him a chance, Mordred. He’s probably just disoriented from the trip. Go ahead, sir, tell him who you are.”

One by one the remaining figures lowered their hoods. Greg was relieved to see that beneath each was a face, some gleeful, others excited or anxious, a few that might have even been wary, but none as disapproving as the one from the man named Mordred.

“I-I’m Greg,” he told them. “Greg Hart.” Throughout the room men gasped.

“Wait,” Mordred commanded, holding up a hand for silence. He leaned closer and stared, as if daring Greg to lie to him. “Tell us, boy, are you from Earth?”

Greg swallowed hard before replying. “Do I look like an alien?”

Mordred’s expression gave no hint of what he might be thinking.

“Where else would I be from?” Greg clarified.

One man slapped his knee and laughed. “I knew it!” A few others clapped, though they stopped rather abruptly when Mordred directed his stare their way.

A voice called out, “You did it, Lucky. You did it.”

A boy about Greg’s age stepped forward and hovered over Greg, his mouth drawn into a wide smile, his green eyes gleaming. Unlike the others, he wore a bright orange tunic and tights that clashed badly with his even brighter red hair. “Of course,” he boasted. “Did you have any doubts?”

“Plenty,” someone shouted.

“I know I did,” said another.

“Me too,” came a voice from behind. The boy’s smile temporarily faded as a general rumble of agreement erupted throughout the room.

“Never a one,” came a booming voice so commanding Greg couldn’t help but roll toward the sound. High above towered an enormous man whose shoulders rose above everyone else in the room. For an instant Greg thought he’d found Manny Malice, but then he noticed the luxurious robe of magenta velvet, and the speckled gray hair peeking out from beneath a golden crown. The man put a hand on the redheaded boy’s shoulder. “If we could count on anyone to find him, I knew it would be you.” He winked and added, “Good job, by the way. Always an amazement.”

The boy flushed as red as his hair and bowed. “It was nothing, Your Majesty. I’m only happy to serve you.”

“Please. It’s just me, Peter, remember?”

“Sorry, Your Majesty—I mean—Peter.”

“Hah! You keep trying. You’ll get it someday.” The man turned his attention to Greg then. “So, Greghart, you all right? You look a bit peaked. Can you stand?”

Greg debated. If he did he’d surely just drop this way again. Even so, the boy in orange helped him up as the robed figures replaced their hoods and eased into the shadows.

“Forgive me,” said the boy. “I should introduce you. This is King Peter Pendegrass the Third.” Out of the side of his mouth he whispered. “He’s in charge here.”

With a great deal of effort, considering the distance he had to go, the king bowed low, as if he were the one in the presence of royalty. “I am quite honored to make your acquaintance, Greghart . . . and please, if you could just call me Peter.”

“Oh, and I’m Lucky,” the boy in orange added quickly.

Greg stared at him dumbly. “Good for you.”

“No, I mean my name is Lucky. Short for Luke.”

“Actually it’s longer,” Greg said. “Hey, where am I?”

“Inside Pendegrass Castle, my dear,” replied a woman who stepped up from behind King Peter’s elbow, “in the Kingdom of Myrth.” Like the boy, she had red hair, but with wisps of silvery gray, and like the king, she wore a velvet robe and crown. Well, not exactly like the king. The crown was similar, but her robe was about a third the size of her husband’s and flowed with a grace befitting a queen, while King Peter’s looked more like someone’s feeble attempt at decorating a bear.

“Myrth?” Greg repeated.

“I think you’ll find it a lovely place,” the woman told him, “that is, if you don’t get too caught up in your noble purposes to enjoy it.” She smiled reassuringly. “Just promise if you get the chance you’ll pause every now and then to savor the peace, agreed?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Greg said, though he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Oh, where are my manners?” Lucky cried. “Greghart, this is Her Majesty, Queen Pauline Pendegrass.”

“Queen Pauline?” Greg muttered.

The queen’s smile widened. “I’m sorry, dear. I suppose this all must seem a bit overwhelming. Is there anything we can get for you?”

Greg felt his mouth open and close. A new mind might be good. Apparently he’d lost his old one.

Queen Pauline laughed, a soft, lilting sound. “Well, if you think of anything let me know. I promise we’ll get through this as quickly as we can. I hate to subject you to it at all, really, but I’m afraid we have no choice. So many people have come to be a part of this historic event, and they’d be so terribly disappointed if they didn’t get a chance to at least shake your hand.”

“Historic event?” Sure, Greg would describe this as one, but why would anyone else?

“Of course,” said King Peter. “I know we may look fancy in all this festive grandeur,” he said, indicating his robe with a sweep of his hand, followed by a roll of his eyes that only Greg could see, “but we’re a humble people, really. It’s not every day we get to see a prophecy fulfilled.”

“Prophecy?” Greg said.

With a light press on the shoulder, King Peter guided him toward a huge oak door set in the middle of one wall. “Oh, didn’t we tell you about the prophecy?”

“You didn’t tell me about anything.”

“Then I guess that would include the prophecy, wouldn’t it?”

Greg stared at the man. “What prophecy?”

“Oh my. Well, I’m afraid we have no time for explanations. Everyone is waiting.” King Peter paused at the door. “Tell you what. If anyone presses you for details, just excuse yourself and say you need your rest. I’m sure they’ll understand. After all, they can’t expect you to go off hunting dragons without a good night’s sleep, can they?”

Dragons?
What was he talking about? Before Greg could object, King Peter pushed open the door and bright light spilled into the room. Greg protected his eyes with a hand, but he didn’t need to see to know what waited outside. Just like in his daydream a short time ago, as soon as the thousands of spectators spotted him, they raised their voices as one and began to cheer and shout Greg’s name.

“Greghart! Greghart! Greghart!”

Greg’s mouth dropped open. To each side of the door stood a row of men with trumpets raised, cheeks puffing in and out with effort, but any music they might have made was lost beneath the deafening chant. Jugglers, court jesters and mimes worked the room, their antics unnoticed, as all eyes were glued on Greg, and Greg couldn’t have been more uncomfortable had those eyes actually been pasted to him.

In one big rush the crowd pressed forward. Greg tried to turn and run but bounced off the king’s stomach and dropped hard to the floor. A multitude of hands reached out and lifted him back to his feet, though Greg found it difficult to stand, as his knees had gone all wobbly.

“I touched him!” someone shouted. “I touched Greghart.”

“Ooh, I want to touch him too. Get out of my way!”

Limbs thrust out from every angle and knocked into Greg again. Surely he’d have fallen back to the stone floor, had he more room to work with.

“Order, people! Order!” In spite of King Peter’s informal manner, the crowd backed up at once and bowed.

Greg used the extra elbowroom to drop back to the floor.

“Careful, Greghart.” Lucky rushed forward to help Greg up again and used a bright orange cap that matched his tunic to brush the dust from Greg’s jeans. Queen Pauline floated into the room to join her husband, but the men in black robes stayed behind, nearly invisible in the shadows.