How to Slay a Dragon (31 page)

So, even Mordred thought Greg would return. But why? Greg longed to question him about what he knew, but something told him the magician wouldn’t be too keen on helping. Perhaps it was the way Mordred was absently turning his staff in his hand, no doubt picturing himself breaking it across Greg’s forehead, or worse. Greg was just glad King Peter was here to keep the magician in line. Nathan got it wrong. Not everyone should have a stick.

After pulling his gaze from Mordred, Greg thanked Nathan for all his help. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, back when I was in Ruuan’s spire, I smelled that same burnt electricity smell again.”

“You did?” Nathan’s eyes darted toward Mordred. “Was this before or after you returned the spirelings’ amulet?”

“After.” It bothered Greg a little that he’d never mentioned even taking the spirelings’ amulet.

“Hmm,” said Nathan pensively. “Fate is a funny thing.”

Greg never had a chance to ask what he meant.

“You ready?” King Peter asked.

“Oh, your amulet,” said Greg. He retrieved the chain from around his neck and handed it out to the king, who seemed hesitant to take it.

“I guess I could hold on to it for you,” King Peter told him.

Greg was still wondering what he meant when Lucky, who had disappeared a minute earlier, came rushing back into the room.

“Wait.” Lucky hurried forward and handed Greg a stack of folded clothing. Greg’s worn-out sneakers topped off the pile. “Put these on. Everything must be as it was when you arrived.”

Greg stood holding the clothes, looking at the many faces staring his way.

“Allow me,” said one of the magicians. He waved his hand and the air seemed to solidify between them, forming a divider that hid Greg from view.

Quickly Greg slipped out of his tunic and tights and into the jeans, tee-shirt and shoes he had been wearing when he arrived on Myrth. The jeans were tighter than when he last wore them. His shirt, too.

“Did these shrink?” he asked as he stepped from behind the curtain.

King Peter laughed. “Yes, you
have
grown quite a bit since last we met,” he said. “Dragon hunting has suited you well.”

Greg looked down at his own body, noticing the muscle tone in his legs and arms. King Peter was right. Hours of hiking every day had helped him build muscle where before there was none.

“Has he grown taller, too,” one of the magicians asked.

The king laughed. “Boys his age spurt up quickly, so possibly. But even if not, he’s definitely standing taller.”

“Oh, one more thing,” said Lucky. He reached out a foot and kicked over a large vase, dousing Greg’s sneakers with water.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Everything’s got to be the same as when you arrived,” Lucky said. “Now, I think you’re ready.”

Greg pressed his foot on the floor experimentally. Water squished out from his shoe and puddled up on the stone. “Uh, thanks, Lucky, and thanks for all your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I know.”

Greg shook his head, until Lucky broke down and laughed, saying he was only joking. The two boys embraced and said their good-byes, and then Greg stood awkwardly in the center of the room as the magicians moved in to surround him. Under different circumstances he might have been terrified when the circle of hooded men joined up hands and began chanting, but this was one of the best things that had happened to him in weeks.

“Wait. I didn’t get to say good-bye to Priscilla,” Greg said, suddenly remembering.
She’s supposed to stand on tiptoes to give me a grateful kiss.

“Don’t worry, Greghart,” King Peter said. “You’ll be seeing her soon enough.”

Just then the air flashed and split apart, revealing another dimension beyond. In the black void of space rushed dozens, hundreds, thousands of bright spheres, a ceaseless stream of radiant stars. And planets, too. Countless other worlds, each one possibly home to a different Greg Hart—in all, thousands of more fortunate Greg Harts who Lucky had deemed fit to live their lives in peace.

“Now!” said Lucky, and Greg was jerked through the rift so hard he nearly left his dripping sneakers behind.

Even though he’d known all along what was about to happen, Greg still found himself screaming the entire way down the long tunnel back to Earth. He was still screaming when he landed in the cool, moist soil of the woods behind his house, his face buried in a blanket of broken sticks and leaves.

“What a baby. I haven’t even touched you yet.”

That’s Manny Malice’s voice!

It took Greg only a moment to realize the magicians must have sent him back to the exact instant he’d left, an instant when his Neanderthal classmate was waiting to crush him for no reason other than the simple joy of the beating.

Greg felt a branch wedged beneath his palms. He clasped his fingers around the wood and pushed himself to his feet. In an instant Manny charged, the branch whirled, and the underbrush flattened as Greg swept through the spot where a moment ago Manny’s knees had miraculously been supporting the huge boy’s weight.

Manny was not put off long. He leveraged his way back to his feet and emerged from the brush madder than ever. Greg raised his stick again. It felt small and frail under his grasp, less adequate even than the one he’d used against the troll in the Weird Weald.

“Stop!” came a panting female voice from down the trail. Kristin Wenslow rushed up and strategically positioned herself between Greg and Manny. “Leave him alone,” she told, to Greg’s relief, Manny.

But Manny was not one to take orders. His face had gone blood red, and he pushed Kristin aside as if swatting away a fly. With a scream she flew off the path and disappeared into the underbrush.

Greg was so horrified he nearly missed the older boy’s attack. Manny charged like a raging bull, except that a bull would have surely used more grace. Again Greg’s chikan training took over. He leaned easily out of the way and swept out Manny’s foot with a single stroke of the stick. Manny somersaulted onto what had until then been a large shrub.

While slower in getting up this time, Manny still came, although more cautiously than before. Greg fell into the rhythm Nathan had taught him, whirling his branch through the intricate pattern of motion that served to put his mind at rest. The branch, though shorter than any Greg had trained with on Myrth, felt perfectly natural in his hands.

Manny must have sensed Greg’s confidence. He slowed his charge and eventually stopped altogether. The branch coasted to a stop, too, and Greg craned his neck to stare Manny defiantly in the eye.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Greg said, and to his surprise, realized he actually meant it.

A wise man would have known not to attack. Manny, however, bellowed like a troll and lunged forward.

Greg didn’t even think about reacting. He didn’t need to. He stepped easily out of the way, and struck Manny flat across the waist, doubling the older boy over as effectively as if he’d extracted Manny’s spine. Manny landed hard on his face and didn’t get up again. If not for the moan, Greg might have thought him dead.

“That was amazing!” Kristin had pulled herself from the bushes and was staring at Greg as if he’d just yanked her from the jaws of an angry dragon. “How did you do that?”

“What . . . ?” said Greg. “Oh, that . . . I don’t know, I just . . . hi, Kristin.”

“You’re Greg Hart, right?”

Greg felt his face flush. He couldn’t believe she knew his name. But then, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“I thought you were . . . shorter,” she said, raising her chin slightly to look him in the eye. Greg froze in place, afraid to move. “And . . . I don’t know . . . skinnier.”

“I guess I sprouted up over the summer,” he said hoarsely.

A feeble groan drew away Kristin’s attention.

Manny looked like he was debating getting up. Fortunately he wasn’t good at deliberation, so it would probably be a while.

Kristin turned back to Greg. “You should probably get out of here.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“But I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

Greg looked back at her, confused.

“School starts, remember?”

“Oh, right,” said Greg. “I-I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She flashed him a smile that weakened his knees even more than a grin from Ruuan, then stooped to check on Manny while Greg reluctantly turned and headed down the path toward his house.

Greg’s muscles ached beyond belief, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep for the next two weeks, but still he had a spring in his step that hadn’t been there since early that summer. First he had rescued a princess from a fire-breathing dragon, and now, even more miraculously, Kristin Wenslow had actually talked to him!

It had to be a dream, all of it. The trip to Myrth, the dragon Ruuan, the Witch Hazel, and now Kristin Wenslow. All just a fabrication of his overactive imagination.

Even so, Greg’s heart beat so hard he thought it might explode. In fact, he actually felt his skin squirm under his shirt. He nearly fainted when his buttons popped open and something sprang from his chest.

With the lightest of thumps, a small, furry creature landed on all fours on the path by Greg’s feet.

“Rake!”

The shadowcat shook off the indignity of having fallen and then rubbed up against Greg’s shins, his tail stretched high. No, it wasn’t a dream at all, Greg admitted to himself. He’d been faced with an adventure bigger than any he’d faced in his own journal, and now here he was, home, alive, and Kristin Wenslow was expecting to see him tomorrow. It was just possible this year wouldn’t be nearly as bad as he’d been dreading.

Greg scooped up Rake and placed him gently on his shoulder, where the shadowcat happily curled up behind his neck, its soft fur comfortably familiar on Greg’s skin. He began walking again, uncertainly at first, his sneakers squishing rhythmically. A part of him wanted to go back and continue his talk with Kristin, but an even bigger part was dying to get home.

Soon he began to trot. Rake crawled beneath his shirt so he wouldn’t be flung off, and for the first time in what seemed an eternity, Greg found himself sprinting joyously along the winding path toward his house.

He couldn’t wait to get a new journal, to jot down everything that had happened to him on Myrth these past months.

No. He would buy a tablet, a memo book, even an address book before he got another journal. Never again did he want to confuse his made-up adventures with real life. A moment later he broke from the woods and sprinted across the green lawn toward his house. The day was hot for this late in summer, but Greg couldn’t remember when a summer’s day had ever felt as good.

The Adventure Continues!

Coming Soon

Journals of Myrth: Book Two

The Hero Who Slayed Ruuan

A Hart Day at School

Short of a valley full of purring shadowcats, nothing could drain away a boy’s consciousness faster than one of Mrs. Beasley’s excruciatingly long algebra lectures.

“Did you not get enough sleep last night, Mr. Hart?”

“Wha-huh?” Greg’s head snapped up and tottered about in a fair imitation of a bobblehead doll. Eventually the snickering of his classmates managed to reach Greg’s ears. He ran his fingers through his hair, but the unruly nest, now bent further backward from resting his head in his arms, refused to lie flat. “Oh, no ma’am . . . I mean, yes . . . er, I’m fine.”

Mrs. Beasley peered at him over her spectacles, her lips scrunched up smaller than a dime. Rumor was the woman possessed no sense of humor, but before it could be proved she would have to listen to at least one thing a student had to say. Her cold stare never wavered as she spoke, and her voice dug under Greg’s skin like a rusty knife.

“Why don’t you come to the board, Mr. Hart, show us all how to solve this equation?”

Greg’s stomach knotted even tighter than Mrs. Beasley’s lips. The laughs took up again, which was bad enough, but one booming chortle lingered long after all others died away. Greg turned to see Manny Malestino, or Manny Malice, as he was better known, sneering one row over and two seats back.

Slouched as deep in his chair as he could go, his knees propped high into the air, Manny looked as though he had needed to lie on his back and suck in his stomach to strap on his desk. He was an anomaly, way more mass than any one boy ought to have, or any two men for that matter, and all of it seemingly bent on making each day of Greg’s life more miserable than the last.

“What are
you
laughing about, Mr. Malestino?” Mrs. Beasley’s shrill voice rang out. “Perhaps you’d like to demonstrate your keen wit for us instead?”

The usual murmuring ceased, as not a single boy or girl in class dared make fun of Manny Malice. Manny’s eyes darted toward Greg for an instant, but Greg wisely chose that moment to wipe up the large puddle of drool on his notes.

“I’m waiting,” said Mrs. Beasley.

“Uh, no ma’am,” said Manny.

“I mean, I’m waiting for you to come to the board.”

Throughout the room students threw hands over their mouths or raised books in front of their noses. It was the type of silence that could make ears bleed.

With a grunt, Manny slid upright in his chair and screeched around the hardwood floor, struggling to pry himself loose from his desk. By the time he broke free, the unnatural silence had grown so thick it was a wonder Manny managed to wade through it. Greg was afraid to smile for fear Manny might somehow hear him. Still, it was all he could do not to stab out a foot as Manny passed.

Mrs. Beasley’s voice pushed past Greg’s smugness. “And you can help him, please, Mr. Hart.”

As if a floodgate had been opened, the entire class erupted. Greg winced. He glanced across the room to see if Kristin Wenslow was among those laughing. As crushes went, the one he had on Kristin could have flattened just about anything, maybe even a brute like Manny. She caught his eye and swept a strand of light brown hair from in front of her face. A vision. That’s how he would have described her—mostly because a sound just didn’t seem appropriate, he’d never touched or tasted her, and a smell would have been just plain rude.