How to Slay a Dragon (8 page)

“Again, I was lucky you were there to save me.”

“But I pinned you to the tree to start with!”

“Exactly. That sword could just as easily have hit me in the chest. I was lucky you missed.”

Lucky you’re not giving me a second chance
, Greg thought, but he kept his feelings to himself as the two boys hiked in silence.

At mid-morning Lucky pulled a huge leg of lamb from his pack, along with steaming hot apple cobbler for dessert. At lunch he dug out two large squares of unleavened bread with sauce, the Myrth equivalent of pizza, one plain and one topped with everything. Greg had never thought of honey and pickled eggs as belonging on a pizza, but by noon he was starving and would have eaten just about anything.

Before the meal was through he broke down and questioned Lucky about the mysterious pack. “How does that work?”

“Quite well,” answered Lucky.

Greg decided this was probably the straightest answer he was likely to get, so he didn’t press for more.

By afternoon he felt somewhat better. Most of his muscles had worked out their knots from the previous day and were busy forming new knots. He could almost believe he was going to survive the day, if not for the fact he was on his way to see a witch, or that he would then be off to fight a dragon.

“Lucky, have you ever met this Witch Hazel?”

“Not in person, no,” said Lucky, “but I’ve heard plenty of stories. I almost feel I know her.”

Greg kicked at a stone in his path, but it managed to scurry out of his reach. “Really? What’s she like?”

“Well, as I understand it, if she likes you she can be . . . non-threatening.”

Greg frowned. “That’s a good quality in a witch. Do we really need to go see her?”

Lucky kicked at a rock of his own with more success. Greg listened to it groan as it sailed into the bushes. “Where else are we going to get dragon spit?” Lucky asked.

“I don’t suppose dragons ever take the subway here?”

“What’s a subway?”

“Never mind. I was joking.”

Lucky offered his usual smile. “That’s the spirit, Greg. It’s about time you lightened up.”

Greg bit back a response. The boys hiked until dark, when Lucky pulled two bedrolls from his pack and laid them out at Greg’s feet.

“What about the princess?” Greg asked. “Don’t we need to reach her as fast as we can?”

Lucky laughed. “If we try hiking these woods at night, we won’t reach her at all.”

“How much farther is it?” Greg asked.

“Not far,” replied Lucky. “Just the other side of the Molten Moor.”

“Why don’t I want to ask what that is?”

“Relax, Greg, the moor’s great—just like any other, except instead of pools of soppy mud everywhere, it’s got pools of molten lava.”

“You expect us to hike through molten lava?”

“It’s not
all
lava. There are plenty of trails winding between the pools.”

“Oh,” said Greg, feeling only slightly better.

“You just have to keep an eye out, on account of the lava keeps shifting around and swallowing up the paths.”

Greg groaned. “Doesn’t anything around here stay in one place?”

Lucky thought a moment. “The witch. They say you can always count on her brewing up her evil potions at the center of the Shrieking Scrub.”

Greg considered crying, but thought Lucky would just scold him for tarnishing his heroic image. Instead he pulled his bedding over his head and tried not to think about lava and witches and most of all

dragons the size of football fields, with scales so thick not even the sharpest arrow could penetrate them.

The next morning,
Greg came upon a dead squirrel in the center of the trail. It was not the first carcass he’d run across in the last hour. He took this as a bad omen.

“Lucky, does the forest seem—I don’t know—less alive here than before?”

“No, this area’s looked like this for as long as I can remember.”

“Why is it so quiet? Where are all the birds? And what happened to the rustling in the bushes?”

“I don’t understand you, Greg. Yesterday you hated hearing rustling in the bushes.”

Greg pulled his gaze off an enormous rat carcass ahead. “Yeah, but somehow this is worse. Look at the trees, how they’re all . . . twisted. And where are the leaves?”

“Relax, it just means we’re getting close to the Molten Moor. Most living things have a hard time adjusting to areas of heavy magic.”

 “We’re living things,” Greg pointed out.
For the time being
, he left unvoiced.

Lucky didn’t seem to hear. “We’re making really good time,” he said, “or maybe the moor’s just moved closer since I was here last. That would make more sense.”

Greg frowned. He didn’t think that made sense at all. Soon the pungent aroma of burning rock filled the air, and he noticed a thinning in the trees ahead. They had reached the Molten Moor, and Greg was as anxious to cross as he would have been to scamper through an active volcano back home. The whole area glowed bright orange, except for a network of black cracks that riddled the surface of the bubbling lava, identifying the narrow trails Lucky expected them to follow.

As Greg watched, one of the closest pools sputtered and spewed hot lava up and over the path. Er . . . ex-path.

With a hiss the soil burned away and the surrounding lava rushed into the trough, revealing two new trails hidden just below the surface of the steaming pools.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Greg said.

Lucky laughed. “Don’t worry. Just stick close to me and you’ll be perfectly safe.”

“You’re not expecting to make it across on luck alone, are you?”

“Of course. But we have to go now.” He hopped across a broad finger of lava to a narrow strip of land and scurried to his left.

Greg started to object, but Lucky screamed, “Now!” so insistently Greg found himself jumping without questioning why. No sooner had his foot left the bank before the lava spit up again. Greg landed on the narrow finger of land and leapt to the side as he’d seen Lucky do, ending up so close it was as if the two of them shared the same boots. He cringed as the lava sizzled over the spot he’d just been standing.

“You don’t have to stick that close,” said Lucky. “But when I say we have to move now, I do mean now, okay?”

Before Greg could open his mouth to agree, Lucky screamed, “Now!” and leapt away again. Never a slow learner, Greg managed to beat the boy’s shadow to the new trail.

“That’s better,” Lucky said with a smile.

Much to Greg’s terror the two traveled this way for what seemed an eternity, but was surely closer to ten minutes. Occasionally the network of black trails widened and nearly displaced all of the lava. Other times the whole area glowed orange, and Greg couldn’t help but worry what would happen if the lava decided to spew when there were no alternate paths to follow. Fortunately that situation never occurred, and whether a property of the Molten Moor or just coincidence brought on by Lucky’s amazing talent, Greg didn’t want to contemplate. Part of him—okay, all of him—wanted to believe Lucky’s talent was responsible, for having that kind of luck on his side in this world could only come in handy.

Then again, just because Lucky was safe didn’t mean Greg wouldn’t burst into flames at his side.
But then what of the prophecy?
Greg shook off the thought. He was beginning to reason like the rest of them, and this probably wasn’t a good time to be losing his mind.

To his amazement, ahead amidst the lava sat a small island of trees—charred black, lifeless trees, perhaps, but trees all the same. Greg jumped for the island and landed hard on hands and knees and was up in an instant, screaming and blowing on his reddened palms.

“Shhh,” Lucky said. He pointed toward the center of the island.

Only then did Greg notice the man standing motionless near the edge of a lava pool. Instead of a tunic and tights he wore a loose-fitting white shirt and pants. He balanced on one leg, his body parallel to the ground, and in one hand he held a branch extended out as far as he could reach. Greg stared, amazed anyone could stand so still on one foot, or that anyone would want to.

“Look,” whispered Lucky.

The man relaxed his taut muscles and stretched his leg out a hair more to allow the stick to reach an inch farther.
Odd place for anyone to practice yoga
, Greg thought, but then he spotted an animal trapped on a small patch of land and realized the man was attempting a rescue.

The creature looked a bit like a squirrel, but with a tail over twice the length of its body and fur so black it shimmered blue in the sunlight. It hunched down, as if to leap, but just bobbed up and down nervously, too frightened to spring. Greg measured the distance and the brightness of the lava and agreed with its decision.

Somehow the man willed the stick an inch closer. Again the animal crouched, and this time it sprang.

The distance closed. Flailing claws seized the tip of the stick, and like a tree branch in the wind the man yielded to the weight. The stick drooped with the creature swinging panicked from its tip. Then the animal was up and scurrying atop the wood, along the man’s arm, across his back, and down his leg to the safety of solid ground.

Only it didn’t stop there. It shot straight at Greg’s chest like a speeding bullet. Greg let out a feeble scream and tried to dodge out of the way, but he’d have had more success dodging the bullet. The creature scrambled up his drab tunic to his shoulders and curled up behind his neck while Greg took to hopping about, screaming, “
GET IT OFF!
”

“Relax,” said Lucky. “It’s just a shadowcat. It won’t hurt you.”

“Are you sure?” Greg cried. If his neck had been more flexible, he might have seen the back of his own head. Instead he saw the man with the branch stroll toward him. Something about the fluid movement made Greg forget all about the snake-like tail draped across his chest.

The man was thinner than Greg first thought, his muscles so sharply defined, Greg wondered if they were wrapped too tightly for the man’s skeleton to grow any larger. His features were soft, his eyes a warm blue, and Greg instantly liked him more than he ever liked anyone he’d met in a sea of lava before.

He also noticed the man’s stick was not a branch but a staff, pale ash in color and worn smooth over time, like a piece of floating driftwood.

“That’s rare,” the man said.

“What is?” Greg said, as a tail flipped up and hit him in the nose.

“Shadowcats seldom tolerate humans at all, let alone befriend them. Name’s Nathaniel Caine, by the way. Friends call me Nathan.”

“Luke Day,” said Lucky, extending his hand. “My friends call me Lucky.”

Nathan smiled and shook Lucky’s hand, then looked back to Greg.

“Oh,” Greg said. “Greg Hart. People call me . . . well, around here, Greghart.”

Nathan’s smile broadened. “
The
Greghart? From the prophecy?”

“You’ve heard of me too?” Greg had hoped his reputation might have at least escaped the notice of someone stuck alone in the middle of a sea of lava, days from civilization. The shadowcat risked a curious glance at Greg’s face, chattered nervously, and ducked behind his neck again.

“Of course,” said Nathan. “Everyone’s heard of the Mighty Greghart. Right now you’re about the most famous man in all of Myrth.”

“Boy, you mean. I’m just a boy.”

“Nonsense,” said Nathan. “Would a mere boy be capable of slaying a dragon?”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been saying.”

Nathan offered a sympathetic look. “Ah. Having a few doubts about your role in upcoming events, are you?”

Greg felt his stomach turn. “Don’t worry. Everyone’s been telling me how dangerous it is to doubt a prophecy, and that I have nothing to worry about.”

Nathan’s expression flickered.

“What?” asked Greg.

“Nothing. It’s just . . . a little worry isn’t always a bad thing.” He looked up at the position of the sun. “It was nice meeting you boys. It’s time I moved on.”

“Wait, what did you mean, about worry not being such a bad thing?”

“Forgive me. I shouldn’t be adding to your fears. I’m sure King Peter has prepared you well for your meeting with the dragon.”

“Prepared me well? No one has told me any—”

Nathan turned as if to leave. “Fare well, young Greghart.”

“No, don’t go!”

Nathan paused. Lucky stared at Greg questioningly.

“Come with us instead.” Greg told Nathan. “I’d like to hear what you know of the prophecy.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Which way are you boys headed?”

Greg was almost afraid to say. “Toward Witch Hazel’s?”

Again Nathan’s expression flickered, but to Greg’s surprise he said, “Perhaps I could join you. After all, one direction is just as good as the next.”

Lucky cleared his throat. “Well, whether you come or not, we should probably go soon.” The lava had crept its way over within six inches of his boot. He was right. This was no time to talk.

“Stick close to Lucky, Mr. Caine,” Greg said. “He has a knack for hopping between paths just in the nick of time.”

“You don’t need a knack to avoid the lava, Greghart,” said Nathan. “You just need to pay attention.” He pointed with his staff at one of the pools. “Watch the surface closely. You’ll notice it bubbles just before it erupts.”

Greg’s jaw fell slack. “You mean we haven’t just been lucky until now?”

Nathan chuckled. “No one could be that lucky.”

“Say, what happened
to your shadowcat?” Nathan asked Greg. After playing the most terrifying game of hopscotch Greg could imagine, he and the boys had finally reached the far bank of the Molten Moor.

Greg noticed the animal no longer resting on his shoulders. More accurately, he didn’t notice it. He whipped around and scanned the surface of the lava, but then something stirred under his arm and either he or the creature let out a small squeal.

“He’s here,” Greg gasped, “under my tunic. Do you want him?”

“No,” said Nathan, “you keep him. He seems to have taken a fancy to you.”

“Really, I don’t mind.” The shadowcat crawled up to Greg’s shoulder and rubbed its soft cheek against his ear. Greg fought hard to ignore the sensation.