How to Slay a Dragon (12 page)

“Mordred?” Lucky said doubtfully. “Believe me, Greg, if Mordred wanted you dead he would have just dissolved your bones with a spell or something.”

“Maybe he wants it to look like an accident.”

“No. If I
were
to guess, I would never guess you needed to worry about Mordred.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Nathan. “It wasn’t Mordred. Can you think of anyone else who might have been in the Shrieking Scrub recently, Greg?”

Greg didn’t think they should be dismissing the magician so lightly. But then he did remember someone else. “Hazel mentioned a girl adventurer . . . .”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Lucky. “Girls can’t be adventurers.”

“You think Hazel was lying?” said Greg.

“Not about that,” said Nathan pensively. “Well, we don’t have time to worry about it now. We’ll just have to keep an eye out for this girl adventurer as we go.”

Greg felt as if he might collapse at the thought. “But it’s almost dark.”

“What are you talking about?” said Lucky. “The sun’s just coming up. It’s not even fully light yet.”

“What are
you
talking about? I left here after sunrise, and that was hours ago.”

“But Greg, you’ve been gone for two days.”

“Two days!”

“Sorry,” said Nathan, “I forget how disorienting the Shrieking Scrub can be. It was just the luck of the draw, really. Your encounter with Hazel could have taken a moment, or a month, or you might have actually returned before you left . . . but yes, you’ve been gone two days.”

“Wow,” Greg said again. “I can’t believe it.”

“Lucky it wasn’t two months,” said Nathan, “or this prophecy would have already failed.”

Greg studied Nathan’s face. “Does it say anywhere in this prophecy that I would be gone so long to see Hazel?”

“I couldn’t say,” Nathan told him. “I know bits and pieces, nothing more. I’ve never seen what Brandon wrote down.”

“Brandon?”

“Brandon Alexander,” Lucky told him. “He’s King Peter’s scribe—beats me why. A chicken could scratch out a clearer document with its beak.” Lucky lowered his voice, as if revealing a secret. “The man’s got a bit of a drinking problem.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” said Greg. “Why did King Peter have his scribe copy the prophecy, anyway? Where’s the original?”

Lucky looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

“The original prophecy. I assume it’s been passed down from generation to generation.”

“No, as far as I know, Simon came up with it himself last month.”

“Simon?”

“Simon Sezxqrthm,” Nathan said, picking up Lucky’s pack and handing it to the boy. “I suppose as prophets go he’s not as experienced as some of his predecessors, but he’s had the best of teachers. It’s rumored the Sezxqrthms were predicting the future even before there was a past.”

“Wait,” Greg interrupted, “you’re saying the prophet is still alive?”

“Of course. I don’t know about your world, but here they don’t kill you for predicting the future. Simon’s got a place just north a bit, near the edge of the Enchanted Forest.”

Greg couldn’t believe his luck.
Wait, I’m starting to think like Lucky.
He shook off the thought. “We’ve got to go see him—clear up this whole Greghart/Greatheart mistake.”

“You’re not still on that, are you?” said Lucky.

“Of course I’m still on that. You’re talking about sending me into a dragon’s lair.”

“Maybe it’s not such a bad idea,” Nathan said. “We could take the trail toward Goblin Gap instead of Guano Trail, swing by Simon’s and not lose more than an hour. I know our schedule’s tight, but if Greg hears about the prophecy from Simon’s own mouth, maybe it will ease his fears about the task at hand. After all, you really shouldn’t go off hunting dragons unless you’re fully committed.”

Greg nodded eagerly. Who could argue that anyone willing to go off hunting dragons shouldn’t be committed? “How about it, Lucky?”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt, if it will put your mind at ease.”

“Absolutely!” Greg could barely restrain himself. Whether the prophecy was distorted in the telling or the recording, now he would get to its source, and once Simon cleared up the mistake, Greg could finally give up this farce and leave the dirty work to Marvin Greatheart. For the first time since leaving Pendegrass Castle he actually felt happy. It was a wonderful, welcome feeling. But something deep inside Greg warned him it might also be a feeling that would not overstay its welcome.

The trio retraced
their route through the Molten Moor, or at least they would have, if it hadn’t since shifted away. Before long they were back on solid ground, in a section of woods where the trees towered higher than any Greg had ever seen, even on Myrth.

“Giant Forest,” Lucky told him, “but don’t worry, most of the giants died off years ago.”

When Nathan turned and headed south, Greg stopped and pointed over his shoulder. “Isn’t the Enchanted Forest that way?”

Nathan nodded. He pointed to the west and then to the north. “And that way, and that. It’s a long trip around to Simon’s.”

“But we don’t have time,” Greg argued. “Why not just go straight through, like we did before?”

Nathan shook his head. “Spoken like a true hero.” After a brief scowl at Lucky, he added, “But we could not possibly enter the Enchanted Forest and expect to come out alive. You must be cautious, Greg. The princess’s fate relies on your survival.”

The scowl Greg offered Lucky wasn’t nearly as brief, and might have gone on longer if Nathan hadn’t urged them to hurry.

They moved south, and while Greg couldn’t say he was upset about missing another chance to cross the Enchanted Forest, he wasn’t happy with Nathan’s urgent pace. Having already hiked all the way to Witch Hazel’s and back before they even broke camp this morning, every muscle in his body ached. At least it wasn’t the sharp, debilitating pain he’d felt before; more a deeper muscular fatigue. He could almost call it a good feeling, but probably only because he was delirious from the pain.

The shadowcat had returned from hiding and now rode, albeit restlessly, atop of Greg’s shoulders. Occasionally it lost its balance and dug into Greg with its claws, but it never fell, despite Greg’s best efforts to dislodge it.

At first break the creature hopped down, scampered into the shadows, and rustled behind the bushes in much the same way a monkeydog might. Come time to hit the trail again, it darted back to Greg’s shoulders and quickly settled in for the ride. At lunch, the shadowcat gave a repeat performance, even after Greg tried so hard to slip away quietly. When the same thing happened at the afternoon break, Greg realized he was stuck with the creature and decided to give it a name.

“How about Shadow?” Lucky asked, but Greg decided on Rake instead, after the series of marks it had already left across his back.

Nathan left the trail and made a beeline toward two fallen branches, which he retrieved and handed to the boys.

“What’s this?” Greg asked.

“A stick,” Nathan responded.

“I can see that. What for?”

“Everyone should have a stick.”

Greg stared up at the man, stick in one hand, eternal torch in the other, waiting for an explanation.

“Helps you walk, remember? And there’s plenty more you can do with a stick, too. I’ll show you when we stop for the night. For now just do as I do.” He planted his own staff in the mud at his feet and hopped across a narrow puddle.

“Here, Greg,” said Lucky, “you can stow the torch in my knapsack.”

Tricky job, pushing the torch into the pack without setting Lucky’s hair on fire. Even trickier in the dark, when Greg retrieved the torch that evening to light a small campfire so Nathan could show them what he meant about doing more with a stick. The two boys sat cross-legged on the ground while Nathan stood motionless before them, head bowed, eyes closed. His hands were clasped loosely around the staff, which rested vertically, one end planted on the ground at his feet. Only his rhythmic breathing revealed he was even alive.

He needs a stick to do this?

Greg was about to ask what Nathan was doing when the wiry man lunged forward, thrust the staff out like a sword and withdrew it in one flowing motion. He stood then, poised for the next imaginary attack.

Greg perked up. Even Rake looked on curiously.

Again the stick flew up. This time Nathan continued the imaginary fight, spinning his staff like a giant baton about the entire clearing. Greg watched in awe as Nathan parried and thrust with unbelievably fluid movements, as if he were a dancer and the stick his partner.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Greg asked once Nathan, head bowed and eyes closed, finally returned the point of his staff to the ground. As if annoyed by the noise, Rake crawled down from Greg’s lap and slunk off into the shadows.

Nathan looked up and smiled. “Father taught me, back when I was younger than you are now.” He laughed to himself. “Though I suppose I never really took it seriously until someone very wise helped me see why I might want to practice more.”

“Well, it looks like you’ve had plenty of practice to me,” said Lucky. “That was amazing. Can you teach me how to do it?”

“And me,” said Greg.

“I thought we stopped so you boys could get some rest,” Nathan said, chuckling.

“I’m not tired,” said Lucky.

“Me neither,” Greg lied. Truth was, he’d barely managed to keep his eyes open since breakfast.

“All right,” said Nathan, “One quick lesson to start you off, but then you need to sleep, okay?”

Both boys agreed, and then listened intently as Nathan described the basics of a timeless art form he called
chikan
.

“Chicken?” Greg asked

“Chi-
kan
,” Nathan corrected, pronouncing the
a
like the one in
wand
. “Roughly translated it means ‘energy at peace.’”

To Greg’s disappointment, Nathan asked the boys to put down their sticks. He insisted they learn the philosophy behind the art form, claiming they’d never achieve mastery without it.

“I’d be willing to sacrifice mastery if I could just learn to spin the stick around the way you did,” Greg told him.

Nathan laughed. “I think it’s time you boys got some sleep.”

They camped with the eternal torch planted in the ground to scare off animals, which might have worked better if the flame hadn’t kept going out every time Greg drifted off to sleep and lost his grip on the handle.

“Why don’t we tie Greg’s hand to the torch?” Lucky suggested, but Nathan said no, even after Lucky insisted nothing could happen to Greg or the prophecy wouldn’t be fulfilled.

“Don’t you believe in the prophecy?” Greg asked Nathan after Lucky fell asleep.

Nathan sighed. “One thing I’ve learned throughout the years is that there is much I don’t know. I also consider myself a most talented observer, and I’ve noticed that Ruuan is a very large dragon, while you, on the other hand, are neither a dragon nor large.”

Greg stared deep into Nathan’s eyes. “Do you even know what reassurance is?”

“I’m just saying if you do live through this thing, your success will have to stem from something other than your size or battle skills. I don’t know you well, of course, but I would think your best bet would be your resourcefulness and cunning. If you were to go prancing about flaunting danger at every turn, you couldn’t possibly succeed. You’ll need to make some very sound decisions along the way.”

Greg exhaled deeply.

“What’s the matter?” Nathan asked.

“I can’t . . . I mean, I just hope I don’t disappoint you.”

The torchlight flickered over Nathan’s warm smile. Greg expected him to say, “You won’t.” But instead he said, “I hope so, too.”

“Now let go of that torch, Greg, and get some sleep. No animals will bother us. They’re much too frightened of monsters to move about this forest after dark.”

Greg gripped the torch even tighter. He wouldn’t have got a moment’s rest had Rake not curled up next to him. But once the shadowcat started purring, Greg’s grip weakened and fell away from the torch, bathing the clearing in sudden darkness. Fortunately Greg was too tired to notice the hundreds of eyes glowing in the surrounding forest. A moment later he was fast asleep, and not even the monkeydogs could wake him.

“Okay, boys, pick up
your sticks.”

For the past two days, the trio had traveled south and had only recently rounded the tip of the Enchanted Forest to head north again. Both days they had marched themselves to exhaustion, but still both nights, when it was no longer safe to travel, the boys had begged Nathan to teach them more about chikan.

Unfortunately all Nathan seemed interested in teaching them was how to breathe, which Greg felt he had a fairly good handle on already. But Nathan insisted proper breathing was important if they wanted to continue breathing at all, so Greg and Lucky inhaled and exhaled over and over again, following Nathan’s instructions to the word, until Greg felt he was the best breather this side of the Enchanted Forest.

Finally, Nathan was permitting them to pick up their walking sticks. The movements they practiced seemed silly to Greg, but Nathan was very complimentary, insisting both boys were clearly naturals when it came to the art of chikan.

“This position is called
sensen
,” he instructed, holding his staff out vertically as Greg had seen him do many times before. “It is a position of harmony and rest, the center of peace from which all power originates.”

Greg worked hard to mimic Nathan’s stance.

“Do not concern yourself so much with the mechanics of the position,” Nathan told him. “Sensen is mostly a state of mind. The stance merely helps you focus your energy.”

“What energy?” said Greg, knees drooping.

“You’re not going to tell us to breathe and meditate again, are you?” Lucky asked.

“Afraid so,” said Nathan. He winked at the two of them. “But at least you got to pick up your sticks.”

The next morning they were back on the trail before the sun rose fully above the horizon, as was the case each day for nearly a week. In spite of the harried pace Nathan set, Greg worried over how long it took to traverse the eastern edge of the Enchanted Forest.