How to Slay a Dragon (17 page)

Greg listened helplessly while the others argued his fate. Why didn’t Priscilla just order them to the castle? Too bad he couldn’t tell them the real reason he wanted to go back. But they would just say he was crazy even considering changing the prophecy.

“See?” Priscilla said to Lucky. She gave Nathan a scolding look as if to indicate her arms were tired, even though the magic of her pack hid the weight of its contents. “I told you we have to go back.”

But Nathan shook his head. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea either. I’ve been thinking more and more about this ever since our meeting with Simon. It’s never wise to learn too much about one’s own future. Just knowing he’s supposed to succeed may cause Greg to become overconfident and overlook some important detail when he faces Ruuan.”

“I doubt overconfidence will be a problem,” Greg mumbled.

“The fact he even knows as little as he does may have already hurt him,” Nathan went on.

Greg replayed the words in his head, trying to determine if he’d been insulted.

“But seeing the prophecy isn’t going to hurt him,” argued Priscilla. “It’s not like it’s a secret or anything. Everybody knows all about it.”

With one final heave Nathan managed to squeeze the mattress past the rim of the pack, where it popped out of sight without so much as a bulge. Matching Priscilla’s scolding look, he said, “Everybody except you, I guess you mean.”

“Only because I didn’t pay attention when Dad told it to me.”

“
You
know about it,” Greg challenged Nathan.

“Just bits and pieces, as I’ve told you before. Perhaps it is best that I don’t know all. More importantly, it’s best that you don’t know. There may be a predestined reason. After all, it seems odd your efforts to learn about it so far have failed so miserably.”

Greg thought about how little he knew of the actual prophecy. Even the song that Bart, the traveling bard, had sung at the outset of his journey had been interrupted after only two verses. Suddenly he remembered something Bart mentioned on the castle lawn.

Who would have thought the Army of the Crown would allow themselves to be led by one so young?

“I’ve got it.”

The others regarded him curiously.

“What is it, Greg?” said Nathan.

“There was this guy, Bart, back at Pendegrass Castle. He told me something just before we entered the Enchanted Forest.”

“Yeah, the Ballad of Greghart,” said Lucky. “Decapitation . . . incineration. I love that song.”

Greg forced a chuckle. “No, before that. He said I was going to lead the Army of the Crown.”

“That should be fun,” said Lucky.

“No, don’t you see?” said Greg.

“See what?”

“Exactly.” Greg made a show of glancing about the trail. “Where’s the army?”

“Oh, right. Back at Pendegrass Castle.”

“Hold on,” said Nathan. “What’s this about, Lucky? Who’s Bart?”

“A bard. He travels about the kingdom singing songs of heroes and great tales of adventure.”

“Yes, I know what a bard is.”

“Sorry. Anyway, he’s got loads of songs about Greg. He sang my favorite to us just before we left. The chorus is great. ‘
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—’”

“That’s okay, he doesn’t want to hear it,” Greg said, gazing pleadingly at Nathan. “Bart did say I would lead the Army of the Crown, though.”

Nathan shrugged. “So? It’s just a song, not the prophecy.”

“Maybe not,” said Lucky, “but Bart’s songs are always based in fact. He told me he only writes them before events actually take place because of something he calls ‘market timing.’ Greg’s really big news right now, but Bart says once the prophecy is fulfilled the demand is sure to fade away.”

Nathan stroked his chin. “Perhaps we
should
return to the castle. After all, Greg ought to be the one making decisions about his own destiny.”

“Finally,” said Greg. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along.”

“Well, now you’re in charge,” Nathan said. “Go ahead. Lead the way.”

“But . . . I don’t know how to get back to the castle.”

Nathan grew pensive. “Hmm, maybe we
shouldn’t
be going there . . . .”

“Oh, for goodness sake, I’ll help him,” said Priscilla. “Who knows? That may be his destiny too.”

The day was turning warm,
so Greg removed the heavy cloak Lucky gave him and stowed it in Lucky’s pack. He was glad when Priscilla did the same. As often as he’d seen her in her fur coat, she still resembled a bollywomp.

They were looking for a good spot to break. Ahead stood a distinctive old oak with a twisted trunk that looked to have been struck by lightning years before. When Priscilla saw it she let out a squeal, rushed forward, and hugged the tree around its trunk. “Fey Field! I love this spot. It’s so beautiful.”

The others moved up to join her, with Rake weaving in and out between Greg’s ankles as he tried to walk. Lucky took a long drink from a water sack he pulled from his pack.

“What’s so beautiful about it?” he said. “All I see is some ol’ dead tree.”

“Not the tree, silly, the field.”

“What field?”

“Lucky Day, are you telling me you’ve never seen Fey Field?”

Lucky stared blankly back at her.

“You’ve got to be kidding?” said Priscilla. “Come on!”

She rushed past Lucky and up a steep incline, stopped at the top, panting, and motioned for the others to follow. Rake bounded after her, his long tail flitting this way and that. Greg looked at Lucky, who in turn looked to Nathan, and each shrugged and traipsed up the bank as well.

The view from the top caused Greg’s mouth to drop. Framed by a line of jagged purple mountains lay a sea of rolling hills blanketed in reddish grain that stretched for miles into the distance. Here and there small gusts of wind caught the grain and exposed the underside of the tips, sending swipes of peacock blue streaking across the vast field. If the scene had ended there it would have been simply heart-stopping, but add in the infinitely tall spire rising from its center and it not only threatened to stop Greg’s heart, but to tear it from his chest and gulp it down in a single bite.

“Whoa!” said Lucky.

Greg was unable to say anything at all. The dragon’s home seemed to tower over all the land. One side gleamed like metal, a deep charcoal gray, its cracks and crevices highlighted by deep black shadows. The other simply refused to accept the sunlight, so dark not a speck of detail could be seen in the surface of the rock.

“I can’t believe I never knew this was here,” said Lucky. “I must have passed that tree a thousand times.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Priscilla. “You know, you really ought to stop now and then and enjoy the world around you.”

“You sound just like your mom.”

“Thank you. Mother is a very wise woman.”

Greg barely heard them. He followed the outline of the spire up and up until it disappeared into the clouds, taking his breath along with it. Part of him, the part that always drove him to explore his woods back home and write about his adventures, wanted more than anything to get a closer look, to have a chance to climb that spire and explore every nook and cranny of its surface. Another part of him—a much bigger, far more nagging part—wanted to run away screaming.

“You okay, Greg?” It was Lucky’s voice. Greg had no idea how long the boy had been talking.

“Oh . . . sure, I guess.”

He smiled with little success and tried to ignore the spire, which was a little like trying to ignore a huge glob of whipped cream stuck to the tip of his nose. No matter which way he turned, it managed to dominate his entire view. The effect was as nauseating as it was terrifying. Greg reached out a hand for balance and felt the tips of the grain beneath his fingers. “Whoa, soft,” he said, “like feathers.”

“I know,” Priscilla squealed. “You’ve got to try running through it.” And with that she tore off through the field. The grain should have been trampled in her path, but instead it yielded out of her way and back again as if she’d never passed. “Whoopee!” she screamed and curved around in a wide arc.

Pretty immature, Greg thought, but then he and Lucky exchanged eager grins and tore off after her, followed by a bounding Rake. Greg managed to forget all about the spire as the grain drifted like silk across his skin. He sensed only the slightest of tingles, and might have run for hours if Nathan hadn’t called them back.

“But we’re almost to the spot where I once saw a falchion,” complained Priscilla, a few feet ahead.

“A falchion?” said Lucky. He stepped from the field behind Priscilla, and the grain shifted soundlessly back into place. “Aren’t they dangerous?”

“Only if you startle them.”

“What’s a falchion?” Greg asked.

Lucky regarded Priscilla with uncharacteristic intensity. “Well, wouldn’t you think they might be startled if you ran into one?”

“What’s a falchion?” Greg repeated.

“A bird,” said Priscilla.

“Oh, you mean a falcon.”

“No,” said Priscilla. “These are bigger, and I don’t think they can fly.”

“Bigger is an understatement,” said Lucky. “Falchions are huge. And as fast as they run they don’t need to fly. They have razor-sharp beaks, too. In fact, that’s how they got their name. Believe me, you don’t want to frighten one if you can help it.”

“You coming?” Greg heard Nathan shout.

“Coming,” Lucky called back.

But something else called back as well, and the sound rivaled anything Mrs. Sezxqrthm might have produced as the loudest, highest-pitched squawk Greg had ever heard. To make matters worse, the call was answered by at least a dozen others, each closer than the last.

Greg’s walking stick flashed upward, barely missing Rake, who had come racing out of the grain and leapt at his chest. The shadowcat disappeared beneath Greg’s tunic as Greg instinctively adopted the sensen stance Nathan managed to ingrain in him over the past week. For the briefest of moments Greg thought he smelled ozone drifting upon the wind.

“What on Myrth was that?” said Priscilla.

Greg scanned the field in the direction of the distant mountains. More squawks sounded, even louder than those before, and now he could hear a low rumbling as well. He craned his neck to peer over the grain, and though he was too short to see much, what little he did see made him wish he were shorter still.

As if some giant hand had ladled out a coal black soup, a swath of darkness flowed down one of the distant hilltops and spread toward the field. Gradually the stain grew closer, and suddenly Greg realized it was not solid at all, but comprised of thousands of the most enormous birds he’d ever seen, so tall they towered over the very same grain Greg struggled to see over now.

“Falchions!” shouted Lucky. “Run for your lives!”

Lucky and Priscilla tore off toward the safety of the twisted oak, but Greg couldn’t find his legs. He stared at the raging stampede, his walking stick held high. Already the falchions had closed half the distance.

“Get out of there, Greg,” Nathan cried. “You’ll be killed!”

Rake popped out from under Greg’s tunic, screeched, and leapt for safety, digging his claws deep into Greg’s shoulder. Greg was literally spurred into action. He began to run, and while a normal boy would have stood no chance at all, no normal boy had Greg’s experience at fleeing from danger. He sprinted as fast as his legs would carry him, and when he could move his feet no faster, he lengthened his stride.

Greg’s ears pained from the many panicked shrieks, not the least of which were his own. He couldn’t believe the falchions weren’t upon him. Ahead Nathan stood atop the ridge, framed by twisted branches.

“Run, Greg. Run!” Nathan screamed, and Greg squeezed out a tad more speed as he covered his final steps.
No, not
final
steps
, his mind screamed,
just the last ones before safety.

Nathan rooted him on until the last possible second, then turned and dropped out of sight. Greg hit the ridge three strides later. He leapt over the top without slowing, lost his footing and tumbled down the incline toward the old tree, certain of his fate.

Rough hands grabbed his tunic, yanked him to one side. He cringed and tried to roll into a ball half his size as the front line of falchions whooshed by amidst a choking cloud of dust, shrieking and gnashing the air with their sharp beaks.

The roar of the birds’ passage ruled the air forever. The ground shook, and the dust swirled, until finally the herd thinned, the rumbling diminished, and with the exception of a few scattered falchions, darting over the ridge and scrambling to join the others, the danger looked to have passed.

Only then did Greg pull his eyes from the spot where he’d nearly been trampled. He was crouched next to Lucky and Priscilla at the base of the twisted oak. Nathan remained poised in sensen position, ready to fend off anything that came within reach. Amazing he could stand at all, what with Greg shaking so badly against his knees.

Greg felt Rake’s cheek bump reassuringly against his shins. Nathan exhaled slowly. He planted his staff in the ground, barely missing Greg’s boot. “Odd,” was all he said.

“That was a close one,” breathed Lucky. “Hey, great idea about running through the field, Prissy.”

“Sasha! And it’s not my fault the falchions went berserk. They’ve never done that before.”

“No, I’ll bet they haven’t,” Nathan said as he helped the princess to her feet. “Oh, I can see one or two of them getting spooked if you happened to startle them, but nothing like this. I’ve never seen more than a half dozen together in one spot in my entire life, and then they were too concerned about fighting each other to worry about much else. Very territorial birds, falchions, not sociable at all. To find them traveling in a herd like this . . .”

“What was that?” asked Priscilla.

Nathan’s stick instantly shot back to sensen position. Everyone listened to the silence.

“I don’t hear anything,” said Greg.

“Shh,” said Priscilla. “There it is again.”

“Wait, I think I heard it that time,” said Nathan. “It sounded like music.”