How to Slay a Dragon (21 page)

“Careful, man.” Captain Hawkins pulled his hand away and laughed. “Save some of that for the dragon.”

“Oh, sorry—you just can’t imagine how glad I am to meet you.”

“Started to worry the prophecy might not be accurate, I’ll bet. Well, I can see where that might put me a bit off, too, if I were in your boots.”

“Yes, sir,” Greg replied weakly. The captain seemed a very insightful man.

“Sir?” said Captain Hawkins. “What are you, a soldier now? Listen,” he whispered, as if revealing a confidence, “most my men don’t even call me sir. You call me Ryder, okay? Everyone else does.”

“Don’t let him kid you,” said Nathan. “Ryder commands enormous respect from his troops. There’s not a man here who wouldn’t lay down his life to protect the captain from harm.”

Ryder laughed again. “Which only goes to show, you don’t need to be brave to lead an army.”

“Good to know,” Greg muttered. “Maybe I can do it after all.”

“Hah!” Ryder said with a slap to his knee. “I like this kid’s sense of humor.”

Greg and the others followed the captain back through the woods, where a short way off an entire army of men in royal blue tunics stood patiently waiting in two perfectly straight lines that extended into the woods as far as Greg could see.

“The Mighty Greghart,” Ryder announced, and granted his men leave to cheer and applaud accordingly.

Greg endured the attention until the ruckus finally died away. He took in the hundreds of determined faces and actually felt a glimmer of hope. With this many men behind him, maybe he
could
defeat Ruuan.

Wait, who was he kidding? He couldn’t win with these men behind him. They’d have to be well in front. Perhaps he could suggest this to Ryder once he got to know the man better.

He noticed not all of the men wore the blue uniform of the crown. One was garbed in a black robe.
One of King Peter’s magicians.

“Don’t be Mordred. Don’t be Mordred,” Greg whispered as he strained to see under the man’s hood. Then the man turned, and Greg was only slightly relieved to discover it was Agni, the mean magician who had kept poking him with a stick when Greg first arrived.

The magician offered him a hateful look and turned away again.

Greg started to ask, “What’s he doing here?” but just then the captain barked out a command, and as one the men snapped to attention.

“Maaarrrch!” Captain Hawkins added, and the army began to march double file through the forest.

“Get up there with Ryder,” Nathan said, shoving Greg forward. “You’re supposed to be leading these men, remember?”

Greg gave one last glance at Agni and then rushed alongside the columns of men, taking two strides to their one, until he reached the front of the ranks, where Captain Hawkins marched purposefully along, head held high as an example to his men.

“There you are, Greghart,” Ryder said. “You should be up here with me.”

“Greg.”

“What?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, sir, my name’s not Greghart. It’s Greg.”

Ryder looked down at him, confused, until Greg explained that his last name was Hart.

“Sorry, Greghart,” said Ryder, “but these men are taking a big chance escorting you to the spire. If they hear you claiming your name isn’t Greghart, they’re likely to start doubting the prophecy. I’m sure you understand.”

“Sure, I guess,” Greg muttered.

“Cheer up, son,” said Ryder. “Tell me about yourself. You look a bit young for someone in your profession. How long have you been slaying dragons?”

“I haven’t,” said Greg. “I mean, I’m not a dragonslayer. We don’t even have dragons where I come from.”

“No dragons?” said Ryder, impressed. “You must have some very skilled dragonslayers indeed.”

“No—oh, never mind. Why is one of King Peter’s magicians traveling with us?”

“I do not know. Queen Pauline ordered him to come. That’s all I need know.”

“Are you familiar with the prophecy?”

“Only as much as I need to be,” said Ryder. “It’s not wise for a man to know too much about his future.”

“So I’ve been told. Are your men going to help me fight Ruuan?”

Ryder looked surprised over the question. “Well, now I haven’t heard anything about that. It’s my understanding they will—how was it written?—’face hundreds of thousands of Canaraza warriors who would fight to the death to defend the dragon from harm’—but as to the actual battle against Ruuan, well, I guess I just always assumed that would be up to you. Don’t get me wrong. My men are brave as they come, seasoned soldiers to a man . . . but they’re not crazy. I doubt I could get a single one of them to agree to go up against a dragon.”

The boost in spirit Greg felt moments before abandoned him as quickly as Ryder’s men might if he told them he wanted their help in Ruuan’s lair. Before Greg could start feeling too sorry for himself, Melvin jogged up from behind.

“Ah, you must be Norman Greatheart’s youngest son,” said Ryder. “I haven’t seen you since you were just a little tyke, about knee high.”

Melvin flushed, which caused Greg to smirk in spite of his grim mood.

This of course made Melvin flush all the more. “Do you know my brother Marvin?” he asked the captain.

“Marvin Greatheart? Of course, I know him. A fine man, your brother. A braver fighter there never was. Why, give me a dozen Marvins, and I could just leave these other fellows back at Pendegrass Castle when it came time to patrol our borders.”

“See?” Melvin said, glowering at Greg. “Told you so.”

“I never said your brother wasn’t a good fighter.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because they brought me,” Greg said. “King Peter’s magicians. It’s not like I wanted to come. I didn’t even know this place existed. It’s all because of that stupid prophecy.”

“How can a prophecy be stupid?” said Ryder. “Why, prophecies just state facts, is all—and before they occur, I’ll remind you, which hardly sounds stupid at all.”

Greg quickly explained to the captain about how Marvin Greatheart should be slaying the dragon, not Greg, but no one would believe him.

“Marvin Greatheart?” said Ryder. “Well, I can see where you might think that . . . but if you don’t mind, I’d rather not consider the possibility of a prophecy being in error. To be honest, the whole matter sets my skin crawling.”

Melvin, who had been listening in silence, stared at Greg as if seeing him for the first time. When Ryder fell back to review his troops, leaving Greg alone to “lead” the army, Melvin cleared his throat experimentally.

“Got a cold?” Greg asked.

“Did you really mean what you said about the prophecy being about Marvin?”

“Of course. I’ve been trying to tell you that since the day we met.”

“Then you really don’t want the glory of slaying Ruuan all to yourself?”

“Glory? I’m going to be killed.”

“Not necessarily,” said Melvin.

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I know you don’t believe in prophecies, but I do. My brother Marvin relies on them a lot. You think he’d have the courage to fight a fire-breathing dragon if he didn’t have a prophecy saying he wouldn’t be burned to a crisp?”

“Are you telling me Marvin wouldn’t be slaying dragons if Simon hadn’t already foretold that he was going to win?”

Melvin scooped up a rock and used it to scare off a rabbit that looked about to challenge the entire army to a fight. “Heck no. What do you think he is, an idiot?”

“No, I just—”

“Don’t get me wrong. Marvin’s brave as they come—you’d have to be to march into a dragon’s lair on the word of that senile, old coot, Simon—but there’s more to it than that. He’s so sure of himself, I can’t imagine him losing. You better be, too, if you plan on surviving this thing.”

“Great,” said Greg, “then I am doomed. I’ve seen Ruuan. I don’t believe for an instant I can fight him.”

Melvin shrugged. “Then I’ll help you.”

“
You’ll
help?” said Greg. “What can you do?”

Any sign of humanity Melvin had shown disappeared in an instant. Greg quickly held up his hands. “Sorry. I mean, I know you’ll probably be a great dragonslayer some day, but . . . well . . . let’s face it, you aren’t yet.”

“Maybe not,” Melvin huffed, “but I’ve watched Marvin lots, and I know plenty of good dragon-slaying techniques, even if I’ve never had a chance to try them out myself.”

“And you’d help me?” said Greg dubiously.

“Of course.”

“What of course? A few days ago you were trying to kill me.”

“Scare you, Greg. I was trying to scare you.”

“Yeah, by killing me.”

Melvin flushed a little around the collar of his bright yellow tunic, producing an interesting orange effect. “I said I was sorry.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well, I’m saying it now. Oh, and . . . thanks for saving my life the other day, too. I can’t believe I let a troll sneak up on me like that.”

“I get it,” said Greg. “You’re only helping me because I saved your life.”

“No,” Melvin corrected. “I’m helping you because if you get killed no one will ever believe in prophecies again. Everyone will know Simon is a loon, and my brother will be out of a job. I told you, there’s no way he’ll keep fighting dragons without Simon’s predictions.”

Greg rubbed his eyelids. Well, at least he had Melvin on his side now. Maybe the boy knew something about slaying dragons and maybe he didn’t, but having him as an advisor was certainly better than returning him to the bushes to plot a dozen different ways to kill Greg.

Doubting Hart

“Bart!” Greg shouted after the bard began his eighth song about the horrors Greg faced. “Do you have to keep playing that thing? I’m not in the mood for music.”

“Not in the mood?” Bart echoed from the campfire, looking as if Greg had said he wasn’t in the mood to breathe. He set down his lute and sat fidgeting for a while, clearly uncertain what to do with his hands.

Greg rolled over and covered his head. He thought he’d had trouble sleeping before. Now he had the constant noise of celebrating soldiers to contend with. Not that Ryder’s troops didn’t sleep—they did—but with five hundred of them sharing one campsite, there was never a moment when at least a dozen or two weren’t laughing and cursing and swapping stories of battles long past while the others rested in blissful slumber.

“A bit loud, aren’t they?” Lucky said.

“I’ll say,” said Greg.

“You should be flattered. They’re only celebrating because they’re excited about being part of your adventure. People will sing of this trip for decades to come.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Greg muttered hoarsely. He stared at the stars in silence. The air had turned so cold he could see his breath in the light cast by the campfires littering the camp.

“Something the matter?” Lucky asked.

Greg sighed to himself and leaned up on one elbow. “I asked Ryder earlier if his men were going to help me fight Ruuan. They’re not.”

Lucky nodded. Whether that meant the boy understood or already knew, Greg wasn’t sure.

“So I asked Bart if the prophecy said anything about it.”

“And?”

“If it did he wouldn’t tell me. I think Nathan asked him not to.”

“Tough luck,” said Lucky.

Greg released a heavy breath and rocked back onto his shoulders. “He did mention it would be a simple matter to fit five hundred men into a dragon’s lair.”

“I’ll bet.”

“But then he went on to say it would be another matter entirely to fit them in there at the same time as a dragon.”

“I see,” said Lucky from the darkness.

“He also said I would have a lot of trouble getting them in there even if they did fit.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that unless I had enough fireproofing potion to go around, he very seriously doubted I could count on them even getting close to the spire. What am I going to do, Lucky?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll think of something.”

Greg rolled away to face the moon. “That’s just it. I don’t think I will.”

Greg would have expected
a lot of difficulty rousing five hundred men and getting them to eat breakfast, pack their gear and fall into formation to begin another day-long march through the forest. But when the trumpet sounded in what Greg considered to be the middle of night, the men jumped to their feet as if responding to a starter’s pistol and hustled to get ready.

Greg almost wished they’d slow down. Melvin had spent half the night teaching him dragon-slaying techniques until the two boys could barely stand. Now Greg’s muscles ached worse than they had that first night on the trail. He’d give anything for just a few more hours of sleep, especially if he could spend them home in his own bed.

But that wouldn’t help Priscilla, would it?

He crawled to his feet and forced himself to hurry like the rest of them. It was a good thing, too. Lucky was ready to stow the bedding, and Greg was in danger of disappearing into the magical pack.

A few hours later, at first break, Greg spotted the Infinite Spire through a gap in the branches. Hard to believe the tower could look even more formidable than it had from Fey Field.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Ryder said. The captain had been sharing stories with Greg all morning. He was an amazing man, who’d fought more monsters than even the make-believe hero from Greg’s journal, and Greg felt ashamed to think anyone might compare the two of them and think Greg was braver just because of some ridiculous prophecy. If they only knew how terrified he really was, they’d laugh Greg back to the castle, string up Simon and be done with it.

“Greghart?” Ryder prompted.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“The spire. Quite impressive, don’t you think?”

Greg fought to take in a breath. “It certainly is. How long till we get there?”

“Still over three weeks off, I’m afraid.”

“Three weeks? But it’s right there,” Greg said, pointing.

“I know, Greghart, but I suppose infinitely tall towers have a way of looking closer than they really are. Take my word for it. We’re still over five hundred miles away.”

“No, that won’t work. What about Princess Priscilla?”

“What about her?” Ryder asked.

“Maybe there’s a small chance Ruuan hasn’t eaten her by now, but you can’t possibly expect him to hold off another three weeks. Even if he did, she’ll die of starvation before then.”