How to Slay a Dragon (3 page)

“I hate to get caught up in formalities,” King Peter called to the crowd, “but I feel we must observe some sense of order here, if only to avoid crushing our young hero.” He winked conspiratorially and added, “We don’t want to hurt him before the dragon gets a shot at him, do we?”

Everyone chuckled. Everyone but Greg, that is.
Is the room closing in on me?
No, just the people in it.
Not until the room quieted did he manage to find his voice. “What’s this about me slaying a dragon?”

The king didn’t seem to hear. “Let’s see, where should we start? Ah, yes. Greghart, you must meet my eldest daughter, Penelope.”

“But you didn’t answer my ques—”

Once again Greg’s mouth lost the ability to form words. An older girl, about seventeen or eighteen, stepped from the crowd and approached with the same grace Queen Pauline had displayed. Her elegant gown wafted out as she walked, adding fluidity to her movements, as did her fiery red hair, and Greg quickly decided he’d been fooling himself when he thought Kristin Wenslow could possibly be the prettiest girl in the world.

Then again, this didn’t seem to be the world he was used to.

Princess Penelope stepped within arm’s reach, where she towered over Greg by a full head, and looked down at him in more ways than one. “You’re hardly what I expected.”

“Ha! Isn’t she lovely?” blurted King Peter. He slapped a palm over his daughter’s mouth and helped her, with no small amount of effort, to raise a hand toward Greg’s lips.

Greg craned his neck backward to the limit, but, after considerable pressure from King Peter, the princess’s hand followed. Seeing no other option, Greg kissed the creamy white knuckles awkwardly, only to have the princess yank her hand back the same way Greg had once done when he was gathering firewood and accidentally grabbed the tail of a snake.

“Just lovely,” King Peter muttered. He guided his daughter to her mother’s side much the way a lion guides an antelope to the ground, and no sooner had his palm left Penelope’s mouth than Queen Pauline’s flew in to take its place. Greg watched the veins in Penelope’s neck bulge nearly as big as Manny Malice’s biceps as her mother led her away amidst a chorus of muffled protests.

“Let’s see, who should be next?” King Peter said. His smile faded, and a look of sadness came to his eyes. “I wish you could meet my youngest, Priscilla, but . . . I’m afraid she couldn’t be with us tonight.”

“What was it you were saying about dragons?” Greg tried again.

King Peter pulled himself together enough to offer a disapproving look.

“Introduce me!” a woman called out from the crowd.

Greg ignored the outburst. “You did say dragon. I’m almost sure of it.”

King Peter strengthened his glare. He called Lucky forward and whispered something into the boy’s ear.

“Yes, sire. As you wish.”

“Peter, Lucky.”

Greg felt Lucky’s hand lock over his wrist. He might have pulled away had he not so appreciated the support.

“I’m sure you will all understand,” King Peter announced to the crowd, “if the Mighty Greghart needs his rest.” The resulting groan shook the floor, though the effect was lost on Greg, who felt the floor had been shaking plenty already. Clearly all these people thought he was some sort of hero, and while Greg had to admit it brought out feelings he’d never felt before, and quite good feelings at that, he would have far preferred to wake up in the woods behind his house with mud on his face and a large lump on the back of his head.

The crowd stared in silence. Greg stared back. He felt compelled to say something, but just as he opened his mouth, a grip stronger than any monster from his journal yanked him from the room.

Outside, Lucky pulled him along what seemed like hundreds of passageways. With each turn Greg became more and more lost, a waste given how lost he’d been before the trip even began. The entire way Lucky refused to answer Greg’s questions. Eventually the boy pushed open a random door and stepped into a side room, dragging Greg along behind.

Under different circumstances the stately furnishings inside might have stolen Greg’s breath away, but Greg had no breath left to steal. He’d squirreled away just the one little bit, which he spent now to ask the question pressing heaviest on his mind.

“What was King Peter trying to say back there about a dragon?”

Lucky smiled, the expression so genuine, for just a moment Greg nearly forgot he was literally in a world of trouble.

“His name is Ruuan, Greghart. You’re going to slay him. But all that can wait. You need to get to bed. Like King Peter said, you don’t want to go off chasing dragons without a good night’s rest.”

Greg’s jaw dropped. He didn’t want to go off chasing dragons,
period
.

“Well, good night,” Lucky said.

“Huh?” Greg cleverly replied as Lucky stepped from the room and drew the door closed. Greg rushed forward and grabbed the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. To his horror he heard the sound of a lock being latched.

“Sorry, Greghart,” came Lucky’s voice from outside. “King Peter’s orders. Don’t worry. It’s for your own protection. I’ll see you in the morning, okay? Sleep tight.”

“No, wait,” Greg cried, but he could already hear Lucky’s footsteps echoing down the hall. Only then did he realize he was trapped.

What’s worse, if he didn’t somehow find a way out of here, it looked as if he would be off hunting dragons in the morning.

Hart-Wrenching Farewell

It was no great mystery of the world—not even this new world—that Greg found it impossible to sleep that night. He paced the room until he’d worn a noticeable path in the stone floor, then crawled up on the bed and pulled out his journal and pen. For the first time ever he found no need to alter the events of his day. Somehow being transported by magicians to another world for the purposes of slaying a dragon seemed exciting enough.

Once he’d recorded the entire odd sequence of events, Greg set down his journal, lay back on the bed, and sleeplessly awaited the sunrise.
Do they even have a sun here?
The thought left him twice as restless as before.

Hours passed. Greg tossed and turned and thought about how much more he liked adventures when they were floating about in the back of his mind, or on the pages of his journal. Yesterday he might have said otherwise, but today he would freely admit he’d rather fight Manny Malice than a dragon.

Finally, a knock sounded on the door. “Morning, Greghart.”

With a click the lock turned, the door swung open and in stepped Lucky, wearing the same bright orange tunic and carefree smile from the night before. He carried a bright red pack slung over one shoulder, and an even brighter pile of red fabric draped across one arm. “Oh, good. You’re up.”

“Lucky, you’re back.” Greg scrambled off the bed and rushed to the door. “There’s been a terrible mistake. I don’t belong here. This isn’t even my world.”

Lucky’s face beamed. “Of course not. The prophecy said you would come to us from a great distance.”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s not me you’re after.”

“Nonsense, Greghart. That’s just pre-dragon-hunting jitters talking. I’m sure you’ll be fine once we hit the trail.”

“What? No, I’m not going anywhere.” He grabbed Lucky by the shoulders and shook him, but from the look on Lucky’s face this was not acceptable behavior on Myrth. With the calmest voice he could muster, he tried again. “You’re not listening. This prophecy of yours isn’t about me.”

Lucky slid his pack back up to his shoulder and eyed Greg cautiously. “No,
you’re
not listening. Of course the prophecy is about you. I picked you myself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Last night, remember? When the magicians cast their spell. I was the one who told them when to open the portal. Of course, I knew I could do it all along. When it comes to matters of chance I can’t lose. King Peter calls it my
talent
. He says I’m the luckiest boy on Myrth, maybe even the luckiest kid who’s ever lived.”

“Wait. You’re saying the only reason you think this prophecy is about me is because you picked me and you’re lucky?”

“Well, yeah. Think about it. The prophecy says Greghart from Earth will slay Ruuan. What are the chances the portal opened on Earth in the exact spot where a hero named Greghart was standing, but that you’re not the right Greghart from the prophecy?”

Greg had to admit it didn’t seem likely, but if he agreed with Lucky, he was just one step away from volunteering to slay Ruuan. He felt the pressure of the world behind his eyeballs and debated if that might be where he misplaced the Earth yesterday. “I’m not a hero. And my name’s not Greghart. It’s Greg Hart.”

“You sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

Lucky’s expression had not changed. “No need to yell. I think I’ll stick with Greghart anyway, okay? Believe in prophecies and they’ll never let you down, but start to doubt and—well, all chaos might break loose. If we go around saying you’re not Greghart, people may start believing you’re not a hero.”

“But I’m not!”

Lucky shushed him and leaned over to close the door. “That’s only because you haven’t rescued the princess yet. Give it time.”

“Princess?”

“Yes. Ruuan will have her for a quick snack if you don’t rescue her according to schedule, which is why we shouldn’t be dallying around here arguing. According to all the songs we’re to be on the trail ‘in the early morn.’”

Only then did Greg remember King Peter last night mentioning a second daughter, Priscilla, who couldn’t be with them. Now Greg

understood why. “Are you saying the dragon is going to eat King Peter’s daughter?”

“Of course not,” said Lucky. “You’re going to rescue her. But not if we don’t get out of here soon.” He held out the pile of fabric he’d draped across his forearm. “Here, I brought you a tunic and tights.”

“You can’t be serious,” Greg said, ignoring Lucky’s outstretched arm. But Lucky
was
serious, and object as he might, Greg soon realized the only way he’d ever get out of this room was to cooperate. This might have bothered him more if he had any intention of leaving the room.

“Come on, Greghart,” Lucky said, still holding out the clothing. “We need to get moving.”

Greg stared back for several long seconds. Finally, resigned to his fate, he reached out with trembling fingers. The tunic was so bright it glowed. He was almost afraid to touch it. “You expect me to
wear
this? Kind of loud, isn’t it?”

Lucky’s arm dropped, along with his jaw. “For a moment I forgot who I was dealing with. I thought you’d want something bright to scare away monsters, but if it’s drab colors you want, well . . .”

“On second thought, that outfit looks fine,” Greg said, grabbing for the pile.

But Lucky pulled it out of reach. “No, I wouldn’t think of it. I can get you something else. It’ll just take a minute.”

“No, really, I—”

“Say, where’s your sword?”

“What? I don’t have a sword.”

“How can you not have a sword? What kind of dragonslayer are you?”

“I keep telling you, I’m not a dragonslayer.”

“Cut it out, Greghart.” Lucky’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Let’s see, I’m going to need a drab tunic and a sword. Anything else?”

Greg stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Okay, be right back,” Lucky said, and darted out of the room.

This is
not
happening!

Greg realized he never heard the lock turn, but where could he go? And would he be safer inside or out? He took too long to decide.

“Here we go,” said Lucky, who was already back and holding out an outfit so drab, Greg nearly missed it. Greg didn’t see a sword either, but he decided not to say anything. If they really did encounter a dragon later, maybe he could use this as an excuse to run for the castle.

Reluctantly he changed into the tunic and tights and a pair of incredibly comfortable boots that Lucky just happened to guess the correct size for, and then he and Lucky were off, much like the evening before, twisting though endless passageways. Well, not exactly endless. They eventually reached a small isolated door that looked rarely used. Lucky pushed it open and stepped through, and Greg followed, squinting into the bright sunlight. At least that answered the question about whether they had a sun here, though Greg took little comfort in the thought.

Like a crack of thunder the chanting took up again.
“Greghart! Greghart! Greghart!”

Greg frowned as he took in the crowd gathered outside. How could so many people be deluded into thinking he could slay a dragon? Well, it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t ask to be here. Still, he hated to be responsible for all these people losing their faith.

“Greghart, my good boy. This way.”

There was no mistaking that commanding tone. King Peter stepped from the crowd to offer a greeting. He needn’t have bothered. As tall as he was, Greg could have seen him perfectly well from across the yard. Queen Pauline was there, too, dressed in her best finery, as was Penelope, though it did look as if the princess would have rather been anywhere else.

King Peter waved the boys forward, and the crowd parted to allow them to pass. All around Greg could hear murmuring, something about being drab and how you could barely see it.

“. . . blatant disregard for the proper coloring of tunics,” he heard one young girl say.

“Hush, Mary,” whispered the woman next to her. “This man’s a great hero.” She smiled nervously at Greg and added, “Little ones. Where
do
they come up with these things?”

“Well, this is it, Greghart,” King Peter said. “Allow me to say once again how honored we are to be with you here at the start of your journey.”

“About that, Your Majesty—”

King Peter met his eyes with a scolding glare, and Greg remembered what Lucky told him. For the sake of those watching, Greg knew he must hold his tongue . . . at least until he could figure out something to say that might make people listen.

King Peter stepped close and made a show of straightening Greg’s tunic.

“I’m going to slip something into your pocket,” he whispered. “Now, don’t take it out until you’re on the trail, but then you’ll want to wear it about your neck, and you must have it with you when you face Ruuan.”