How to Slay a Dragon

The Mighty Greg Hart

Greg Hart’s name had never caused him trouble before.

It was nothing like the name for Winnie Weimar, who everyone at school was always calling “Whiney” Weimar. And it was way better than the one pinned on poor Richard Kinickey, more commonly known as “Icky Ricky” Kinickey. It wasn’t even as bad as the one for Dewey Doolittle, who everyone called—well, Dewey Doolittle. No, Greg Hart had a perfectly normal name, which is why, for the most part, the other kids just called him Greg and were done with it.

Problem was, for twelve years now Greg’s name may have simply been biding its time.

In the center of the woods behind Greg’s house stood a large oak, where between two boughs rested a smattering of scrap wood that might have been called a tree house, had a person been feeling especially generous. There Greg sat, cross-legged on the creaking wood floor, writing in his journal, his tousled brown hair jutting out in all directions. Another boy might have written about the events of his morning, or even about his apprehension over starting junior high tomorrow, but not Greg. As always he chose stories more to his liking.

Today he’d been chased by a giant.

I was a little worried at first. With each step the giant took, the ground trembled and split. Huge boulders dislodged and crashed across my path. Trees toppled. Then it hit me.

An idea, that is, not the giant. Or a tree.

I screamed out a warning. The giant yawned. (It’s not that easy to capture the attention of a giant.)

That’s when I charged. Poor beast never even saw me coming. Imagine its surprise when I wedged my shoulder between two enormous toes and easily brought it to its knees.

Greg paused and held his pen to his chin. Truth was, he’d be lucky to survive a fight with a classmate, let alone one with a giant—compared to Greg, his classmates were giants—but the Greg Hart from his journal was capable of countless feats Greg would never take on himself, so he shrugged and scratched out an end to his tale.

A deafening roar shook the forest as the giant teetered first forward, then back, and dropped like a falling skyscraper, splaying the last of the trees. For twenty minutes the ground trembled, short in comparison to the hour it took to climb my way out of the newly formed cavern.

I didn’t mind. Small price to pay for saving yet another kingdom.

“Cool,” Greg told himself as he snapped his journal closed and crammed it into the pocket of his jeans. What he wouldn’t give to win a fight against a giant.

Of course, it’s not like he’d never been in a fight before. It’s just to date his experiences always leaned more toward getting beaten up rather than throwing any punches. About the only thing he had in common with the Greg Hart from his journal was that he could run really fast. Here he had plenty of experience—way more than any boy would have liked—but less, he feared, than he would need at his new school tomorrow.

No, Greg’s strength was simply not one of his strengths. His smile drained away, and he fell back against the wall of the tree house, ignoring the groan of the buckling lumber.

Greg had spent all morning exploring the woods behind his house, where it was not uncommon for every bush to hide a monster, for the trees to pick up and move when he wasn’t watching, and for animals to chase him at blinding speeds down the twisted paths, nipping at his heels with every step.

Imagining you’re a hero could be exhausting work.

Soon Greg’s eyelids began to droop and his head began to list, but his imagination was just getting its second wind. Before him appeared a courtyard filled with people, all shouting and waving their arms.

“Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart!” they cheered, and there was Greg at the center of it all, grinning so wide it looked as if his head might split in half. Eyes fully closed now, the daydreaming Greg smiled too. He’d have fought a giant twice the size for half the glory.

Gradually the picture blurred and reformed, until next to Greg stood a pretty young maiden in a long, flowing gown. A huge man in a

magenta robe and gold crown strode forward, a king, who spoke in a most grandiose tone.

“Our greatest thanks to you, young man. I must say, only the very bravest of heroes would have willingly marched into the lair of that fire-breathing dragon. No words can express our gratitude. No words at all. We shall remain forever in your debt.” In his mind Greg saw the maiden reach up on tiptoes to give him a grateful kiss, and the spectators threw their hats in the air and cheered even louder than before.

Greg woke with a start. Where would he ever find a young maiden who needed to stand on tiptoes to kiss him? Where would he find one willing to kiss him at all? He pushed the thought from his mind and tried to return to the courtyard, but the image wouldn’t come.

He was still straining when a sudden rustling outside caused him to jump. It was not the sound of a giant, or a dragon, or even some unthinkable monster lurking in the bushes. It was worse. It was the sound of a big kid.

Greg leapt to his feet and peered between two scrap boards at the trail below. Ogre!

If only.

Greg recognized the crooked jaw, the squashed nose and bulging red cheeks, the jet black eyes set deep beneath the single heavy brow. It was a face that would have been happy on a boxer, but no, the face was not happy, and the boy was no boxer—at least not by profession. His name was Manny Malistino, only everyone called him Manny Malice, or better yet, Sir, if they thought he might be listening.

No sight in the world could have disturbed Greg more. True, Manny was in Greg’s grade, but he seemed bigger than all the other boys at school combined. Surely he’d have graduated high school by now if he hadn’t been let back so often—perhaps even got a good start on a technical vocation, provided he found one where he didn’t need to think.

A sudden movement caught Greg’s eye, and he knew at once he’d been wrong. There were worse things than the sight of Manny approaching. Kristin Wenslow was there too!

Quite possibly the cutest girl on the planet, Kristin was an unbelievably tiny thing (though certainly no shorter than Greg himself) with long, brownish hair that turned blond at the surface where the sun struck. Did she always have that many freckles? Too bad she didn’t even know Greg was alive. Not that he was complaining—Greg always preferred going unnoticed to being chased by the big kids who did notice him—it’s just, well, sometimes he wished he could be chased by Kristin. He couldn’t believe she was out with a brute like Manny Malice, or that she of all people was going to be here to witness Greg’s inevitable beating.

“Last one there’s a rod and egg,” Manny shouted. With a shove he sent Kristin stumbling aside, and Greg wasted a lot of valuable time watching her flail her arms for balance when he should have noticed Manny running straight at him.

A normal boy would have taken at least a minute to climb the large oak. Manny took a more direct route. He let out a battle cry and jumped, and Greg jerked back as a row of cucumber-like fingers latched onto the edge of the opening in the floor at his feet. Threatening cucumbers, like those left out too long in the sun. Not that they were squishy or anything. On the contrary, they looked big and hard, and Greg had an idea they would look even bigger and harder if Manny rolled them into a fist.

The fingers squeezed. Greg’s bowels squeezed harder. Maybe Manny did resemble the giant he’d just defeated on the pages of his journal, but Greg would have been a fool to think he could fare as well in real life. Manny’s forearm shot up through the opening and braced against the wood floor. In a moment his head would pop into view.

Greg bit back a scream. Above was a loose board in the ceiling. Okay, several. He shoved one aside and scrambled through the upper opening just as Manny pried through the hole below. The escape was so narrow, Greg’s feet were still swaying just inches above Manny’s slicked-back hair when Manny’s head popped through the floor and squinted into the relative darkness. Greg’s breath seized in his throat. Only his mind raced on. For the first time in his life he was glad to be the shortest boy at school.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his legs up through the gap, cringing as the wood creaked under his weight. (Fortunately his was the type of tree house that would have sounded more suspicious if it ever stopped creaking.) Not until he made it out undetected did Greg breathe again. He peered over the edge of the roof at Kristin, only to have Manny’s head pop through a hole in the wall not two feet below his own. Greg gasped, threw a hand over his mouth, and eased out of sight.

“Aren’t you coming up?” Manny shouted down to Kristin in the same taunting voice he’d used countless times on Greg.

“I guess,” Greg heard Kristin reply. He fought back the urge to peer over the edge again. Instead he lay motionless, straining to hear as Kristin’s grunts and groans marked her progress up the trunk below.

“What do I do now?” she called out, her voice sweet and innocent and everything Manny wasn’t.

“You need to jump across,” Manny tempted.

“I can’t jump that far.”

“Sure you can. What are you, chicken?”

Greg listened. Out of the silence came a scream. Greg’s head snapped up, followed by the rest of him, and before he could stop himself he jumped to the rescue.

What was he thinking? Why should he believe he’d fare any better in a fall from this height than Kristin would? How did he expect to beat her down if he did? Why did stop signs have eight sides? These were just a few of the things Greg contemplated as he fell in agonizing slow motion toward the ground.

He thought a long while.

About halfway down he heard Manny ask Kristin why she was screaming. Kristin came up with a rather cute story about putting her hand on a beetle, and an eternity later Greg’s feet struck a small puddle near the base of the tree. Jolts of pain shot through his shins and ankles, his knees buckled, and in spite of his best efforts to be quiet, Greg let out a groan that would have sent even the monsters lurking in the underbrush scurrying, if the splash hadn’t already scared them off.

From above there came a shout. Shoes like boulders landed with a thud next to Greg’s face. Large boulders, with no toes to wedge a shoulder between. Greg jumped to his feet. He risked one glance up at Kristin’s confused face—could she be any cuter?—and ran for his house, his soaked sneakers squishing with every stride.

Throughout the pages of his journal Greg had been chased by monsters of every kind known to man, and more than a few of his own invention. None posed a bigger threat than the creature behind him now. His legs ached from the jump, and he could hear Manny panting just steps behind, but he didn’t dare look back. Instead he shot down the path as though his life depended on it. Anyone who knew Manny would have agreed it was worth the effort.

Yet Greg was strangely hopeful. True, he was running for his life, but the fact he was able to do so proved he was good at it, and Manny was too heavy to handle the tight bending trails. Greg knew he couldn’t be caught.

Unless, of course, he tripped.

A nearly hysterical scream split the air. It lingered there for a second, or as Greg measured it, five heartbeats, and then Greg found himself struggling atop a thorny bush, unable to get up, as the sound of Manny’s footfalls grew nearer.

Twenty more heartbeats passed, during which Greg swore he heard a tree fall and at least two boulders dislodge. What happened next he wasn’t exactly sure, only that it began with a blinding white light and a very long tunnel. He decided at that moment he must have been right. He had been running for his life, but apparently this one time his feet had not been up to the task.

Hart-Felt Greetings

“Is he alive?”

“Of course he’s alive. Give him room. He may be a hero, but he still needs to breathe.”

When Greg opened his eyes his first reaction was to close them again instantly. This turned out to be his second reaction as well. He might have given it a third go had one of the hooded figures hovering over him not poked him with a sharp stick before he could get to it. Instead Greg yelped, and his eyes popped open.

He was no longer in the woods. He lay on a hard flagstone surface lit by a dim, flickering light. What little air managed to squeeze its way to him reeked of something familiar, though Greg couldn’t quite put a finger on it, and wasn’t sure he would if he could.

Greg shrank back as the surrounding figures drifted closer. Everywhere he looked, nothing but black robes and sticks. Inside the many hoods, only darkness. Finally one figure leaned over and peered down at him, and Greg felt a glimmer of relief at seeing the shadowed face of a man, even if that face was scowling.

“Doesn’t look like much of a warrior to me,” the man said in an icy voice that would have made Death himself envious. “Are you sure you got the right one?”

“Of course, Mordred,” said another. “Look at his eyes.”

“Those are warrior eyes, all right,” said a third. “My Uncle Cedric had eyes just like ’em—only his were blue now that I think about it, and more bloodsho—”

“Yes, yes, Dimitrius,” Icy-Voiced Man nearly spat. “We all remember Cedric. Why do you suppose his feet are wet?”

“Uncle Cedric didn’t have wet feet.”

“Quiet, everyone,” said the man who had poked Greg. “Stand back, you’re smothering him.” He jabbed Greg again, but Greg sent him shuffling quickly backward by yelling twice as loudly as before.

“Careful, Agni,” someone shouted. “I think you hurt him.”

“Are you kidding? Do you know who this is?”

“I say we find out,” said Icy-Voiced Man. He raised one hand, causing Greg to flinch, but he was just drawing back his hood. His dark eyes stared without compassion past his stringy black hair as he locked gazes with Greg. “Who are you, boy? Tell us your name.”

“W-what?” said Greg, his voice two octaves higher than normal. He surprised himself by wishing it were Manny Malice staring down at him. Only, where was Manny? Or Kristin? For that matter, where were the woods behind his house?

“See. I told you the boy was no hero.”

“Wait,” came a voice from behind. “Give him a chance, Mordred. He’s probably just disoriented from the trip. Go ahead, sir, tell him who you are.”

One by one the remaining figures lowered their hoods. Greg was relieved to see that beneath each was a face, some gleeful, others excited or anxious, a few that might have even been wary, but none as disapproving as the one from the man named Mordred.

“I-I’m Greg,” he told them. “Greg Hart.” Throughout the room men gasped.

“Wait,” Mordred commanded, holding up a hand for silence. He leaned closer and stared, as if daring Greg to lie to him. “Tell us, boy, are you from Earth?”

Greg swallowed hard before replying. “Do I look like an alien?”

Mordred’s expression gave no hint of what he might be thinking.

“Where else would I be from?” Greg clarified.

One man slapped his knee and laughed. “I knew it!” A few others clapped, though they stopped rather abruptly when Mordred directed his stare their way.

A voice called out, “You did it, Lucky. You did it.”

A boy about Greg’s age stepped forward and hovered over Greg, his mouth drawn into a wide smile, his green eyes gleaming. Unlike the others, he wore a bright orange tunic and tights that clashed badly with his even brighter red hair. “Of course,” he boasted. “Did you have any doubts?”

“Plenty,” someone shouted.

“I know I did,” said another.

“Me too,” came a voice from behind. The boy’s smile temporarily faded as a general rumble of agreement erupted throughout the room.

“Never a one,” came a booming voice so commanding Greg couldn’t help but roll toward the sound. High above towered an enormous man whose shoulders rose above everyone else in the room. For an instant Greg thought he’d found Manny Malice, but then he noticed the luxurious robe of magenta velvet, and the speckled gray hair peeking out from beneath a golden crown. The man put a hand on the redheaded boy’s shoulder. “If we could count on anyone to find him, I knew it would be you.” He winked and added, “Good job, by the way. Always an amazement.”

The boy flushed as red as his hair and bowed. “It was nothing, Your Majesty. I’m only happy to serve you.”

“Please. It’s just me, Peter, remember?”

“Sorry, Your Majesty—I mean—Peter.”

“Hah! You keep trying. You’ll get it someday.” The man turned his attention to Greg then. “So, Greghart, you all right? You look a bit peaked. Can you stand?”

Greg debated. If he did he’d surely just drop this way again. Even so, the boy in orange helped him up as the robed figures replaced their hoods and eased into the shadows.

“Forgive me,” said the boy. “I should introduce you. This is King Peter Pendegrass the Third.” Out of the side of his mouth he whispered. “He’s in charge here.”

With a great deal of effort, considering the distance he had to go, the king bowed low, as if he were the one in the presence of royalty. “I am quite honored to make your acquaintance, Greghart . . . and please, if you could just call me Peter.”

“Oh, and I’m Lucky,” the boy in orange added quickly.

Greg stared at him dumbly. “Good for you.”

“No, I mean my name is Lucky. Short for Luke.”

“Actually it’s longer,” Greg said. “Hey, where am I?”

“Inside Pendegrass Castle, my dear,” replied a woman who stepped up from behind King Peter’s elbow, “in the Kingdom of Myrth.” Like the boy, she had red hair, but with wisps of silvery gray, and like the king, she wore a velvet robe and crown. Well, not exactly like the king. The crown was similar, but her robe was about a third the size of her husband’s and flowed with a grace befitting a queen, while King Peter’s looked more like someone’s feeble attempt at decorating a bear.

“Myrth?” Greg repeated.

“I think you’ll find it a lovely place,” the woman told him, “that is, if you don’t get too caught up in your noble purposes to enjoy it.” She smiled reassuringly. “Just promise if you get the chance you’ll pause every now and then to savor the peace, agreed?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Greg said, though he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Oh, where are my manners?” Lucky cried. “Greghart, this is Her Majesty, Queen Pauline Pendegrass.”

“Queen Pauline?” Greg muttered.

The queen’s smile widened. “I’m sorry, dear. I suppose this all must seem a bit overwhelming. Is there anything we can get for you?”

Greg felt his mouth open and close. A new mind might be good. Apparently he’d lost his old one.

Queen Pauline laughed, a soft, lilting sound. “Well, if you think of anything let me know. I promise we’ll get through this as quickly as we can. I hate to subject you to it at all, really, but I’m afraid we have no choice. So many people have come to be a part of this historic event, and they’d be so terribly disappointed if they didn’t get a chance to at least shake your hand.”

“Historic event?” Sure, Greg would describe this as one, but why would anyone else?

“Of course,” said King Peter. “I know we may look fancy in all this festive grandeur,” he said, indicating his robe with a sweep of his hand, followed by a roll of his eyes that only Greg could see, “but we’re a humble people, really. It’s not every day we get to see a prophecy fulfilled.”

“Prophecy?” Greg said.

With a light press on the shoulder, King Peter guided him toward a huge oak door set in the middle of one wall. “Oh, didn’t we tell you about the prophecy?”

“You didn’t tell me about anything.”

“Then I guess that would include the prophecy, wouldn’t it?”

Greg stared at the man. “What prophecy?”

“Oh my. Well, I’m afraid we have no time for explanations. Everyone is waiting.” King Peter paused at the door. “Tell you what. If anyone presses you for details, just excuse yourself and say you need your rest. I’m sure they’ll understand. After all, they can’t expect you to go off hunting dragons without a good night’s sleep, can they?”

Dragons? What was he talking about? Before Greg could object, King Peter pushed open the door and bright light spilled into the room. Greg protected his eyes with a hand, but he didn’t need to see to know what waited outside. Just like in his daydream a short time ago, as soon as the thousands of spectators spotted him, they raised their voices as one and began to cheer and shout Greg’s name.

“Greghart! Greghart! Greghart!”

Greg’s mouth dropped open. To each side of the door stood a row of men with trumpets raised, cheeks puffing in and out with effort, but any music they might have made was lost beneath the deafening chant. Jugglers, court jesters and mimes worked the room, their antics unnoticed, as all eyes were glued on Greg, and Greg couldn’t have been more uncomfortable had those eyes actually been pasted to him.

In one big rush the crowd pressed forward. Greg tried to turn and run but bounced off the king’s stomach and dropped hard to the floor. A multitude of hands reached out and lifted him back to his feet, though Greg found it difficult to stand, as his knees had gone all wobbly.

“I touched him!” someone shouted. “I touched Greghart.”

“Ooh, I want to touch him too. Get out of my way!”

Limbs thrust out from every angle and knocked into Greg again. Surely he’d have fallen back to the stone floor, had he more room to work with.

“Order, people! Order!” In spite of King Peter’s informal manner, the crowd backed up at once and bowed.

Greg used the extra elbowroom to drop back to the floor.

“Careful, Greghart.” Lucky rushed forward to help Greg up again and used a bright orange cap that matched his tunic to brush the dust from Greg’s jeans. Queen Pauline floated into the room to join her husband, but the men in black robes stayed behind, nearly invisible in the shadows.

“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.”

“Face Ruuan? But—”

The king strengthened his glare, and Greg found himself incapable of disobeying. He looked down at his pocket. “What is it?” he ventured.

“An amulet. It belonged to Ruuan himself.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“Lending it, Greghart. I’m lending it to you. As I understand, you’ll need it when you battle the dragon.”

“But—”

“Hush. Now I don’t know just how to use it, but I can only assume you’ll figure that out along the way.” He shot Greg another glare then, cutting off any objections before he could voice them.

“A song, Your Majesty?”

Out from the crowd stepped a tall, slender man in a fiercely purple tunic. The wide grin on his face proved he had no idea what was happening here. King Peter matched the expression.

“A splendid idea, Bart, but just one. These men need to get on the trail. They have a dragon to slay, after all.”

“Of course.” The man approached and stared as though Greg were from another world. It only took Greg a second to remember he was. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you,” Bart said. “This is so strange.”

“For you, too?” said Greg.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a bit smaller than I imagined. Who would have thought the Army of the Crown would allow themselves to be led by one so young?”

“We are in a hurry, Bart,” King Peter called.

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Bart reached across his shoulder and withdrew a lute he had slung across his back. Then, after an acknowledging nod from his king, he began to sing and play.

Hear the tale, one and all,

Of a boy, who though small,

Took on goals that were tall by most’s measure.

A courageous young man,

From a much distant land,

He was led by his heart, not by treasure.

Tho’ the outcome seemed dire,

He set off for the spire

With no weapons, no horse, and no wagon.

From the House Pendegrass,

Past the trolls at Death’s Pass,

He would rescue a lass from a dragon.

Greg had to back up, for when Bart broke into the chorus he began to dance around the clearing.

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,

Even incineration, or worse.

The crowd began to clap, but faded once they realized Bart was just getting started.

He would hike ‘cross the land,

Till too weary to stand,

Face much worse than I’d planned for this tune.

He’d dodge hot lava pitches

And dark evil witches,

To rescue the princess from Ruuan.

Off to make his last stand,

Amulet in his hand,

With a small band of friends he would gather.

Though he never sought fame,

Now we all know his name.

Prophecy to fulfill. That’s what matters.

This time Greg spotted the chorus coming and backed out of the way as Bart finished.

“Oh, very good, Bart,” King Peter said. “Very good.”

“But, I have three more verses . . . .”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid we have no more time. If Greghart’s going to get on the trail in the early morn’ like the prophecy says . . . well, we’re already pushing it as it is.”

“I could listen to more,” suggested Greg.

The king shot him an increasingly familiar glare. “There really is no more time.”

“Yeah, we need to get going, Greghart,” said Lucky. The boy smiled happily as he bid farewell to Queen Pauline and Princess Penelope, and then forced Greg to do the same—bid farewell, that is. It would have been tricky getting him to smile.

But Queen Pauline wasn’t smiling either. In fact, Greg noticed a barely perceptible quiver in her lower lip.

“You don’t believe in the prophecy,” he said.

A murmur arose from the crowd as the queen glanced worriedly from side to side. “Of course, I do.” She leaned in close, as if to adjust the tunic King Peter had already straightened, and spoke in a voice only Greg could hear. “But this is my daughter’s life we’re talking about.”

She looked like she wanted to say more, but then Lucky grabbed Greg’s arm and pulled, and the crowd swarmed in around them, blocking her from view.

“Come on, Greghart.”

The pair headed across the castle lawn toward the edge of the woods, with the crowd moving right along beside them, pointing and staring every step of the way.

Greg paused. To his amazement the crowd paused too.

He swayed back and forth nervously. The crowd swayed with him.

If his situation weren’t so dire, he might have tried dancing the Hokey Pokey. Instead, Greg focused on the edge of the forest, where a foreboding path extended straight through the trees as far as he could see.

“Well, this is it,” Lucky said. “You ready?”

“Actually—”

“All right then.” Lucky took the first step off the castle lawn onto the path, and in celebration of the momentous event, the crowd erupted into boisterous applause. Startled by the noise, Greg dove after Lucky, to which the crowd screamed and clapped all the more.

“Wait up,” Greg said. He had to run to catch Lucky, who in his determination to fulfill his destiny barely stopped even when Greg managed to clasp Lucky’s shoulder.

“What is it, Greghart?”

“Slow down,” Greg said, puffing. “You’re getting too far ahead. What’s your plan, anyway? Duck out of sight, I suppose. Wait for everyone to go home before we sneak back.”

“I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

“You think it would be better to wait until after dark?”

“We can’t go back, Greghart.”

“Greg. And sure we can. Everyone will go away soon.”

“No, I mean we really can’t go back,” Lucky repeated, pointing in the direction they had just come.

Greg followed Lucky’s finger and felt his stomach knot up tighter than one of Manny Malice’s fists.

It was not what he saw, but what he didn’t see that bothered him. He didn’t see King Peter. He didn’t see the crowd. He didn’t even see the castle lawn. Although he and Lucky had walked only a few steps into the woods, the opening they passed through was now nowhere to be found. Somehow the trail behind had been completely cut off by a sudden growth of dense trees and impenetrable vines.

The Enchanted Forest

“What happened to the trail?” Greg screamed.

“It’s okay,” said Lucky. “It was there when we needed it. Come on. We have a long way to go. We don’t want to find ourselves in this forest after dark.”

“I don’t want to find myself here now.”

“That’s funny, Greghart. Seriously, let’s go.”

“Greg,” Greg said, but Lucky had already started off again. Greg rushed to catch up. The forest followed, and while he might have been amused when the crowd did the same back on the lawn, Greg could only interpret this as a bad omen. Oddly, Lucky whistled while he walked, as if being chased by a forest were an everyday event.

“Lucky, did you realize the trees were . . . well, they’re following us.”

“It’s okay, Greghart. They won’t hurt you.”

“Oh yeah . . . uh, I knew that.” Greg was quiet for a time as he debated how this situation could possibly be acceptable. “Hey, aren’t you at least scared about fighting a dragon?”

“I’m not going to fight Ruuan,” Lucky said. “You are.”

Greg frowned. “Then why are you even here?”

“King Peter thought you might need a guide. Besides, the writing’s not very clear. We’re not sure if the prophecy was supposed to say, ‘Greghart was lucky to survive’ or ‘Greghart and Lucky survive.’ This way we have both angles covered.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Sorry.”

“Can’t you see all this prophecy stuff is nonsense?”

“Shh.” Lucky stopped so abruptly Greg ran right into him. After a quick glance about the surrounding forest, Lucky whispered, “The woods have ears.”

Greg, too, scanned the trees. When a vine snaked its way over toward his ankle, he couldn’t help but wonder if the woods had teeth as well. He was glad when Lucky resumed his hurried pace.

“That’s all we need is for it to get back to Mordred that you don’t think the prophecy is true,” Lucky said.

“Mordred? Oh, yeah, that guy who kept poking me with the stick last night.”

“No, that was Agni. He’s just mean. If that had been Mordred we’d have needed to rush you to a healer. He despises you.”

“But he doesn’t even know me.”

“He knows of you, and he doesn’t think you’re the Greghart in the prophecy.”

“I’m not,” Greg moaned. “I can’t slay a dragon. I’m just a kid.” He stomped to a halt, and might have stayed that way, too, if the forest hadn’t sauntered up from behind and nudged him forward.

Lucky never noticed. “Did I see King Peter hand you something back at the castle?”

“What? Oh, yeah, an amulet. Thanks for reminding me. I was supposed to wear it once I got on the trail.”

Greg fished around in his pocket for the amulet and held it up by the chain. It was about the size of a quarter, pie-shaped, and covered with tarnish and scratches.

Lucky stopped short, and his mouth dropped open. “An amulet? Greg, do you know what that is?”

“I guess so. King Peter said it belonged to the dragon.”

“It’s the Amulet of Ruuan!”

“I just said that.”

Lucky reached out and lifted the artifact delicately, as if it might shatter at his touch. “I know. It’s just that, well, the Amulet of Ruuan is famous. I can’t believe King Peter just gave it to you. I guess it must have something to do with the prophecy. Didn’t Bart mention something about an amulet in his song?”

“Don’t know,” Greg said. “I quit listening when he started singing about decapitation.” He slipped the chain over his neck while he still had one and tucked the amulet down the front of his tunic, where it tingled warmly against his chest.

“Well, I was listening,” said Lucky. “I’m pretty sure he said you’d have it with you when you made your last stand against the dragon.”

“Last stand?” Greg repeated. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“You want to make more stands against Ruuan?”

“No. I—”

But Lucky had already stalked away again.

As the two boys walked, Greg tried not to dwell too much on dragons and last stands, but all he could find to distract him were the towering trees and dense underbrush, which, considering their unacceptable behavior, did little to relax him. As if the commotion from behind weren’t bad enough, loud rustling noises kept erupting from the brush to either side of the trail, too. Greg snapped his head toward every sound, but not once did he catch a glimpse of anything lurking behind the bushes.

“What was that?” he asked, after one particularly loud episode.

“Relax, Greghart,” said Lucky. “I’m sure it was just a monkeydog.”

“A what?”

“Surely you’ve run across them before. Monkeydogs are everywhere. They love to lurk in the brush just to the side of the trail and make impossibly large rustling noises.”

Another noise sounded, and Greg tried to peer right through a tree trunk to discover its source. A few fronds swayed briefly back into place, but Greg spotted little else. “Um—are these monkeydogs dangerous?”

Lucky shrugged. “Can’t say. No one’s ever seen one.”

“Then how do you know they exist?”

“You just heard one, didn’t you?”

The two boys went back to walking in silence after that. Well, relative silence. The rustling in the bushes kept on, strong as always. Stronger, if you asked Greg.

As the morning progressed, Greg grew more tired than he’d been all summer. Hotter, too, except possibly for those few seconds yesterday, when Manny Malice had him cornered in the tree house. Greg’s tunic was drenched with sweat by the time Lucky finally set down his pack and motioned for Greg to sit.

The loaf of bread Lucky dug out looked to Greg to be longer than the pack that held it. With it Lucky provided a slab of very dark meat, though Greg was afraid to ask what sort of meat it was. Later, after Lucky pulled out a huge watermelon, twice the size of anything Greg had ever seen on Earth, Greg looked at both Lucky and the pack with new respect.

“Something wrong?” he asked Lucky, who had laid the melon on the ground and was staring down blankly.

“I forgot a knife. Oh, wait.” Lucky stooped and opened the pack again. With all the prestidigitation of a stage magician, he somehow withdrew a four-foot-long sword from the small bag. “You want to do the honors, Greghart? You should probably get the feel of this.”

Greg felt too horrified to be amazed long. “You’re not expecting me to use that against Ruuan, are you?”

“Well, I guess you could go up against him empty-handed if you want.”

“You’re crazy. All of you here are crazy.”

Lucky shrugged, then hefted the sword and swung it down at his feet, slicing the melon cleanly in half. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about fighting Ruuan,” he said, lining up the melon for a second blow. “Really, I don’t see what the big deal is. We know from the prophecy everything’s going to turn out okay.”

“Are you listening to yourself? If I’m not the right Greg Hart, it doesn’t matter what the prophecy says, does it?”

The sword fell, separating one of the watermelon halves into quarters. Lucky chuckled as he handed a section to Greg. “Look, I already told you I picked you myself. Are you questioning my talent?”

Greg took the proffered watermelon gratefully and bit off a huge mouthful. He chomped away for a few seconds, trying his best to ignore that it tasted like pineapple, and spit out the seeds. “Look, maybe you are as lucky as you say, and maybe you’re not, but I can tell you one thing. I’m not. There’s no way I can win a fight against a dragon. Unless . . . hey, you don’t think maybe lightning could strike it dead while I’m cowering at its feet, do you?”

Lucky smiled. “If you stick close to me, maybe.”

If he could have found it within himself, Greg would have laughed. “No thanks. I’m not going within a mile of that lair.”

“Sure you are, Greghart.”

Greg frowned.

“Okay, sure you are, Greg. The princess is counting on you.”

Greg felt a twinge of guilt. He’d forgotten about Princess Priscilla. What would he do if Kristin Wenslow had been taken by a dragon?

In a way, he supposed, she had. Manny Malice may not breathe fire, but he was as close to a dragon as they had at Greg’s school, and there Greg found his answer. He had run from Manny Malice. He would run from Ruuan as well. Better a live coward than a dead hero, he’d always believed. Sure people would still sing about dead heroes from time to time, but aside from that they got little attention. Unless they managed to get a holiday named after them. Even then, it’s not like they got to enjoy the day off.

By the time both boys finished eating, their stomachs ached. Greg used a squirming branch to leverage himself to his feet while Lucky somehow pushed the remaining half of watermelon and the sword back into his pack and slung it over his shoulder, and then the two were off again.

Already Greg’s joints were nearly as stiff as the surrounding bone. As reluctant as he was to reach the dragon’s lair, he hoped it wasn’t too much farther. After all, what difference did it make if a dragon was waiting for him at the end of this journey if he marched himself to death before he got there?

“How much farther is it?” he asked.

“To the dragon’s lair?” said Lucky. “Oh, a very long way. We’ve hardly started.”

“But it can’t be too far. You said we’d be out of this forest before nightfall.”

“Out of the forest, yes, but still a long way from the lair.”

Greg groaned. He considered arguing again about turning back, but knew it would do no good. Besides, he could barely talk under the exertion of the pace Lucky set for them. Instead, Greg pondered his case silently, so he would be ready to argue next time they stopped to rest.

He pondered a good while.

Noon came and went long before Lucky took another break, and then it seemed he only stopped because the trail had come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the forest. Greg wouldn’t have minded so much, except that the woods once again swallowed up the trail behind, and he was fairly certain that what little clearing remained was gradually growing littler. Thick vines snaked down from the trees to block out the sun, until Greg could barely make out Lucky’s face.

“Uh, Lucky?”

“Yeah, Greg?”

“What happened to the trail?”

“Oh that. It’s gone. We’ve reached the center of the forest.”

“What do you mean, ‘It’s gone’?”

“Do you see a trail?”

Greg shot him a look.

“Relax, Greg, this is the Enchanted Forest, remember? It has some . . . tendencies . . . you might not be aware of.”

“What kind of tendencies?” Greg asked, mimicking the way Lucky emphasized the last word.

“If you must know, it likes to open up clear paths to its center to lure in travelers.”

“Lure in? Wait, likes to?”

“Yeah. The paths close after you pass, and once you reach the center they end altogether. Then you’ve got two choices.” Lucky set down his pack and dug around inside until he found the sword he’d used before to cut the watermelon.

Greg found Lucky’s calm demeanor more maddening with each passing second. “What two choices?”

“Well, you could try cutting your way out. That’s one reason I brought this magic sword . . . .”

“I thought the sword was for fighting Ruuan.”

Lucky chuckled. “No, the sword is for you to feel better when you fight Ruuan. Dragons are covered with layers of dense, leathery scales that not even the sharpest of arrows can penetrate. Besides, even if you did break through, what good would a short blade like this do? Ruuan’s easily three hundred feet tall.”

“Three hundred feet? Give me that!” Greg snatched the sword from Lucky’s hand and whirled toward the nearest vine. The blade buried itself halfway and lodged so tight it took Greg two full minutes of diligent puffing to wiggle it free. “I thought you said this was a magic sword.”

Lucky shrugged. “It’s also a magic vine.”

A dozen chops later the vine finally severed. The loose ends swung down and swayed to a stop, then lifted up again like the heads of two serpents and wound around each other, braiding together to form a barrier more impenetrable than before. Greg couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight. “How are we supposed to cut through that?”

“We can’t,” admitted Lucky, “but remember, I said we had two choices.”

Greg considered the sword in his hand in a way that would have made Lucky uneasy if he’d been paying closer attention. “What’s the other one?”

“We sit and grab a bite to eat,” Lucky said, plopping down next to his pack. “Eventually a new path will open.”

“Wait, that doesn’t sound like much of a trap.”

Lucky smiled up at him. “Depends on why it opens.”

The warm rush of relief Greg had felt heightened to an irritating burn.

“If we’re lucky, someone will enter the forest and a new path will clear to the center to trap them,” Lucky elaborated. He paused to

loosen the straps on his pack. “Once it does, we can just follow their path out.”

“But won’t the path close behind them as they come?” Greg asked. “We’d have to be at the edge of the forest to make it out in time.”

“True. It helps if they’re slow and you’re really fast—and even then it usually takes quite a few people entering the forest from the same spot before you can expect to reach the edge.”

“Lucky, this is never going to work.”

“Of course not. No one is ever crazy enough to enter this forest.”

“We did,” Greg pointed out.

“Yes, but we were fulfilling a prophecy, and I’m extremely lucky, remember?”

Greg felt his heartbeat in his temple. “What if we didn’t have this amazing talent of yours to protect us? You said a path might clear because someone entered the forest. Why else would one open up?”

Lucky dug through his pack until he retrieved a huge sandwich that rivaled the watermelon in both width and length. He handed it to Greg, then pulled out a second for himself.

“Usually the paths open toward danger,” Lucky said between chews. “You know, like when there’s a monster nearby.”

Greg froze in mid-bite.

“Don’t worry. That’s if you’re not lucky, remember? Now, eat up. We need to be ready to run when the trail reappears.”

Greg glanced around the encroaching forest. “Wait . . . what kind of monster?”

“No one knows,” Lucky said. “Anyone who’s ever seen one didn’t live to talk about it.”

Greg found he couldn’t speak.

Lucky’s teeth flashed. “Relax, Greg. I was just trying to get you to loosen up. If you must know, there are twelve known varieties of monsters in this particular forest.”

Greg strained to scan the bushes. The bushes scanned back. “Twelve?”

“Right. Oh, and about two thousand unknown varieties.”

Greg’s head snapped Lucky’s way.

“Kidding, Greg,” Lucky said, hands held high. “Just kidding.”

The glare Greg offered might have blinded Lucky had the boy not turned the other way at the last second. Greg bit into his sandwich and chewed angrily. As hungry as he was, he found it difficult to enjoy. Twelve varieties of monsters still seemed plenty.

Lucky, on the other hand, smiled happily while he ate. He provided fresh strawberries for dessert, atop of shaved ice from his pack, still hard despite the heat of midday.

After the two boys finished, Lucky stowed away Greg’s sword and the leftovers and had Greg stand and stretch his legs so he’d be ready to run when the moment was right. Five minutes later, when Greg heard a tremendous rustling and the forest suddenly pulled back to reveal a wide path stretching far into the distance, Greg stayed put. The moment seemed anything but right. He thought the path looked about as inviting as a handshake from Manny Malice.

“This is it, Greg!” Lucky scooped up his pack and tore off down the trail. “Run!”

Still Greg waited, hoping to catch a glimpse ahead before he ran blindly into the jaws of an awaiting monster. But he didn’t wait long. Talent or not, being at Lucky’s side while facing a monster was still better than facing that same monster alone. A second later Greg found himself sprinting toward the danger just as intently as he wanted to sprint away from it.

“Wait up!”

Despite his vast experience at running for his life, Greg found it hard to catch Lucky. Not only could the other boy run fast, but he maintained his pace long after Greg began to tire (though if the truth were told, Greg had really begun to tire about five hours earlier and wouldn’t have been surprised to turn around and find a tortoise drafting in his wake).

Lucky noticed Greg lagging. “Come on, we’ve got a lot of distance to cover.”

“C-can’t. N-need to rest.”

“No time for that now,” Lucky said between full, even breaths.

The two boys ran until Greg was so exhausted he expected to keel over and die at any moment, probably before he hit the ground, given where he was. This thought alone spurred him onward. Fortunately Lucky looked to be tiring too. Greg thought he spotted a single bead of sweat forming on the boy’s forehead.

“This is odd,” said Lucky.

What is? Though Greg tried to actually voice the words, he found himself too exhausted to utter a sound. He hoped Lucky somehow heard.

“If my sense of direction isn’t deceiving me, I’d say we’re running southwest.”

“So?” Greg said, though to Lucky it would have surely sounded like a grunt.

“The southwestern part of the kingdom’s almost completely vacant. No one lives out here but Greatheart and his family.”

“Who?” Greg barely gasped.

“Greatheart. I’m surprised no one’s mentioned him. He is the most famous dragonslayer in all of Myrth, after all.”

“What?”

Greg had no trouble speaking up now. He managed to grab Lucky’s tunic and pull the boy to a stop. A lone branch wandered over and brushed the path smooth behind them, where Greg’s heels had left two ruts in the dirt.

“There’s a dragonslayer named Greatheart living in your kingdom?”

“Sure. Everyone’s been talking about him lately. Can’t really blame them. The Greathearts have always been at the center of any prophecy involving dragons. Until now. I guess it’s just a sign of the times.”

“A sign of the times?” Greg doubled over, panting. He thought the sandwich he’d had for lunch was going to come up for one last look around, but still he struggled to speak. “Don’t you think it makes more sense that this Greatheart is the real dragonslayer you’re after?”

“I can see how you might think there’d been a mix-up.” As always, whenever he said something Greg found particularly ridiculous, Lucky turned and stalked away.

“Of course there’s been a mix-up,” Greg called after him. “I’ve never even seen a dragon.”

“Well, even the Greathearts had to start somewhere,” Lucky called over his shoulder. “Come on, we need to hurry.”

“Wait, you mean you still want to go through with this? We’ll be killed.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m too lucky to be killed on this journey.” Lucky stopped abruptly and turned. “Of course, if your theory is right, I suppose you could be killed.”

It was precisely that moment when a deafening roar split the air. True, Greg didn’t have a lot of experience with these things, but he was fairly sure it was not the sound of a monkeydog.

He stopped as if one of the vines had wound its way around his ankle and pulled taut. “What was that?”

Lucky inhaled once deeply to catch his breath. “Not sure, but it sounded like an ogre. Anyway, I’m betting we’ll know soon enough.”

“An ogre? How bad is that? Please tell me they’re all bark and no bite.”

“Ogres don’t have bark, Greg. Those are ents. Ogres are covered with hair, and they’re pretty much all bite.”

“Please tell me they’re afraid of people.”

“Afraid? No, they love people. Why, they hardly eat anything else.”

The trembling roar split the air a second time, so loud even Lucky craned his head toward the sound. Far in the barely perceptible distance something was moving, growing larger as it approached. Greg wished it would stop. It looked plenty large already. What bothered him more was the way the forest closed in behind it as it came, cutting off any chance of sneaking by.

“Yep,” said Lucky, “it’s an ogre.”

“Well don’t just stand there!” Greg screamed.

Lucky nodded, and Greg watched helplessly as the boy rummaged through his pack and the ogre moved closer.

“Hurry!” Greg insisted.

“Here it is,” said Lucky. Without so much as a “Ta da!” he pulled the magic sword from the tiny bag and held it out to Greg.

Greg stared back at him. “What are you giving it to me for?”

“Well, I’ve never killed an ogre.”

“You think I have?”

Lucky thrust the sword into Greg’s hand and spun him around, and willing or not Greg held the weapon up in front of his body. The blade was nearly as tall as he was, and so heavy, Greg could barely lift it. He knew if he let the tip drift even an inch or two out of vertical, he’d never be able to hold on, and if he tried and failed, he might be catapulted from the forest. In a moment of hysteria he wondered if this might be a means of escape he’d overlooked.

The ogre grew closer. And, unbelievably, taller. In a flash Greg relived the countless times his storybook Greg had defeated creatures just like this. But those had been stories. This was a real ogre with a real taste for human flesh, and Greg would have given anything not to be the human whose flesh was about to be tasted. “Lucky!”

He didn’t know what he expected Lucky to do, but certainly it wasn’t anything like what the boy did. With no apparent concern for himself, Lucky jumped into the path of the approaching monster, threw up his arms and roared.

The ogre stopped short, insomuch as is possible for a fifteen-foot tall monster, and eyed Lucky with suspicion.

Lucky eyed it back.

Not to be outdone, the ogre eyed him a second time, or maybe it just forgot it had eyed him once already. Oddly, it stepped aside, perhaps afraid of the bright orange tunic Lucky wore. Then it spotted Greg and growled. Lucky had been right. Greg should have stuck with the brighter outfit.

Greg tried to will himself invisible, but no such luck. The ogre charged, and just as in Greg’s story about the giant, the ground trembled under its every step. Greg trembled more. He raised his sword high and tried his best to appear menacing.

Surprisingly the ogre slowed, as if it recognized the power Greg wielded. Coincidence, more likely. As proof, it howled and resumed its charge.

Greg turned to run, but a tree grabbed his arm, spun him around, prodded him toward the ogre. He shifted nervously from foot to foot, tried to judge when to begin his swing. The ogre closed to twenty feet . . . fifteen . . . ten.

Five.

Greg was so concerned about timing he forgot to swing at all. At the last second he lowered the sword, ducked under the ogre’s outstretched arms, and scrambled between its massive legs. The dim-witted ogre stared at the ground between its feet and scratched its head. Greg rose behind it.

Too late, the ogre turned. Greg gathered all his courage and lashed out at a thigh.

With a howl the creature swatted the air. Greg felt the sword tear from his grip and heard Lucky scream. The blade had lodged into the trunk of a tree, pinning Lucky by the fabric of his tunic.

Greg looked for only an instant. His mind raced wildly, but didn’t like any of the thoughts it came up with. Even with the help of a magic sword he hadn’t been able to defeat the ogre. Now here he was, unarmed, facing the heightened rage of an injured monster. Lucky screamed a warning, and the ogre lashed out with a crushing blow that nearly flattened Greg’s skull.

Greg ducked and rolled and scuttled backwards, beyond the ogre’s reach, and then he was up and moving, racing to the tree where Lucky was pinned. He grabbed the hilt of the sword, put his weight behind it.

The ogre lumbered closer. Surely Lucky would have screamed another warning if Greg hadn’t planted a hand over his mouth for leverage. With a pop the blade pulled free, and Greg spun to face his doom. “Do something, Lucky!”

Precious seconds passed while Lucky returned to searching his pack. He pulled out the remaining watermelon half from lunch and threw it at the ogre, but the beast batted it down. Apparently its tastes lay elsewhere.

Greg hefted the sword again, his vision blurred by tears, his hands still stinging from the previous blow. With a determined yell he thrust up and out. Again the ogre swatted the blade from his grasp.

Greg knew in that moment all hope was lost. If this were an entry in his journal it could be none but the last. The Mighty Greghart was going to lose this battle, and when battling ogres, one loss was surely all you got.

The beast raised a huge ham-fist into the air. Greg cringed and closed his eyes.

“This way, Greg!”

One eye popped open. Miraculously the trees had pulled back to reveal a single point of light. Lucky bent and scooped up the fallen sword but didn’t return with it. He just kept running toward the edge of the forest.

The ogre’s fist dropped like a falling mountain. Greg ducked and bounced off the creature’s leg, running dazed, fighting to keep his balance. Fortunately, running was Greg’s specialty. The ogre had a long stride, but it was too heavy to run very fast. It was no more of a threat in a chase than Manny Malice had been in the woods behind Greg’s house.

Don’t trip!

In his mind, Greg saw the ogre’s foot slam down on his back, squashing him like a jelly doughnut. His brain shut down after that. He focused on the light ahead.

He ran and ran until the booming footsteps faded and all he could hear was his own labored breathing. Finally he risked a glance over his shoulder . . . and actually smiled. The ogre had given up the chase. Greg’s heart raced, his limbs trembled, and his whole body ached, but he had never felt more exhilarated in his life. With a scream of glee he broke from the forest and was hit by a welcome wash of sunlight.

Unfortunately, he was then hit by something more substantial. Greg crumpled to the ground, the wind knocked from his lungs, as the welcome light gave way to an unpleasant blackness that crept in from the corners of his vision.

He was out of the woods, but not out of trouble.

Hart to Heart

“You all right?” Lucky asked.

Greg answered once the sky stopped spinning. “W-what happened?”

He sat up slowly and looked around. Every muscle in his body ached. He was in a large clearing surrounded, as clearings often are, by forest. Behind him the trees stood dense and foreboding, but those ahead seemed less nightmarish, more like the woods back home.

A nearby moan caused him to notice a sandy-haired boy sprawled out a few feet away. He looked two or three years younger than Greg, but heavily muscled for his size.

“Who’s this?” Greg asked.

Lucky gently patted the boy’s cheeks. “Looks like Greatheart’s little brother, but I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him in a couple of years.”

“Greatheart, the dragonslayer?”

“Not just any dragonslayer, Greg. The greatest dragonslayer Myrth has ever known.”

“What a break. Now we can get his brother to slay Ruuan.”

“No,” said Lucky. “He’s Greatheart from Myrth, not Greghart from Earth.”

Greg waged a battle with his own body as he fought to stand.

The younger boy was starting to wake. “Oooh . . . what happened?”

“Sorry,” Greg said. “I guess I ran into you. You were standing at the end of the trail.”

With a groan the boy pushed himself to a seated position. “No, I was standing at the beginning of the trail. I thought I heard an ogre and decided to take a look.” He shook his head to clear it. “I remember now. The forest pulled back when it saw me coming . . . and then he ran past me,” he said, pointing at Lucky, “and then I saw you, and . . . I don’t remember much after that.”

“You okay?” said Lucky. “Can you stand?”

The boy inspected his limbs with the bluest eyes Greg had ever seen. “I guess so . . . no thanks to him.”

“I said I was sorry,” Greg reminded him. “I was being chased by an ogre, after all.”

“Big deal. My brother gets chased by ogres all the time, and he never thinks twice about it.”

“Then you are Melvin Greatheart,” Lucky said.

“Melvin?” said Greg. Perhaps, he realized afterward, he should have tried it without the snort.

“Yeah,” the boy snapped, “what about it?”

“Nothing,” Greg answered carefully. “It just doesn’t sound like the name of the brother of a great dragonslayer, that’s all.”

“What would you know about it?” said Melvin. He struggled to his feet. “Wait’ll I tell Marvin what you said. Why, he’ll ride you out of here faster than a band of goblins.”

“Your brother’s name is Marvin?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Nothing.” Greg didn’t really care what the dragonslayer’s name was, as long as he could convince everyone that it was Marvin who was destined to slay Ruuan. Greg tried to help Melvin to his feet, but the boy yanked his hand back and would accept help only from Lucky.

“Well, if you’re all right,” Lucky told Melvin,” we need to be on our way.”

“Wait,” blurted Greg. “It’s getting late, don’t you think? Maybe we should be looking for a place to stop for the night.” Lucky shot him a warning glance, but Greg looked quickly to Melvin. “Hey, how about we stay with you?”

“That’s okay, Melvin,” said Lucky. “We’ve troubled you enough already. We’ll just stop at the next house we see.”

Melvin frowned. “There aren’t any other houses in this part of the kingdom.”

“Okay, then, we’ll camp here.”

“By the edge of the Enchanted Forest? Were you planning on waking up in the morning? No, it’s not safe for fools to camp out here. I guess you better come home with me. My folks won’t mind.” He glowered at Greg and added, “Just watch where you’re going, okay?”

Now Greg frowned. He’d already said he was sorry. What more could he do? He’d like to see what Melvin would have done if he’d been chased by an ogre.

As the last of the day’s light faded, the three boys trudged up the path toward a small cabin in the woods. If Marvin Greatheart was as experienced at slaying dragons as Lucky said, apparently he wasn’t in it for the treasure. He lived in not a home but a hovel. Large holes dominated the thatch roof, and the rotted wood siding hung at odd angles.

An older woman in a plain peasant’s dress stepped from the cabin as they approached. She dried her hands on an apron, placed them on her hips and squinted at the trio, frowning.

“Melvin. Where on Myrth have you been?”

“The Enchanted Forest,” said Melvin.

“The Enchanted Forest! What have I told you about playing down there?”

“I didn’t go inside, Mom. Just to the edge. I thought I heard an ogre.”

“My word, you sound more like your brother every day. How many times have I told you you’re too young to play with ogres?”

“I wasn’t playing with it. They were,” he said pointing at Greg and Lucky.

His mother studied the pair disapprovingly. “And who might they be?”

Lucky took off his cap and held it sheepishly before him. “Luke Day, ma’am, from Pendegrass Castle.”

“Lucky Day?” she said. “I’ve heard of you. King Peter considers you a close, personal friend.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

She peered at him as if questioning why this would be so. “Do you know my son Marvin?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve seen him honored by the king on many occasion.”

Mrs. Greatheart actually smiled at this remark, but her expression quickly dissolved when she regarded Greg. “And who is this?”

Greg didn’t have a hat to take off, but he bowed just the same. “Greg Hart, ma’am. I’m . . . er . . . traveling with Lucky.”

Melvin snapped his head Greg’s way, his expression darkening. The woman’s jaw dropped. She shifted her apron without taking her eyes off of Greg.

“The Greghart?”

Greg faltered. He hadn’t thought it possible the Greathearts would know of the prophecy. “Well, actually, ma’am, I’d like to talk to you about that.”

“Oh, my,” she said, poofing her graying hair. “Yes, certainly. Come inside. Norman will want to hear, I’m sure.”

“Norman?”

“My husband.”

“He used to be a great dragonslayer, too,” Lucky told Greg. “He’s retired now.”

“He was a dragonslayer, and he retired? Alive? I’m guessing it wasn’t a long career.”

“Probably seemed long,” Lucky said.

Mrs. Greatheart shooed them all through the door and quickly called for her husband. Somehow the house looked even smaller inside than out. The meager furnishings were the type that had probably never even seen better days, but the place had a cozy feel, with the smell of freshly baked bread and odd spices.

Eventually Norman Greatheart hobbled in, looking much like Greg would have expected a retired dragonslayer to look. He wore a patch over one eye and walked with a limp that had a way of shifting from one leg to the other. One hand clutched his lower back as he moved, while the other clung to a gnarled wooden cane. He shuffled across the room, eased into a tattered chair, and with a creak of his neck, turned to regard his guests with his one good eye.

“Yes, Edna, what is it?”

“We have guests, dear. Special guests.” She grabbed Greg by the shoulders and pivoted him to face Norman’s chair. “Do you know who this is?”

Norman leaned forward and examined Greg more closely, his eye darting this way and that.

“Looks like some boy, Edna. And a rather scrawny one at that. You got a name, son?”

“Greg Hart, sir.”

Norman’s eye grew wide, and his mouth formed a perfect circle. “The Greghart? From the prophecy?”

“Uh, I was just telling your wife I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Wonderful!” said Norman. “Always willing to talk to a fellow dragonslayer.”

“No, I’m not a dragonslayer.”

“Greg!” warned Lucky.

“Of course he’s not a dragonslayerartH,” said Melvin. “Look at him, he’s just a kid.”

“Now, Melvin,” scolded Mrs. Greatheart. “That’s no way to talk about a great hero.”

“But he’s not a dragonslayer,” Melvin insisted. “He said so himself.”

“He was just being modest.”

“No, I wasn’t,” said Greg.

Lucky tried another loud noise but failed to draw anyone’s attention.

“See,” said Melvin. “He’s not.”

“Enough,” cried Mrs. Greatheart. “If you can’t behave then go to your room.”

“But—”

“Not another word. Now go!”

Melvin muttered something under his breath and shuffled off to one corner. (Apparently the house was too small for him to actually have his own room.) As the conversation continued, the boy sat with his arms folded over his chest, glowering at Greg. His expression was, Greg noticed, not much different from Lucky’s.

“So how long have you been slaying dragons, Greghart?” asked Norman.

“I haven’t,” said Greg. “I told you, I’m not a dragonslayer.”

“See!” Melvin shouted from his corner.

“Hush,” scolded Mrs. Greatheart.

“Are you saying you’ve not slew a single dragon?” asked Norman in disbelief.

“Of course not,” said Greg. “I’m just a kid.”

“Oh, this is wonderful. Edna, did you hear? It’s the boy’s first dragon.”

“How exciting,” said Mrs. Greatheart. “And to think, we met him before he became famous.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Lucky. “There’s not a man or woman in the kingdom who doesn’t know of the Mighty Greghart’s heroic deeds.”

Greg sighed. “I’m sure that will all end once Ruuan eats me.”

“Eats you?” Norman said, chuckling. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Greg ignored Lucky, who had reached new heights as he jumped up and down, waving his arms furiously. “The prophecy is wrong.”

“Nonsense,” said Norman. “Prophecies can’t be wrong.”

“But I’m not the one who’s supposed to slay Ruuan,” said Greg. “Your son is.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Melvin is just a child.”

“I am not,” said Melvin.

“Melvin,” Mrs. Greatheart warned.

“Not him,” said Greg. “Marvin.”

“Marvin?” said Norman. “But he isn’t even here. Besides the prophecy says Ruuan will be slain by Greghart from Earth, not Greatheart from Myrth. You are from Earth, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then it’s settled. Obviously the prophecy is about you.”

Mrs. Greatheart wrung her hands nervously. “Enough of this foolish talk,” she said. “Dinner’s been ready forever. We have plenty, but if we don’t sit down and eat, it’s going to dry up in the pot.”

Greg tried to object, but the Greathearts were no more interested in his concerns than the crowd back at Pendegrass Castle had been. Eventually he found himself shuffling along with the others to the dinner table just a few feet away, although if he’d judged by the noises Norman made, he’d have thought they hiked across the entire Enchanted Forest to get there.

Even Melvin was allowed to join them, though every time he tried to jump into the conversation his mother cut him off with a word. Greg had a similar problem. Lucky kicked him under the table every time he opened his mouth. Under the best of circumstances this would have been annoying, but Greg found it particularly troublesome since he was trying to eat.

“So, where is Marvin?” asked Lucky.

“We’re not sure,” said Edna. “He went to rout some goblins out of the hills north of Durchester about a month ago. We really expected him back by now, but . . . well, not a word. Hopefully there wasn’t any trouble.”

“You don’t—Ow! Would you stop that?”

“Sorry,” Lucky mumbled.

Greg rubbed his shin and turned back to Mrs. Greatheart. “You don’t consider routing out goblins trouble?”

“I meant trouble he couldn’t handle, dear,” she explained.

Greg quickly lost his appetite. He couldn’t believe no one knew Marvin’s whereabouts. This was terrible. Who was going to slay Ruuan now?

“You don’t look so well, dear,” said Edna. “Is your wyvern stew disagreeing with you?”

“What? Oh, no. It’s delicious. I’m just not very hungry.”

“Well, I hope you’re not nervous about slaying Ruuan. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

“Of course he will,” said Norman as he slurped up a spoonful of broth.

“You say Marvin went to Durchester?” said Lucky. “That’s quite a ways to travel. And I hear they had a lot of rain down there this summer. The creeks are probably swelled. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Edna said. “But I must say, I’ve been worried ever since I found his lucky amulet out back.”

“His what?” said Greg.

“His lucky amulet. Marvin never goes anywhere without it. I guess he must have dropped it and not known.”

“It’s the Amulet of Ruuan,” Norman added proudly over a huge chunk of wyvern meat. He winked at Greg. “I stole it myself from Ruuan’s lair when I was just a few years older than you are now. Gave it to Marvin on his sixteenth birthday, and he’s been cleaning up the kingdom with it ever since.”

Greg met Lucky’s eye. “Do you think we could see that amulet, Mrs. Greatheart?”

“Call me Edna, please. Of course you can. I’ve got it right here.”

She got up from the table, shuffled to a rickety old cabinet along the opposite wall, and opened the top drawer. When she returned to the table she held out the amulet by the chain. At first glance it looked identical to the one King Peter gave Greg that morning.

“Is something wrong, dear?”

“I’m not sure.” Greg reached beneath his tunic and pulled out his own amulet, much to Edna’s surprise.

“There’s two of them?”

“Right,” said Greg. “King Peter told me this was the Amulet of Ruuan.”

“Nonsense,” said Norman. “Anyone can see that’s not the real one.”

“They look exactly the same to me,” said Melvin.

“Quiet, son.”

“No, he’s right,” said Lucky. “They are the same.”

“Well, I wouldn’t trust it,” Norman said. “And you sure wouldn’t catch me going up against Ruuan without the real thing.”

“Perhaps we better let him use ours,” Edna suggested.

“I suppose we’ll have to,” said Norman. “The poor boy would be scorched to a crisp in a heartbeat with a trinket like that in his hand.”

“Yeah, with the real amulet he might last two heartbeats,” said Melvin under his breath.

“Hush up, son,” warned Edna. She held out Marvin’s amulet for Greg to take. When Greg slipped the chain over his neck, the two amulets sizzled and flashed, and he jumped back, nearly knocking over his chair.

“Well, it looks as if that amulet of yours may have some power after all,” said Norman. “You go ahead and keep ours anyway. You can never have too much help on your side when you’re going up against a dragon. Hey, did I ever tell you about the first time I fought Tehrer, the last of the dragons from the Netherworld?”

“We just met,” Greg reminded him.

“So, I guess I didn’t then. Well, I’ll tell you now. It was quite a battle. I barely escaped with my life. In fact, that’s how I got this limp here,” he said pointing to his left knee. “No, wait, that came the second time I fought him. The first time he snapped my right leg in two and scorched the hair clean off my head. Took me two years to grow my eyebrows back.” He slapped the table and laughed. “Never could use the eye again, though, I’m afraid.”

“Could we talk about something else?” Greg pleaded.

“Yes, Norman, please,” Edna scolded. “You’re scaring Greghart to death with your stories.”

“What kind of dragonslayer gets scared by a story?” asked Melvin.

“I’m warning you. One more word, and it’s back to your room.”

“This is his room,” Greg muttered.

“I didn’t mean to scare you none,” said Norman. “If it makes you feel better, everything turned out great the third time I faced Tehrer. He may have tore up my back a bit and knocked my arm out of the socket, but in the end I laid him out, and the world’s a better place for it.”

“Yes, I do feel better,” Greg lied. “Now can we talk about something else?”

“Sure,” said Norman. “Did I ever tell you about the time I ran into a nest of harpies up at Death’s Pass?”

Greg shot him a glare, but Norman failed to take the hint. The man shared one story after another, each more gruesome than the last, talking through the remainder of dinner and long into the night. By the time Edna finished the dishes and finally insisted they all retire, Greg was so terrified he thought it would be impossible to sleep.

But it had been a very long day. He’d spent hours hiking to the center of an Enchanted Forest, made his way back out at a dead run and fought a fifteen-foot-tall ogre that blocked the exit. In spite of his fears, his head had no more than hit the prickly straw pillow before Greg fell sound asleep. Tomorrow he would go back to being terrified over events to come, but for now he needed his rest.

After all, everyone seemed to think it wasn’t wise to go off fighting dragons without a good night’s sleep.

Greg felt as if he’d just drifted off when a rooster crowed and the first rays of light broke through the many holes in the wall. He tried to roll away, but his muscles screamed out in agony. Greg screamed too.

“Oh, good, you’re finally up,” he heard Norman Greatheart say. “I was afraid you were going to sleep the whole day away.”

“The sun’s barely up,” moaned Greg.

“Morning, dear,” Edna crowed. “Did you want some breakfast before you head out?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Norman.

She frowned at her husband. “I was talking to Greghart. How about it, dear? It’s not a good idea to go out hunting dragons on an empty stomach, you know.”

Greg willed his legs to move, but they didn’t seem in the mood.

“Of course, you might want to put on some clothes first,” Edna added.

Somehow Greg found the strength to leap from the pallet and yank on his tunic and tights.

“That’s the spirit,” said Norman. “I pity the dragon who’s got to face this boy.”

Any spirit Greg might have possessed disappeared instantly at the mention of the dragon. He strapped on his boots and staggered to the table, feeling as if he’d left his legs back in the Enchanted Forest.

“I don’t think the dragon has anything to worry about,” noted Melvin from his seat at the table.

“Now, don’t you start this morning,” Edna warned.

Melvin shot Greg a hateful glare but shut up as he was asked. Edna served up some of the largest eggs Greg had ever seen, along with a plate of what Greg guessed to be wyvern sausages. The food was delicious, and Greg gulped it all down gratefully. He couldn’t believe how hungry he was already this morning. It seemed hunting dragons really worked up a boy’s appetite.

After breakfast Lucky gathered up his pack, and Mr. and Mrs. Greatheart saw the two boys to the door. The morning air was so brisk Greg could see his breath.

“Now, do you have your amulets, dear?” Edna asked.

Greg patted his chest and heard the two medals clink together beneath his tunic. His skin prickled from the charge, proof of the potent magic concealed there. Still, Greg felt ill-prepared for his journey. A large part of him prayed Marvin Greatheart would stroll up this very moment and offer to take over. The parts of him left over were more ambitious. They prayed for nothing less than for Greg to suddenly wake up safe in the woods behind his own house.

But Marvin did not show up, and soon it was time to go. In spite of Greg’s best efforts to resist, Edna managed to herd everyone out of the cabin and onto the front walk.

“What about your fireproofing spell?” asked Norman. “You wouldn’t want to forget that.”

Greg glanced at Lucky, who shrugged.

Norman shook his head. “You can’t go trudging up to a dragon’s lair without a fireproofing spell. Even if the dragon weren’t home, that tunnel of his is like a blast furnace. Why, you’d be incinerated in seconds. For that matter, do you have your eternal light, or your dragon spit?”

“Dragon spit?” echoed Lucky.

“To coat your shoes. Don’t you boys know nothin’ about hunting dragons?”

“This is rather new to us,” said Greg.

“Oh, of course, I forgot.” Norman went to take Greg under his arm, but the once mighty dragonslayer’s shoulder seized halfway. With a creak that made Greg long for an oil can, Norman wrenched his arm back to his side. “You need sticky shoes if you’re going to try walking into a dragon’s lair. The ground tends to get a bit glassy, what with the intense heat and all.”

“You’re kidding,” said Greg hopefully.

“Nope.” Norman paused to massage his shoulder with a hand that was large even with the two missing fingers. “You’re gonna need to coat your soles with something. Wyvern spit’s plenty sticky, but true

dragon spit’s the only thing that’ll take the heat. I wouldn’t recommend anything less.”

“Where does one get dragon spit?” Greg asked.

“Well, there’s plenty in Ruuan’s lair—oh, but that won’t do you much good, will it? Course, you have to pick up a fireproofing spell anyway. You can probably get everything you need from Hazel.”

“Who?” said Greg.

“The witch.”

“Witch Hazel?”

“Yeah,” chimed in Melvin. “You’re not afraid of a witch, are you?”

Greg ignored the boy’s taunting and looked to Norman. “Should I be?”

The man stared back with his one good eye. “Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

The Molten Moor

While Lucky discussed directions to Witch Hazel’s place with Norman, Greg waited impatiently on the stoop, debating with himself whether he should bolt into the woods. As scared as he was, he figured he could probably run a mile or so before anyone noticed. Farther if he didn’t get eaten by an ogre.

“Okay, we’re ready to go,” Lucky finally announced.

“You sure?” said Greg. “I’ll bet Mrs. Greatheart’s planning to fix something delicious for lunch.”

“Oh, what a delightful sense of humor,” said Edna. “I hope the bards pick up on that and include it in their songs.”

In spite of his best efforts to stall, Greg found himself following Lucky’s lead and saying his final good-byes to the Greathearts. He ducked his head against the chill and left the family waving on the doorstep of their humble home, which might have been a comforting picture had Melvin not chosen to wave with his thumbs planted in his ears.

After the first few steps, Greg could hardly believe how sore his first day of adventure had left him. Of course his legs were tired, but even his arms ached, as if he’d crossed the Enchanted Forest on his hands yesterday. Whenever he turned his head, his neck creaked like a wooden rollercoaster struggling up its initial climb, not unlike Norman Greatheart’s had done at breakfast this morning. Still, it didn’t stop him from scanning the woods.

“Looking for something?” Lucky asked.

“What? Oh, no. I just . . . um . . . thought maybe we’d run into Marvin Greatheart.”

“Didn’t you hear? His parents said he was off near Durchester. Now, stop worrying.”

“How can you still be so calm after what happened yesterday?”

Lucky regarded Greg with a furrowed brow. “What happened yesterday?”

“The ogre, remember? You said the paths would open up for one of two reasons: because another traveler entered the forest, or to lead us to danger.”

“So you have been listening to me.”

“Don’t you see?” said Greg. “The path opened toward danger. We had a fifty-fifty shot, and it turned out wrong. What kind of luck is that?”

“The path got us out of the forest, didn’t it?”

Greg stared at Lucky in disbelief. “It led us to an ogre. We were almost killed.”

“Almost,” Lucky pointed out smugly. “You might say we’re lucky to be alive.”

“Wait, what about when the ogre knocked away my sword and pinned you to that tree? You couldn’t budge an inch, remember? You were totally helpless.”

“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.

“Would you look at that?” said Lucky. He was staring at the forest ahead.

Until now Greg had been too concerned with surviving the moor to notice what lay beyond a few feet, but now he looked at the woods ahead and felt no more at ease than before. A sea of molten rock boiled just feet away, yet the land here felt colder and less alive than the dying woods on the other side of the moor. Scattered tree trunks, charred and twisted, reached soullessly toward a gray, cloudless sky. Not a sound could be heard. Not a branch stirred, not even of its own accord.

Farther to the south the sky darkened. Please be a storm, Greg thought, but he knew not a drop of rain was held there. The blackness emanated from something far worse. It was somehow related to the witch, and Greg knew he was already closer to it than he ever wanted to be. Then again, so was his living room sofa back home.

“Nathan,” he croaked, “you wouldn’t know where we might get our hands on some dragon spit, would you?”

“You don’t want to get your hands anywhere near dragon spit,” Nathan told him. “It would eat right through your skin like acid.”

“That settles it,” said Greg. “We have to turn back.”

“What are you talking about?” said Lucky.

“Maybe we don’t need a fireproofing spell or dragon spit,” said Greg. “How about we just wait outside the dragon’s lair for Ruuan to come out?”

“That’s ridiculous. Even if you did slay the dragon outside his lair, we’d have to go inside to rescue the princess.”

“You sure? Don’t you think she’d come out on her own eventually? I know I would. How about you, Nathan?”

Nathan looked quite uncomfortable at being asked his opinion. “I think you should do whatever you think best, Greghart . . . but if I were you I wouldn’t expect Ruuan to come out to find me. Oh, and you wouldn’t catch me traipsing into a dragon’s lair without a few things I imagine only the witch can provide.”

Greg stared at the man’s face, questioning whether it was really as friendly as he first thought. “What were you doing out in the Molten Moor, anyway?”

“I was rescuing that little shadowcat, remember?”

“I meant what were you doing in the moor to begin with?”

“Oh,” said Nathan. “Traveling. It’s what I do.” Again he looked to the sky. “Perhaps we can discuss it later. Night will be here sooner than you think, and it is a long walk to Witch Hazel’s.”

Greg had to admit it did seem to be getting darker. He followed Lucky and Nathan southward to a decrepit footbridge that spanned a narrow stream of very black water. What few trees he could see ahead were more twisted and mangled than anything he’d passed so far, a significant accomplishment in Greg’s opinion, but most of the terrain was covered with scraggly thorn bushes, charred black by some ageless fire. Not a leaf could be found among them, yet somehow they managed to rustle as if home to a thousand monkeydogs.

“The Shrieking Scrub,” Nathan announced. “Well, this is where we must part company.”

“You’re leaving?” said Greg.

“No, you are. Only those having business with the witch may pass over Black Blood Creek.”

“Over what?”

“Don’t worry. Mostly it’s not real blood.”

Greg strained to see the water below. “I-I can’t cross alone,” he said. “I don’t know where to go.”

“You won’t need to,” said Nathan in a manner that completely failed to sound reassuring. “The trail leads directly to the witch’s shack.”

“You’ve been to Hazel’s?” Lucky asked.

“She lives straight down that trail.”

Greg couldn’t bear the thought of separating from the others under any circumstance, let alone to go off looking for a witch—especially a witch who could best be described as non-threatening, and then only if she liked you.

“Say, I think you were right about night not being far off,” he said. “Maybe we should think about setting up camp.”

“It always looks like this near the Shrieking Scrub,” said Nathan, “but it’ll turn even darker soon. You’ll want to get moving right away so you can be back before nightfall. I wouldn’t want to be caught dead in the Shrieking Scrub after dark, and that’s exactly what will happen if you delay much longer.”

“B-but what about dinner?” Greg asked. He actually didn’t think he could eat a bite, but he would certainly be willing to try.

To his relief Lucky said, “I’m hungry too. Maybe we should eat now and camp for the night. Then Greg can get a fresh start to Hazel’s first thing in the morning.”

Greg was quick to agree. “It’s not wise to talk to witches without a good night’s rest,” he guessed.

“I suppose you’re right,” said Nathan. He looked around at the lifeless surroundings. “But what do we do for dinner?”

Lucky pulled his special pack from his shoulder and offered his trademark grin. “Leave that to me. I think I saw something good in here earlier.”

After dinner they looked for a comfortable place to camp for the night. The best they could find was a shallow depression half concealed by the charred remains of a fallen tree. The ground was smoking in the area, which Greg took to be a bad sign, but Lucky assured him it would be fine. Of course, Greg knew Lucky was only assuming things would work out because of the prophecy, but Nathan, too, said the spot was okay, so Greg was outnumbered two to one.

While Lucky rolled out bedding for Greg and himself, Nathan simply settled on the hard ground, closed his eyes, and dropped off in an instant, oblivious of the cold. The shadowcat draped itself across Greg’s neck, just below his chin, and once Greg decided the creature wasn’t trying to strangle him, he was grateful for the warmth it provided. Darkness fell quickly, as if someone had flipped a switch, shutting off even the light from the moon. All was quiet for a time, until an ear-piercing scream suddenly split the air.

Greg bolted upright and screamed nearly as loudly.

“That’s why they call it the Shrieking Scrub,” Lucky informed him. “Don’t worry. It can’t hurt us here.”

“Uh-huh,” Greg said, easing back to the ground. He lay awake, waiting for his pulse to slow for a minute or so before another scream rang out and caused him to jump up again. Nearby Lucky was already snoring loudly. No doubt he and Nathan were unconcerned about their plight, secure in the knowledge that the prophecy would carry them through any peril the Shrieking Scrub might offer.

But when Greg rolled over between shrieks, crackling some twigs beneath his bedroll, Nathan snapped awake. “That you, Greghart?” he heard Nathan say through the darkness.

Although he knew Nathan was trying to be helpful, Greg found the disembodied voice nearly as unnerving as the shrieks. Still it would have been hard for him to feel less comfortable than he already did. “Do you have to call me that? It’s Greg.”

“What’s the problem? Can’t sleep?”

“I guess I’m a little nervous about going to see the witch.”

“Ah, and well you should be.”

Greg frowned. Nathan had a lot to learn about putting someone at ease.

“Hazel is a very powerful woman,” Nathan continued. “I doubt you’ll ever face a more dangerous opponent.”

Greg searched for a glimpse of Nathan’s face but could see only darkness. “Um, when did she become my opponent?”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. But you would be wise to use caution when you deal with her. She’s sure to try to deceive you.”

“But why?”

“She’s a witch.”

Somehow the blackness found a way to press harder against Greg’s eyes. “So, what should I do?”

“The only thing you can, Greg. Go along with her. It’s not wise to disagree with someone who wields that much power.”

Greg decided Nathan wasn’t any better at counseling than he was at consoling. “What kind of advice is that?”

“Advice that may just save your life. Now, get to sleep. You’ll want to be fresh in the morning.”

“Yes, of course,” Greg grumbled. “Wouldn’t want to be tired when I’m killed by the witch.” He closed his eyes then, not that it was any less black with them open, and tried again to sleep. If Nathan had thought to be reassuring, he’d fallen well short of the mark. Greg lay awake for nearly an hour longer, long enough to count thirty-eight more blood-curdling screams.

Thirty-nine.

Surely he’d have stayed up all night if not for the shadowcat snuggled up under his chin. But once his new pet started to purr, the soft, rumbling sound worked its way into Greg’s head and drained the energy from him. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t have stayed alert then. As proof, the shadowcat flipped its tail into Greg’s mouth, and though Greg coughed and sputtered, he never once opened his eyes. In spite of the random shrieks, in spite of a continuous series of nightmares that threatened to shock him awake at any moment, Greg slept the night through, waking only after the sun had filled the forest with a welcome light. Even if it was a gray and dismal light.

Morning had arrived, and it was time for Greg to search out the witch.

Witch Hazel

Greg quickly shut his eyes again. Hopefully no one had noticed him awake. He could smell meat frying, which led him to believe Lucky must be rooting around in his pack, and he was hungry enough to eat anything in that pack including, possibly, Lucky’s arm, but he didn’t dare move. Once the others realized he was awake, they’d expect him to go out in search of Hazel.

“Oh, good, you’re up.”

Greg groaned. He swore he hadn’t moved. He opened his eyes to see Nathan’s face beaming down at him.

“I hope you’re well rested,” Nathan said. “It’s going to be a long day.”

Lucky stopped digging in his pack and asked, “How would you like your eggs, Greg?”

“At home?”

“Still got your sense of humor. That’s good. You’ll probably need it.”

Greg ate breakfast as slowly as he could and continued long after he was full, but in spite of his best efforts eventually finished everything Lucky put before him. Lucky had long since rolled up Greg’s bedding and stuffed it into his pack. He stood now next to Nathan, the two of them hovering impatiently over Greg.

“Ready?” Nathan asked.

“Not really.”

Nathan offered a hand. Greg pretended not to notice. Nathan didn’t notice him not noticing. He grasped Greg’s tunic and easily lifted Greg to his feet.

“Now, you know what you need?” asked Lucky.

“I think so,” Greg said, pressing the wrinkles from his tunic. “Let’s see. There’s dragon spit, an eternal light . . . oh, yeah, and a fireproofing spell.”

“I want you to take this with you,” Nathan said, holding out his weathered staff. “Be careful with it, though. I want it back in one piece when you return.”

Greg took the proffered staff and held it out at arm’s length. “What is it?”

“A stick,” said Nathan.

“I can see that. I mean what does it do?”

“It doesn’t do anything. You just hold it while you walk. It helps you balance and hop over puddles and things.”

“Really, Greg,” said Lucky. “Haven’t you ever used a walking stick before?”

Greg frowned back at him.

“I guess we’re ready then,” said Nathan.

“We?” said Greg.

“Well, you.”

Lucky stepped behind Greg and nudged him forward in the same annoying way the Enchanted Forest had done two days ago. Greg tried to slink away, but Nathan stepped up from his other side and pressed forward as well, leaving Greg no choice but to shuffle toward the dilapidated footbridge, where he stopped just short of the rotted wood.

A sudden rustling sounded in the forest. Anywhere else on Myrth it would have been perfectly at home, but here it stuck out like a—well, like a rustling in an otherwise deathly quiet forest. Greg witnessed little more than a blur before something with far too many flailing legs hit him in the chest. The shadowcat scrambled up his tunic and came to rest on his shoulders.

“What about your amulets?” Nathan asked.

Greg patted his chest, somewhat relieved to feel the outline of the two amulets beneath his tunic. Then a thought struck him. “Who told you about these?” He could almost swear Nathan stiffened.

“It’s all in the prophecy, Greg. You’re going to use Ruuan’s own amulet to defeat him.”

“But you said amulets, as in more than one. How’d you know I had two?”

“Did I?” said Nathan. “Must have been a slip of the tongue.”

Greg studied the man’s face. How much did he really know about this stranger? He’d never met anyone in a lava swamp before. No telling what sort hung out there. But Nathan’s smile was so genuine, Greg couldn’t feel anything but trust. He truly believed the man wanted to help, even if Nathan wasn’t being completely up front about all he knew or why he was here.

As if to confirm Greg’s thoughts, Nathan offered a serious look. “Remember all I have told you. Your fate will lie in the decisions you make.”

Greg peered cautiously at the narrow stream below. At least it could have had the decency to make gentle rippling noises, the way streams were supposed to do. Instead the water lay still and stagnant, and Greg had spent enough time conjuring stories to imagine what terrors lurked beneath its surface. He stared at the bridge, then at Nathan, Lucky, and back to the bridge again. The shadowcat screeched and dove under his tunic.

“Don’t forget to use the stick,” advised Nathan.

Greg studied the staff in his hands. With a heavy sigh he eased a foot onto the bridge. The wood creaked and groaned but supported his weight. He took another step, then another. Still the bridge held.

Greg breathed deeply and turned back to offer the others a thumbs up. Considering how his week had been going, he was barely surprised when a resounding crack rent the unnatural silence of the woods, and the bridge crumpled like a house of cards.

Panicked, Greg thrust down with Nathan’s staff, as if he could push away the water, and felt the tip dig into something solid. The sudden stop sent jolts of pain up through his arms and across his back and shoulders, but Greg clung to the staff, certain his life depended on it.

For a moment he froze, perfectly balanced, his knees drawn up as high as possible above the horrid water. He could see Nathan and Lucky staring at him as the staff began to teeter, first one way, then the other, and finally toppled backward, carrying him to his doom.

The thought of plunging into the treacherous water caused Greg to scream loudly enough to return an echo from the Shrieking Scrub. He was still screaming when his back struck solid ground on the far bank of the murky creek.

“You okay, Greg?” he heard Lucky say.

“W-what? Oh, er, yeah, I guess so.”

“Hurry along then,” said Nathan. “We’ll be waiting here for your return.”

Greg nodded slowly. He jerked the staff from the stream with a pffutt and tried his best to ignore the icky black goo steaming from its tip. Cautiously he crawled to his feet and headed away from the safety of the others, deeper into the witch’s domain.

Instead of getting lighter as the sun climbed, the area grew darker and more ominous. This certainly wasn’t the first time some aspect of this world had behaved other than it should, but Greg decided it was the worst, mostly because it was still going on. He didn’t care much for the unnatural quiet either, or the way the branches of the scrub hung motionless in the still air. But what unnerved him most was the crow.

It was a huge, black bird, much like any other, that did nothing more than flap down to a branch beside the trail, cock its head at Greg, and then alight again. What unnerved him was that it came and went without so much as a whisper. The crow leapt from the unwavering branch, beat its huge wings to slow its descent, caught the air, and dragged itself upward, all in total silence, and when it was gone, Greg could only wonder if it ever existed at all.

He preferred to think it hadn’t.

Aside from the crow, Greg saw no evidence of life. To be honest, he felt he was being generous when he considered the crow evidence of life. He tried to get the shadowcat to come out from hiding so he wouldn’t feel so alone, but the creature wouldn’t budge. Greg had to admit if there were any way he, too, could have hidden beneath the drab fabric of his tunic, he would have done the same.

Not a single leaf hung from the branches of the surrounding scrub, yet the sun couldn’t find its way to the path. Even so, Greg was able to make out a dark shape ahead. Hazel’s cabin. Actually, he could hardly call it a cabin. He hesitated to call it a shack. It reminded him of his rundown tree house back home, except that the tree house brought with it feelings of security, while Hazel’s shack stole away any secure feelings Greg might have left, and replaced them with an uncomfortable lump in his throat—the type of sensation he’d expect to feel if he swallowed something wrong, like his new shadowcat.

For the first time since Greg crossed Black Blood Creek, the air stirred. A soundless breeze wound its way between the scrubs, up over Hazel’s decaying porch and across the face of the shack. The front door banged open against its hinges and shut again, abruptly ending the silence. Suddenly the scrubs looked less charred. Branches began to sway gently in the wind. Greg even noticed a green leaf here and there, though certainly too few to conceal the monkeydog he couldn’t see but swore he heard somewhere off to his right.

In spite of every instinct telling him otherwise, Greg willed himself forward. He stopped just short of the porch and debated how he should approach the witch.

From a larger distance preferably, and with an assortment of weapons.

Again the door swung open, and out stepped a wretched crone in torn rags. She had the deeply furrowed skin of a woman who had spent a good many years under the sun, perhaps wrestling with it. Her hair hung gray and matted, and she stood bent over so far she had to crane her neck backward just to look Greg in the eye. No warts though. Greg had always heard witches had warts.

“Go away,” she squawked.

Greg might have expected such a sound from a goose, if it were sick or injured, but not from this woman, whose neck was barely long enough to prop her head off her shoulders. Still he was relieved. She might not be the most hospitable woman he’d ever met, but at least she seemed human. During the past day he had pictured far worse.

“Are you the wit—are you Hazel?”

The woman scowled. “What do you want?”

“I need some things my friends say only you can provide.”

Her scowl deepened. Using a gnarled cane she pushed herself upright and peered over Greg’s shoulder. It took all of Greg’s willpower not to spin around to check what she was looking at.

“I don’t see any friends,” she said after an excruciatingly long interval.

“They’re waiting in the forest. They didn’t want to cross Black Blood Creek.”

She nodded. “You should have stayed with them. They sound much smarter than you.” She turned then and hobbled into her shack. Greg watched her stooped form disappear into the darkness.

Well, that went well.

He stood awkwardly before the porch for a time, listening to a monkeydog rustle behind no more than three leaves. Eventually he hopped up the steps and, holding Nathan’s staff out like a baseball bat, peered through the front door. Inside, the air hung thick and musty with the nearly overpowering scent of unfamiliar spices. The room was so dark he didn’t see her at first, but Hazel stood no more than six feet away. He jumped back when he spotted her.

“S-sorry, you startled me.”

“The eternal torch is on the stand by the door,” Hazel said, her voice little more than a whisper. “It will light when you pick it up and stay lit until you set it down again.”

Greg stepped over the threshold and groped in the darkness, trying not to think about what he might touch, or what might touch him. His knee banged into something hard, and a wooden object dropped to the floor. With Nathan’s staff planted for balance, he crouched and patted the dust at his feet. All the while Hazel stared at him expressionlessly, or at least with an expression incapable of getting itself noticed beneath her many wrinkles.

When Greg’s fingers contacted the wood, one end of the torch burst into flame. Greg screamed and yanked his hand back, extinguishing the fire. After the pounding in his chest slowed, he reached out again, and the torch returned to life.

Hazel groaned and raised a withered hand to block her face. Greg might have seen fit to cover the flame if he didn’t find her hand to be such a vast improvement. Instead, he took advantage of the moment to survey the room under the flickering light. In contrast to Marvin Greatheart’s cabin, this shack seemed much larger inside than out. Jars and vials of every size and shape lined the room, covering every flat surface.

“What are you looking at?” Hazel squawked.

“Nothing,” Greg said quickly.

She continued to stare at him, waiting.

“How did you know I wanted an eternal torch?”

Hazel grunted. “Second one in as many days. Not surprising. They all want torches.”

“They?”

“You are an adventurer, aren’t you? Adventurers always want torches. What they want with all that light I’ll never understand.”

“You say someone else came recently?” Greg said. “He didn’t happen to be Marvin Greatheart, did he?”

“Marvin Greatheart?” Hazel cackled. “The dragonslayer? Certainly not. Far from it. In fact, he wasn’t a he at all. She was a she, and a tiny thing at that.” She regarded Greg down her long, hooked nose and added, “Hardly bigger than you.”

Greg tried to stand taller.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Hazel said. “She had a lot of spunk for a stillborn.”

“A what?”

“A woman who has never explored her potential. You understand. A non-witch.”

“Oh.”

“Bit of a loon, though, if you ask me. Actually planned to go off hunting dragons, if you can believe that.” Hazel shook her head sadly. “Like a mere child would last a blink of an eye against a dragon.”

Greg’s palms were so wet the torch nearly slipped through his fingers.

“Now, what else did you need, little one?” Hazel asked in the same voice she might have used to suggest ways Greg might better view the inside of her oven.

Greg studied his feet. “Um . . . a fireproofing spell . . .” He peered up at the witch to judge her reaction. “. . . and some dragon spit.”

“Dragon spit?” Hazel screeched. “What would a boy your size want with that?”

Greg rehearsed his answer before he said it, but even he had trouble believing. “I’m . . . uh . . . headed to a dragon’s lair myself. They say I’m supposed to slay Ruuan.”

The witch’s head snapped up. Hard to believe she could move so quickly. “You’re Greghart?”

“Greg Hart,” Greg corrected. “Two words.”

Hazel tottered forward and peered at him more closely. Greg tried not to tremble. He longed to shift the torch to his other hand but needed that one to hold Nathan’s staff.

“You don’t look like much of a dragonslayer,” Hazel finally said.

“I’m not,” Greg admitted. “I’ve never slayed a dragon in my life.”

“Not even one,” Hazel asked. “Are you sure?”

“Why does everyone here think I would forget something like that?”

Hazel continued to stare. “So you are the Mighty Greghart. I’ll be. Very well, I’ll give you the things you need.”

“You will?”

“For a price, of course.”

Greg’s heart sank. It never occurred to him Hazel might want something in return. He didn’t have any money. Or would she expect him to pay in bat wings, or eye of newt?

“W-what price would you ask?”

Hazel’s eyes flashed wickedly. “Almost nothing. Just those two amulets you wear about your neck.”

Greg’s hand reflexively jumped to the lumps beneath his tunic. “Ow!” He rubbed at the mark Nathan’s staff left on his forehead.

“Careful, small one. You want to get back to your friends alive, don’t you?”

Greg had an idea she wasn’t talking about his accident with the staff. “How did you know about the amulets?” he whispered.

“I know many things,” Hazel assured him.

Greg could read the expression beneath the wrinkles now. It was the same one a wolf might offer a deer. Aside from the predatory gleam in her eyes, Hazel might have been just another grandmother—granted, the type little ones suddenly come up with extraordinary strength to avoid being kissed by, but a grandmother all the same. Only Greg had an idea she was also the type of granny who might one day misplace the children.

No one can bake meat pies like your Grandma Hazel.

With Nathan’s staff rested in the crook of his elbow, Greg clenched the bulges under his tunic. He could feel the power radiate right through the cloth. “I need these,” he said defiantly. “The prophecy says I’m supposed to have the Amulet of Ruuan with me when I fight the dragon.”

“True,” said Hazel, “but neither of those is the Amulet of Ruuan.”

Greg squeezed the amulets tighter, felt them pulse beneath his grip. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I have the real one. Don’t get me wrong. Those trinkets of yours are not entirely worthless, but they will not guarantee your triumph over Ruuan. Only I can help you there.”

“But—” Greg hesitated. Hazel was lying, he was almost certain, but he remembered Nathan’s advice well. He was supposed to go along with whatever she said. It wasn’t wise to argue with a witch. Greg had no reason to doubt Nathan. In fact, he was pretty sure it wasn’t wise to do anything with a witch.

“I’ll tell you what,” Hazel said. “I’ll give you all that you need: the torch, the spell, the dragon spit, even the powerful Amulet of Ruuan, if you’ll do just one favor for me.”

Greg’s expression must have revealed his concern.

“Do not worry. It is a simple thing.” Hazel hobbled over to a rickety wood rocker and lowered herself onto it, relying heavily on her cane. She looked so frail Greg thought she might collapse at any moment, and for one maddened instant he thought he might help her to it with a swift kick to the knee. But he had an idea she wasn’t as weak as she pretended. Surely this was another attempt to deceive him.

Greg longed for a chair of his own. He was as tired as Hazel pretended to be, and the torch and walking stick were growing heavier. Hazel regarded him for a time, as did the large crow perched on the seatback just over her left shoulder. Her chest rose and fell in raspy, wheezing breaths. At last she spoke.

“You will find the dragon Ruuan in a cavern inside a tunnel within a spire that rises high into the air, up into the clouds and beyond. Legend says the spire has no end, that it stretches into the sky forever. I cannot say if this is true, but I have never been one to argue with legends.”

“That’s not possible.”

“You can always argue with legends. There’s just no point to it.”

“I mean, the spire having no end.”

“It has one end, at the bottom, just no top.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. It’s not possible.”

“You’re on your way to kill Ruuan!” Hazel suddenly screamed, spittle flying from the corners of her mouth. “Don’t argue with me about what is possible.”

Don’t argue with a witch, Greg reminded himself. It shouldn’t have been that hard to remember. “So, the spire has no end. I suppose you’re going to tell me Ruuan lives at the top of it?”

“No, not on top,” Hazel said, returning instantly to her previous calm, “only halfway up.”

Greg thought a moment. Infinity was a hard concept to grasp. “Wouldn’t halfway still be pretty high?”

Hazel’s wrinkled smile returned. “You’re quite bright for a male. Yes, Ruuan’s lair is still infinitely high. It would be quite impossible for you to walk there through the tunnel.”

“Oh.” Greg wasn’t sure whether to be upset or relieved. “Then I won’t be going there after all. What about the princess?”

“Don’t concern yourself with the stillborn,” said Hazel. “The dragon will help her reach his lair.”

Greg felt Nathan’s staff slip from his fingers to the floor, where it rolled back and forth on the wood, the only noise in the otherwise deathly quiet room. “But if I can’t get to the lair, who will save her?”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t get there. I said you couldn’t walk through the tunnel. There is another way.”

Greg felt his stomach lurch. Maybe she had a broomstick to lend him.

“The dragon is not the only creature living in the spire,” Hazel continued. “In fact, hundreds of thousands share it with him.”

The knot in Greg’s stomach twisted tighter. He should have known there’d be more to this than just fighting a three-hundred-foot-tall dragon.

“The race was once known as the Canarazas,” Hazel continued. “Roughly translated it means ‘razor teeth.’ These days they are commonly referred to as spirelings. According to prophesy, you will first have to face their army before you can enter the spire.”

Greg gulped. He didn’t want to meet a single creature with razor teeth, let alone an entire army of them. “How big is their army?”

“I just told you. There are hundreds of thousands.”

“In the spire, but how many in the army?”

The witch frowned, as if reconsidering whether Greg was bright for a male. “The Canarazas are a fierce race, known for their brutality in battle. Every man, woman and child is a skilled warrior, and I’m sure you would find even the smallest and weakest to be a most formidable enemy.”

“But h-how can someone like me be expected to go up against hundreds of thousands of razor-toothed warriors?”

Hazel sneered up at him from her rocker. “I can’t imagine. But it is no concern of mine. The prophecy says you’ll get past the army . . .” She studied him long and hard, without the decency to hide her skepticism. “. . . so I can only assume you will. It also says you’ll face Ruuan and win . . .” Again she paused longer than Greg would have liked. “. . . so perhaps you will accomplish that as well. I will lend you the Amulet of Ruuan only because the prophecy states you will need it, but you must promise to bring it back—if you are capable—when you are through.”

“I could do that,” Greg said guardedly.

“Of course,” she added with a cackle that sent tingles up Greg’s spine, “I will need to hold on to those two amulets of yours to ensure you return.”

Greg cringed. “But I have to return these. They’re not mine.”

Her wrinkled face pulled into a wretched smile. “You shall have them back when you return.” The smile dissolved just as quickly as it had appeared. “But you must bring me something else as well.”

Greg clutched the two amulets to his chest. “I don’t have anything else to give.”

“Not yet, perhaps, but you’ll have the opportunity to change that when you enter the Passageway of Shifted Dimensions.” She studied him a moment and then frowned. “It’s a passageway inside the Infinite Spire. You’ll need to use it to find Ruuan. A mortal can reach the lair no other way—in theory anyway. No mortal has ever been to Ruuan’s lair before.”

“Norman Greatheart said he’s been there.”

Hazel’s eyes flashed with rage, and her wrinkled skin instantly reddened. “Norman Greatheart is a fool.”

Don’t argue with a witch, Greg reminded himself.

“No mortal can get to the lair because the passageway is too heavily guarded by spirelings.”

“Then how am I supposed to use it?” Greg asked.

“I don’t know,” Hazel said, calming again in an instant. “Nor can I tell you how to find it, just that to open it you must intone the name of the prophet.”

“Intone?”

“Say the name of the prophet,” Hazel clarified.

“The name of the prophet,” Greg said dutifully.

Hazel frowned. “It is said that the entrance to the passageway cannot be distinguished from the surrounding stone. There is no possible way for you to find it, yet I must assume you will, or the prophecy could not be fulfilled.”

“Yeah, about that—” Greg started.

“Do not doubt the prophecy,” Hazel warned. “It is your faith in the written word that will determine your success or failure.”

Greg gulped. He was in even more trouble than he thought.

“Now listen,” said Hazel. “Inside the Passageway of Shifted Dimensions there exists a fourth amulet, very similar to the real Amulet of Ruuan and the other two you now wear about your neck. It is a very powerful object, even more so than the other three. The spirelings use it to control the magic of the passageway, but I can put it to much better use here.”

“I don’t know,” said Greg. “It sounds like stealing to me.”

“Of course it’s stealing,” Hazel said. “The spirelings would never give it up freely. Ruuan would incinerate them in a heartbeat.”

“Sorry. Why would Ruuan care what the spirelings did with their amulet?”

“Because it is not theirs to give. Ruuan loaned it to them centuries ago, so they could see in darkness and live under the intense heat of the spire. Without it they’d have to return to the forests. In time the passageway would be found, and the lair would be open to every dragon-thirsty adventurer on Myrth. Ruuan would never have a moment’s peace again.”

“It sounds very important, this amulet,” Greg said. “All the more reason I shouldn’t be stealing it.”

“Fool!” Hazel nearly spat. “Ruuan won’t need to worry about trespassers once he’s dead.”

Hazel’s face had turned the same fierce red as Lucky’s backpack, and Greg had a fleeting notion that as bright as it was, she could probably travel safely through the Enchanted Forest. She planted her cane on the floor by her chair, pried herself to her feet, and craned her neck backward until she stared Greg straight in the eye. Miraculously Greg stared back at her, though a good deal of the time he was really focused on a far less intimidating splotch on the wall behind.

Slowly Hazel raised her head and shoulders until her eyes were level with Greg’s own, but she didn’t stop there. Her deformed back creaked and crackled and gradually unfurled until Greg found himself craning his own neck back just to keep her in sight, and still she grew.

The witch’s matted hair surged from her head like so many serpents and darkened to a deep black. Her flesh stretched smooth. She stared down at Greg, her eyes no longer those of a tired, aged woman but those of a wild animal sizing up its prey.

Greg sidled toward the door.

“Stop!”

Greg nearly fell over backward. The torch slipped from his grasp, and suddenly the room went dark. He groped the floor, not knowing where Hazel was—not knowing if she was about to seize him through the blackness.

There. His right hand struck wood, but the torch didn’t light.

She’s cast a spell to cancel its magic. Greg felt his chest squirm. Now she’s put a spell on me.

Greg felt the tiny shadowcat struggle loose and run down his arm, and a second later, rolling wood rumbled in the darkness. Greg stabbed his free hand toward the sound and watched the eternal torch burst to life. Nearby lay Nathan’s staff. The shadowcat hopped over it, as if reminding Greg it was there, and then darted back into hiding beneath Greg’s tunic. Greg seized the torch and the staff and jumped to his feet, brandished the staff like a weapon.

Hazel laughed, a hollow haunting sound that caused Greg to lose all hope. The staff slipped. He groped madly just to keep from dropping it.

“Let me put this to you in terms you can understand, little one,” Hazel said, and this time her voice reverberated strongly throughout the close room. The crow on the back of her rocker flapped its wings for balance but never made a sound. “You will bring me the amulet from the Infinite Spire. In exchange I will give you the things you asked for. I’ll even give you something you’ve not yet requested, but which should be quite precious to you.”

“W-what’s that?” Greg asked.

“I will allow you to leave with your life. Personally, I would just as soon keep you for spare parts,” she said, indicating the jars about the room with a sweep of her hand, “but there is the matter of the prophecy. I cannot argue the future.”

Greg realized he hadn’t breathed for quite a while and opted now to make up for lost time. Hazel waved her arms, and Greg felt the lump beneath his tunic disappear. For a moment he thought the witch had taken his shadowcat, but then he realized the two amulets that had warmed his chest were gone, along with any hope he had of defeating Ruuan.

Then Hazel waved her arms a second time, and Greg felt the lump return beneath his tunic. To his surprise the familiar tingle of magic returned as well. Was it possible Hazel had been telling the truth about the real Amulet of Ruuan?

Again he leaned Nathan’s staff in the crook of his elbow. He took the amulet in his fingers, felt the power emanating there. Hazel had given him something else as well. Two new chains hung about his neck. He tugged them out from under his tunic to reveal two small vials: one containing a bright red liquid that swirled with a life of its own, and another that was black as night in the Shrieking Scrub.

Hazel’s eyes burned into him. “You now have everything you need. Drink the red potion when the heat becomes unbearable,” and Greg nearly popped the cork right then and there. “Use the black one on your boots. Do not disappoint me. If you do not return directly with the amulet I have given you, or if you do not bring me the other amulet from the Infinite Spire, you will not live to see your home again.”

She closed her eyes then. Her hair slowly crinkled and grayed, and her head and shoulders began to droop. When once again Greg towered over her, she cocked her head and stared him directly in the eye, looking remarkably similar to the crow perched on the rocker behind her. “Now be off. Can’t you see I’m an old woman who needs her rest?”

Greg stammered out an unintelligible response. Suddenly the world went dark. Greg had the feeling of being in an elevator coasting to a sudden stop. His stomach shifted, his feet left the ground, and once again he landed, this time on pungent soil.

Gray light filtered down from above. Greg realized he no longer stood inside Hazel’s shack but on the trail outside in the Shrieking Scrub. He was so scared he could barely stand. It didn’t seem like he’d been inside long, yet for some reason he felt nightfall was not far off. Though his head was spinning, and he had no idea how he got here, he had the presence of mind to remember one thing Nathan told him.

He didn’t want to be caught dead in the Shrieking Scrub after dark.

Hart Attack

From the unnatural stillness of the forest, Greg knew he was in the Shrieking Scrub, but which way to go? The sky ahead loomed dark as the shadow of death. But then the sky behind looked to be casting the shadow. His choice was clear. Still he jogged slowly, in case he’d chosen poorly and was about to run into the witch.

Minutes passed without so much as a single disaster. Greg quickened his step. Soon he was sprinting away from danger, and while his imagination normally reveled in such chases, the usual feelings of glee remained conspicuously absent. When he glimpsed Lucky’s bright orange tunic ahead, he felt a surge of relief.

Steps from the bank and running full speed, Greg was so excited he nearly overlooked Black Blood Creek oozing across his path. Without breaking stride he hurled the eternal torch forward and planted Nathan’s staff in the goo. Never an overachiever in gym class, he managed this once to pole-vault to the far bank, drop the staff, and roll to a stop next to the now steaming torch. The shadowcat tumbled out from under his tunic and tore into the underbrush as Lucky and Nathan raced forward.

“About time,” said Lucky.

“You okay, Greg?” Nathan added, and helped Greg to his feet.

Greg handed back the staff and started blabbering about witches, amulets, and the queasy way elevators make you feel when they stop too suddenly.

“Slow down, Greg,” said Nathan. “Take a breath. You sound like you’ve nearly run yourself to death.”

“Away from death, more likely,” Lucky noted.

Greg took two deep breaths but could wait no longer. He blurted out everything he could recall about his meeting with Hazel, slowing only when he reached the part about the witch stealing his two amulets. Afterward he waited, afraid to hear how Lucky and Nathan would react.

“Excellent!” said Nathan. “You’ve done well, Greghart. Very well indeed. If there was ever a doubt, I think we can put it to rest. This prophecy has found its hero.”

“But I didn’t do anything.”

“Nonsense. You not only went to see the witch and returned alive, a rather astonishing accomplishment in its own right, but you got the torch, the spell and the dragon spit . . . oh, and the real Amulet of Ruuan. Why, you even brought my walking stick back unharmed,” Nathan added, holding out the staff as proof.

Greg tried unsuccessfully to ignore the steaming black goo. “I guess.”

“Listen to him, Lucky. Can you believe that modesty?”

“I told you the prophecy was true, Greg,” Lucky said. “Now maybe you’ll believe me.”

But Greg knew his escape from Hazel’s proved nothing. And no one could convince him that in the end it wouldn’t be Marvin Greatheart inside Ruuan’s lair. Mostly because any other possibility was too horrible to accept.

For the first time since Greg’s return, Nathan’s grin faded. “I’m afraid we have disturbing news.” He held up a length of charred wood. One end bubbled as if soaked in acid.

“Is that your staff?” Greg asked. “Sorry.”

“No, a piece of the foot bridge. See how it’s been cut most of the way through with an axe? I think someone may be trying to kill you.”

Greg wasn’t surprised. “I told you that witch was crazy.”

Lucky chuckled. “Why would a witch need to sabotage a bridge to kill you? I mean, think about it.”

Greg knew at once Lucky was right. If Hazel had wanted him dead, he’d be scattered about her many jars already. “Then who?” he asked.

“No way to know,” said Nathan. He threw down the rotted wood in disgust and paused to count his fingers.

“Sure there is,” said Greg. “Lucky can guess.”

“Sorry,” said Lucky. “I’m afraid I don’t have a clue. Think, Greghart. You have any enemies here you know of?”

“Greg,” Greg insisted.

“How can you be your own enemy?”

“No, stop calling me Greghart.”

“Sorry,” Lucky said. “Well?”

“You mean other than Ruuan?” said Greg. “Or the hundreds of thousands of spirelings waiting outside his lair?”

“Ruuan doesn’t need to tamper with a bridge to kill you either,” said Nathan, “and I doubt the spirelings even know you exist. Can you think of anyone else?”

“How about that one magician back at Pendegrass Castle?” said Greg. “He didn’t seem to like me much.”

“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.

“I worry, too,” Nathan said, “but there is no other way.”

Exhausted by the end of each day, Greg slept soundly through the nights, even when Rake was not around to help him. Each morning he woke feeling a trifle less sore than the morning before. Day by day he grew stronger, until one morning he woke feeling as if he’d been hit by a small car, perhaps just a motorcycle, instead of the usual truck. By mid-morning he’d walked off all of his aches, and by the evening chikan session, he was actually feeling reasonably good.

“Excellent, Greg,” Nathan said, as Greg repeated one particularly difficult move. “It’s as if you were meant to do this.”

Greg frowned, thinking Nathan was referring to the prophecy, but then he realized the man was offering a genuine compliment. Greg really was a natural at chikan. The other night Nathan had let the boys spar, and Greg found he was able to disarm and pin Lucky, who Nathan claimed to be the second best he’d ever taught, every two out of three matches.

For once in his life Greg actually felt strong, making him wonder if he might actually be building muscle on this adventure. He hoped so. Sure he was short, but maybe when he got home to his first day of school he wouldn’t be the scrawniest kid in class as well.

Only his first day of school had come and gone long ago, hadn’t it? It seemed as if he’d been hiking in the woods of Myrth forever. By now his parents must have given up all hope of ever finding him, and his friends had probably forgotten he even existed.

What friends? Greg caught himself thinking. He scowled and stabbed the air with his stick the way Nathan demonstrated.

“Breathe,” Nathan scolded. “Breathe.”

Greg moaned. “Did you get the number of the truck that hit me?” he asked Lucky at breakfast.

“What’s a truck?”

Nathan paused with a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth. “I think Greg was being facetious, Lucky. A truck is a sort of magic wagon.”

Greg looked at Nathan. “How do you know what a truck is?”

Nathan regarded him coolly. “I know many things.”

“Yes, but this thing isn’t possible for you to know.”

Nathan smiled. “Look at you, telling me what is possible. But you must realize, Myrth is not the only world I have seen. You, of all people, should be able to identify with that.”

“Oh.” Greg had never stopped to consider King Peter’s magicians might have brought others to Myrth. “What other worlds have you been to?”

“Ah, well, my home planet of Gyrth for one, but that is something I am not willing to discuss. I suggest you worry more about your own affairs.”

Greg didn’t need to be told to worry. He had kept going over the upcoming conversation with Simon in his head, and each time the scene played out the same. He heard the prophet saying that there had been no mistake. “Of course, the prophecy was meant for Greghart from Earth. Why, Greatheart from Myrth just wouldn’t make any sense.”

A part of Greg—a very small part that he’d have stomped out of existence if ever he caught it lurking about—also fretted that even if he did get out of this and make it safely back home, Marvin Greatheart might not show up in time to rescue Princess Priscilla. Greg wished there were some way he could help the princess, short of fighting Ruuan himself, of course, but clearly there was nothing he could do. Best not to dwell on the matter. Instead he focused on his promise to Queen Pauline to take note of the scenery. She was right. The forests here were incredible, even more exciting than those described on the pages of his journal. He didn’t even need to make up monsters to chase him here. They really were lurking behind every bush.

Wait, she said this would be pleasing.

“Trolls!”

Little more than a gasp to start with, the sound cut off in Lucky’s throat. Greg got the message just the same.

Nathan rushed forward and peered through the bushes. “How many?”

“Half dozen,” Lucky whispered.

“About six more than we want to tackle, then,” Nathan surmised. He motioned to the boys, and the three of them slipped into the brush to hide.

Within seconds the trolls were upon them. Smelly, hulking beasts with sloped foreheads and dull looks across their ugly faces. Like a half dozen Manny Malices. Only in all the years he’d know him, Greg couldn’t recall a single instance when Manny had sniffed the air in search of prey.

Greg held his breath as they passed and silently congratulated himself for not screaming, even if his ability to keep quiet was largely due to the tightness of the hand Nathan clamped over his mouth. In moments the danger was gone.

Nathan breathed a sigh of relief. “Lucky we were downwind of the beasts.”

Greg thrashed his head about, trying to shake the putrid troll stench from his nostrils. “You sure the upwind side wouldn’t have been luckier?”

Nathan glanced around the woods. “I must say, I am surprised. Normally I wouldn’t expect to hike an hour anywhere on Myrth without running afoul of at least one hideous creature or another. It’s hard to believe these are the first we have seen.”

“Ah, it was nothing,” said Lucky, dragging his toe through the dirt.

Greg had to admit fortune had been on their side, but he also imagined a forest on Myrth was the last place he wanted to be when his luck ran out. Maybe the last place he would be.

Lucky pointed ahead to a lush section of forest. “Wiccan Wood.”

“Wiccan?” Greg repeated nervously. “Are there more witches here?”

“Don’t know,” said Lucky, “but if so, they must not be the same sort as Hazel. You saw how the trees couldn’t survive in the Shrieking Scrub. Nature and evil don’t get along.”

“I suppose,” mumbled Greg, but still he kept his eyes and ears open.

He should have focused more attention on his nose.

He was still pondering over a familiar scent when the bushes began to shake. At first he was going to pass it off as just another monkeydog, but then an orange blur flashed behind the brush. Rake wailed in his ear and dove for cover, leaving a series of gashes in Greg’s shoulder.

“Something moved!” Greg shouted.

“Relax, Greg,” Lucky said, “it was probably just another monkeydog.”

“But I saw it move.”

In a flash Nathan fell into sensen stance, staff held out before him, breath calm but deliberate. “Take cover,” he urged the boys.

He needn’t have bothered. Lucky had dove behind Nathan’s legs the instant Greg said he’d seen movement, only to find the spot already claimed by Greg, who didn’t want to face anything that would concern either of his companions so.

A large branch snapped. Greg gathered the courage to peer out from behind Nathan’s knee. The underbrush shook violently and parted, and a huge creature with reddish-orange fur bounded onto the path ahead.

Tiger! Greg thought, but then realized no cat could be that huge.

The creature stood on hind legs like a bear, stretching impossibly far upward, its muscular, human-like arms held wide. Gleaming white fangs curled below its pointed chin, and a row of foot-long daggers jutted out of each paw. Its bellowing roar shook the entire forest, although the sound was nearly lost beneath the ear-piercing scream Greg offered.

Nathan visibly relaxed and lowered his walking stick to the ground. “Whoa, I must say that had me scared for an instant.”

Greg screamed again, but his throat had closed up so tightly, he managed little more than a squeak.

“Relax, Greg,” said Nathan. “It’s just a bollywomp. It won’t hurt you.”

Greg tried again to speak, but no sound would come. He shot Nathan a look that suggested he didn’t believe for a second this creature wouldn’t hurt him.

Lucky stood up. “He’s right, Greg. Bollywomps don’t like the way people taste. They only eat rabbits and mice and things.”

The bollywomp roared again, and Greg offered a sidelong glance at Lucky. “It’d have to eat at least one person before it knew whether it liked the taste, right?”

Lucky’s eyes darted back to the bollywomp, but the creature dropped to all fours just then and started to wander off. “See, nothing to worry about.”

Then the bollywomp paused and sniffed the air in the same disturbing way the group of trolls had done earlier. Greg’s breath caught in his throat. He could only pray the creature couldn’t smell fear, because he was drenched in it. The bollywomp met his eye, and Greg released a feeble whimper.

Suddenly the beast charged, bounding toward the three of them, though Greg was sure it was after him alone. The bollywomp sprang, its muscular arms with their razor-sharp claws slashing the air.

Even if Greg’s eyes hadn’t been squeezed tightly shut, he would have likely missed the blur of Nathan’s swing. The bollywomp howled as it passed, so close Greg could feel claws rake across his tunic, but Nathan’s defensive skills were masterful, and the creature’s vulnerable underbelly was no match for his staff. The beast fell with a thud, and Greg felt the ground shake before he could bring himself to open his eyes again. Before him lay the bollywomp in a huge, reddish-orange mound that steamed in the chill air.

Nathan wedged a foot against the body and jerked loose his staff. He crouched and stroked the monster’s fur. “I don’t understand. Bollywomps are usually such gentle creatures. I’ve never known one to attack.”

Greg rose unsteadily to his feet and leaned cautiously forward. “You sure this is a bollywomp?”

“Your tunic, Greg,” said Lucky. “Are you okay?”

Greg glanced down at his side where Lucky was staring. His tunic was slashed wide open, and beneath the ragged edges of cloth, a red stain nearly as bright as Lucky’s hair ebbed across his skin. Nathan said something, but from a long way off. For a moment Greg felt as though he were falling. Then something hard struck him sharply across the back of the head, and day turned instantly to dark.

Damaged Hart

“What happened?” Greg asked when daylight finally fought its way back into his vision. He was lying on the hard-packed trail, staring at a faint blue sky through a thick canopy of tree branches. Rake sniffed around his mouth, checking for breath.

“You fainted,” said Lucky.

“I did . . . why?”

Then he remembered. He bolted upright. “The bollywomp!” A sharp pain exploded in his side, and he fell backward again, coughing and gasping for air.

“It’s okay, Greg,” Lucky assured him. “It’s gone now. How do you feel?”

“I-I don’t know,” said Greg, and this was true. He couldn’t decide whether he felt more as if he’d been repeatedly beaten with a hot poker or as if someone had tried unsuccessfully to turn him inside out.

Nathan’s face appeared between Greg and the sky. His usual smile had been replaced by a disturbingly sober expression. “You’re going to be fine, son. It’s only a shallow wound. It could have been much worse.”

Greg looked at Nathan helplessly. “I thought you said bollywomps wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Normally, they wouldn’t . . . Lucky, could you give us a moment?”

“Um, sure.” Lucky meandered off toward the edge of the clearing, returned hastily for his walking stick, and left again.

“Listen, Greg,” said Nathan, once Lucky was out of earshot. “I know that boy has you convinced he has nothing but good fortune all the time—”

“He is awful lucky,” Greg interrupted.

“That depends on how you look at it.”

“You mean like with your eyes open?” Greg said. He tried once again to sit upright, but he might as well have tried to fly.

“The boy is lucky in the sense that King Peter took him in when he had no one else,” Nathan said, “but I’m afraid there is little more to it than that.”

“King Peter took him in?”

“About a year ago, when the boy’s parents died and left him alone. It only made sense. Everyone already thought he had royal blood anyway.”

Greg’s side stabbed at him until he shifted to a more comfortable position. Yes, he decided, it definitely felt more as if he’d been turned inside out. “Why did they think that?” he asked.

“His hair, obviously.”

Greg offered Nathan his best blank expression.

“Haven’t you noticed?” Nathan said. “Lucky’s the only one in the entire kingdom outside the royal family with red hair. I guess you could say that was one more thing he was lucky about.”

“What happened to his parents?”

“Killed by trolls, I’m told. You saw how his carefree attitude disappeared when we spotted those beasts yesterday.”

Greg nodded. “Wait a minute. I thought you just met Lucky when you met me.”

“I did,” said Nathan, “but I’ve known King Peter most my life.”

Perhaps it was more like the beating, Greg debated, as he tried once more to sit upright. “What does all this have to do with Lucky’s talent?”

“Don’t you see? Lucky’s the kind of boy who could get struck by lightning twice in one week and still tell you how lucky he was not to be killed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He puts a positive spin on everything,” Nathan said. “Where you and I might construe being attacked by a bollywomp as bad luck, he’d just smile and say you were lucky because you came away with only that scratch.”

Greg stared at the crimson bandages Nathan had used to cover Greg’s wound. He didn’t feel lucky. “So why are you telling me this?”

Nathan bent to inspect Greg’s bandage and nodded as if he approved of his own work. “Because every time Lucky pushes himself to the brink of death and survives, he’ll consider himself lucky to be alive, but one day he’s going to push himself too far, and . . . well, then he won’t be around to consider his fortune one way or another.”

“I still don’t understand what that has to do with me.”

Nathan frowned. “Look, Greg, there’s nothing wrong with maintaining a positive attitude—it certainly has worked for Lucky so far—but you’re about to face some pretty insurmountable odds. I think you’d be wise not to trust your fate to chance alone.”

“If you’re talking about the prophecy, I couldn’t agree more.”

“I’m talking about the rabbit’s foot. I don’t care if you do think it will bring you good luck. You have no business carrying something like that around out here in the forest. Why, it practically got you killed today. How lucky is that?”

“What rabbit’s foot?”

Nathan dug in his pocket and retrieved a furry brown object, about the size of his thumb, and held it up for Greg to see. “I found it concealed beneath your tunic,” he said, scowling.

“That’s not mine,” Greg said with a huff.

“It’s not?” Nathan said, studying the rabbit’s foot with renewed interest. “Then whose?”

Both he and Greg glanced over at Lucky. The boy must have felt their stares because he suddenly looked their way. “What?”

“Do you know anything about this?” Nathan asked.

Lucky strode forward, trying to make out the small object in Nathan’s hand. “What is it?” he said, reaching out a hand of his own.

“A rabbit’s foot,” Greg told him.

“Ugh,” Lucky said, yanking his fingers back. “That’s disgusting.”

“Then it’s not yours?” said Nathan.

“Do I look like a rabbit?”

“Some people believe they bring good luck,” explained Greg.

“I’d more expect them to bring bollywomps. Besides, what would I need with good luck?”

Greg exchanged looks with Nathan. “He’s got a point.”

“Then where did it come from?” Nathan wondered out loud.

“Maybe . . . ” said Lucky, cutting himself off in mid thought.

“Maybe what?” said Greg.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Please, son,” said Nathan, “if you know something, now’s not the time to hold back.”

“I don’t know anything at all,” said Lucky, although Greg thought the boy was being a bit hard on himself. “I was just thinking, maybe it belongs to the same person who chopped through the bridge supports back at Black Blood Creek.”

“You think this was another deliberate attempt on Greg’s life?” Nathan said.

Greg hadn’t thought he could feel more uneasy. Then suddenly he remembered.

“The smell,” he said. Nathan and Lucky regarded him curiously. “Just before the bollywomp appeared I noticed this odor . . . I don’t know exactly . . . . it reminded me of the time I tried using my mom’s eggbeater to mix up a new color of modeling clay and caused an electrical fire.”

“You should take another look at his wound,” Lucky told Nathan. “I think he’s delirious.”

“He’s talking about electricity,” said Nathan, “like in a bolt of lightning. It burns the air and leaves the smell of ozone behind.”

“Exactly,” said Greg, “same as I smelled when you brought me here. To Myrth, I mean.”

“Sounds like magic,” said Lucky. “Hey, maybe Greg was right about Mordred trying to kill him and make it look like an accident.”

Nathan shook his head. “No, I know Mordred. I can assure you, he did not do this.”

Something about the man’s tone left Greg convinced he couldn’t possibly have a thing to worry about from the nasty magician he met back at Pendegrass Castle, no matter how much the evidence suggested otherwise. Nathan wouldn’t lie. He was here to help, as he had proved when he loaned Greg his staff back at the Shrieking Scrub.

“Well,” said Lucky, “we still haven’t seen that girl adventurer Hazel mentioned.”

Nathan looked worried. “I suppose it could be the girl, but whether it is or not, I think we’d better use caution from here on out. I can only assume whoever planted that rabbit’s foot on Greg’s person did so while he slept, and I don’t mind saying it bothers me to think someone with that much stealth and courage might be stalking us as we speak.”

Both Lucky and Greg glanced about the clearing, but the only thing to see was a large swath of red where Nathan and Lucky had obviously dragged off the bollywomp’s body.

“We should get going,” said Nathan. “We have but one day before we reach Simon’s. We’ll just have to keep our ears and eyes open until then.”

“Noses, too,” said Lucky.

Greg didn’t worry about keeping his eyes open. His were stretched wide as could be for the rest of that day’s hike and much of the night as well. Even with Rake purring next to him, he found it hard to sleep. For some reason camping in a forest full of monsters was not nearly as frightening as camping where he knew a single human might be out to kill him. After all, humans had intelligence, and even if this was just a girl, she seemed to have a great deal of stealth as well.

“Maybe it’s not as bad as we think,” said Lucky as both boys lay awake in the darkness.

Greg groaned. “If you tell me how lucky I am she didn’t kill me when she snuck into our camp, I’ll—”

“No, that’s not what I was going to say at all . . . well, not exactly. But the fact is she did come into our camp before, and you’re still alive, aren’t you?”

“I’m warning you, Lucky . . . .”

“No, hear me out. If she was really trying to kill you, why didn’t she just slit your throat while you slept?”

“Oh, great. Say it a little louder, why don’t you?”

Rake’s tail suddenly brushed across his leg, and Greg nearly screamed. A few seconds later he heard a muffled gasp through the darkness and decided Rake must have found Lucky’s leg as well.

“I’m serious,” Lucky said a moment later. “I don’t think she’s really trying to kill you. I think she’s just trying to scare you a bit.”

“Yeah, well, she scared me all right. I nearly got my insides torn out by a bollywomp. How did she know I wouldn’t be killed?”

Lucky was silent a long moment. Finally his voice broke the quiet of the night.

“There can be only one answer. She must be familiar with the prophecy.”

If Greg had felt sore most of his journey, it was nothing compared to how he felt when he woke the next morning. The wound in his side burned so intensely it was all he could do to crawl from his bedroll and gulp down the breakfast cakes and fosselberry syrup Lucky pulled from his pack. Nathan removed Greg’s dressing long enough to study the wound, then gently wrapped it back into place.

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“W-what?” Greg asked, frightened by Nathan’s tone. “Was it poison?”

Lucky chuckled. “Don’t be silly, Greg. You saw the claws on that bollywomp. Why would a creature like that need to poison anything?”

“No, you weren’t poisoned,” said Nathan, “but the wound has started to fester. Do you think you can make it to Simon’s?”

“Sure, just help me to my feet.”

“You’re already standing.”

“Oh, then no . . . I doubt I can make it.”

Once again the darkness crept into Greg’s vision. As before, his feet gave way, but this time he remained conscious, able to listen to the sounds around him.

“Quick, Lucky,” he heard Nathan say, “do you know what jinsen looks like?”

“Of course,” Lucky’s voice replied.

“Good, let’s split up. It likes scattered sunlight, so try that area over there, where the trees are thinner. I’ll check over this way.”

Greg heard rustling to his right and surmised Nathan must have left the clearing. More noise to his left told him Lucky, too, had joined the search. But then Greg heard still more rustling in the direction of his feet, and his heart skipped a beat.

Please be a monkeydog, he thought, but as might be expected for someone whose luck had run out, his wish was to go ungranted.

“What’s this?” he heard someone say.

Who would have thought a young girl’s voice could sound so terrifying?

Hart of the Matter

A blurry outline of a human head hovered over him. Greg tried to scream but doubted anyone heard, perhaps not even the girl adventurer who stood at his feet.

“What’s that you say?” she asked. “Help, was it? Oh, you’re bleeding!”

Greg felt a tug on his bandages and tried screaming again. This time it must have worked, because the girl jumped back and shouted at him—something about yelling in her ear. He heard Lucky far off to his left.

“Greg, are you all right? Nathan, quick, I think something’s happened to Greg.”

The rustling in the woods turned frantic, and Greg knew Nathan and Lucky were both racing back to help. For a moment he lost the ability to breathe.

“Who’s out there?” the girl shouted, and Greg took satisfaction in hearing a tremor in her voice. The rustling bore right down on the two of them, and then it stopped.

“Prissy!” Greg heard Lucky cry. “What are you doing here?”

“Princess Priscilla?” said Nathan’s voice nearby. “I must say, I was not expecting to see you.”

Greg exhaled with a whoosh. Could this really be King Peter’s second daughter and not the girl adventurer who was out to kill him? But then the full realization struck. The princess had escaped the dragon! He wanted to scream for joy but couldn’t locate his voice.

“Do I know you?” the princess asked Nathan.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t remember, but we’ll have to save the introductions for later. Our friend here is very ill. We must find some jinsen root before he goes into shock.”

“Are you kidding? He’ll be dead before you find jinsen this close to a fosselberry grove. Don’t you have any healing spells?”

There was a long pause, and while Greg’s vision may have been cloudy, he was almost certain he witnessed a lot of embarrassed head shaking.

“I can’t believe you two,” the girl scolded. She certainly didn’t sound like a princess, but then neither had her sister Penelope. “Here, you can use one of mine.”

Greg heard the clink of glass and felt an icy cold stab in his side. He couldn’t decide if it hurt more or less than the wound, but soon the pain subsided and Greg’s vision began to clear. The girl hovering over him had red curls that hung down, blocking most of her face, but Greg could see she was about his own age and quite pretty. She very well could be a princess.

Yet aside from her hair she was nothing like her sister. Sure, Penelope was beautiful, but her skin was so white it looked unnatural, almost the pale white of a grub you might find under a rock. Come to think of it, Greg had an idea a grub probably logged more hours in the sun. Both times Greg saw her, Penelope had been garbed in the finest of dresses, and her manner was so proper she looked out of place outdoors, even on the perfectly groomed grass of the castle lawn. He couldn’t imagine her stepping foot into any forest, let alone one named Wiccan Wood.

Priscilla’s skin, however, was tan and freckled. Instead of a dress she wore dungarees and a button down shirt, much like the outfit Nathan wore, and in spite of her petite frame she looked perfectly at home here in the wilds of Wiccan Wood. It was hard to believe the two were sisters.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

“Better is a relative term,” Greg said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you really Princess Priscilla?”

“Who wants to know?”

She and Penelope quite possibly were sisters after all. “My name’s Greg. Greg Hart.”

“You’re Greghart?” she said, astounded. “You’ve got to be kidding?”

Yep, that clinched it.

“He’s not kidding, Prissy,” said Lucky. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the forest, anyway?”

Priscilla jumped to her feet. “Don’t you speak to me in that tone, Lucky Day. And stop calling me Prissy. You know I hate that name.”

“Fine, Priscilla, then.”

“No, I don’t like that either. Call me Sasha.”

Lucky laughed out loud. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

The princess stomped her feet in the dirt and wailed, “Do I sound like I’m kidding?” Greg had to admit, she sounded more like a Sasha than a Priscilla. He tried asking what Priscilla was doing here, but no one heard.

“Fine, Princess,” interrupted Nathan, “we would be happy to call you Sasha. But you still haven’t said what you are doing out here in the forest alone.”

“And you are?” Priscilla asked in a tone that sounded far too commanding for such a small body.

“Sorry. Nathaniel Caine is my name. Please, call me Nathan.”

“Very well, Mr. Caine. If you must know, I’m on my way to the Infinite Spire to rescue my sister from the dragon Ruuan.”

“You’re what?” Greg shouted, or so it felt to him. If the others heard, they gave no indication.

“You’re going to fight Ruuan?” Lucky scoffed. “Why on Myrth would you want to do that?”

“Somebody’s got to do something,” Priscilla said. “I’m sure you’ve heard how that idiot Simon botched up the prophecy. Now Marvin Greatheart’s gone off to who knows where, and no one’s left to save Penelope.”

“Your sister’s back at the castle,” Greg called out from below. Maybe he’d actually died from his wound. That would explain why everyone was ignoring him. But it didn’t explain why Lucky and Priscilla were still talking about slaying the dragon and rescuing Penelope.

“Simon didn’t botch up the prophecy,” Lucky insisted. “Greghart, here, is going to save her.”

Now it was the princess who laughed. It was a shrill, mocking sound, and given the circumstances Greg couldn’t say he liked it. “Do you hear what you’re saying? Look at him. He’s just a boy.”

Greg didn’t know whether to take offense or not. Sure, he knew he couldn’t possibly fight a dragon, but so many people had told him otherwise lately, he’d begun to believe it was true—or at least wish it were true. Now Priscilla, or Sasha, or whatever she wanted to be called, was suggesting he wasn’t a hero at all. In fact, from her tone it sounded as if she was suggesting he wasn’t much of a boy.

Lucky looked furious. “Greg may not be very old—” he started to say.

“Who’s Greg?” Priscilla interrupted.

“I am,” insisted Greg, but still the others ignored him.

“Greghart. He wants us to call him Greg,” Lucky explained.

The princess frowned. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Okay, Sasha. Greg may be just a boy, but he’s going to be a hero soon enough. That is, if you don’t get in his way. Hey, you haven’t been trying to stop him, have you?”

“Somebody tell me what’s going on,” Greg demanded. He used all the strength he could muster to crawl to his feet.

“Why would I want to stop him?” Priscilla said. “I just met him. Besides, what do I care what he does? I’ve got more important things to worry about, remember?”

“We believe there have been a couple of attempts on Greg’s life,” said Nathan. “We also have the word of Witch Hazel that a girl visited her the day before we arrived, and it was not far from Hazel’s, at the edge of Black Blood Creek, that Greg suffered his first mishap.”

“You were at Witch Hazel’s and you didn’t pick up a healing spell?” The princess’s tone suggested he’d forgotten to pick up brains as well. But then her nostrils flared, and she met Nathan’s eye with an accusing glare. “Just what is it you’re trying to say, Mr. Caine?”

“Nothing Highness,” Nathan said quickly. “I was just explaining the facts so you would understand why Lucky asked what he did.”

“Please don’t call me that!”

“Call you what?” Nathan asked.

“Highness. Do I look particularly tall to you? I hate all that pompous royalty nonsense. Weren’t you listening? I want you to call me Sasha.”

“My apologies,” Nathan said, bowing.

“And don’t bow to me either.”

Greg whistled as loudly as he could. “Would you two stop?”

Priscilla regarded him as if just now realizing he was still there.

Her attention was so unexpected, Greg could barely think what to say. “How did you get away from the dragon?”

Priscilla looked at Lucky and Nathan. “What’s he talking about?”

“You never answered my question,” Lucky told Priscilla. “You’re not trying to stop Greg, are you?”

“Of course not. Ruuan will do that.” She thought a moment. “But maybe I will tag along with you. I might be able to use this boy somehow. Who knows? Maybe he can distract Ruuan while I make my move.” She somehow managed to look down her nose at Greg, even though he actually stood an inch or two taller. “Though I can’t imagine him distracting the dragon for long.”

“You just wait,” Lucky huffed. “Greg’s going to do more than just distract Ruuan.”

I can’t even distract these three, Greg thought.

“He’s going to slay him,” continued Lucky, “and then you and everyone else who doubted him will be sorry.”

Obviously the two were both crazy, but Greg at least liked hearing Lucky defend him. He puffed out his chest and shot the princess his best what-do-you-have-to-say-about-that? look.

“I’ll be happy to apologize to his ashes when the time comes,” Priscilla said snootily, causing Greg’s chest to deflate so quickly he was lucky he didn’t whiz around the forest like a burst balloon. “Now, let’s go. We’re wasting time.”

“Go where?” Greg groaned.

“You’re welcome to come if you want, Princess,” said Nathan, “but we’re not headed straight to Ruuan’s. We’re stopping off at Simon’s first.”

“Simon’s? How irresponsible. What about my sister?”

“Relax,” Lucky said. “Penelope is still safe at the castle. She won’t even be taken for a couple of days.”

“Quiet!” Greg screamed.

The others finally fell silent and stared at him.

“What’s this about Ruuan coming for Penelope?”

“You remember Ruuan, Greg,” said Lucky. “The dragon?”

“Of course I remember.” He pointed at Priscilla. “He was supposed to have taken her.”

Priscilla offered him the same look she’d used when Nathan said he didn’t have a healing spell. “Ruuan never took me.”

“Prissy?” Lucky said. “Don’t be ridiculous. Sure, technically I guess she’s a princess, but—well, look at her.”

“What about me?” Priscilla snapped.

“But King Peter said she was missing,” Greg insisted. “He was all sad and everything.”

“No,” said Lucky, “he said she couldn’t be with us. Besides, Prissy is always missing.”

“Sasha!”

“See how headstrong she is? King Peter can’t control her. He was just sad because he hoped she’d want to be part of such a historic event.”

Priscilla looked concerned. “Daddy was sad?”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Greg said. His mind was reeling again, but this time not from his injury. “If it was Penelope everyone was worried about, why didn’t we just stay at the castle and guard her, make sure Ruuan never got to her? I would have even helped if I could. Who knows? I could have stood lookout or something.”

Lucky shook his head. “No, that’s not how it’s written at all. The prophecy was very clear about us heading into the Enchanted Forest.”

“What? Who cares about the stupid prophecy? Don’t you see? You never even needed me. If you’d have just taken that room full of magicians and set them on Ruuan instead of me, you wouldn’t have had a problem.”

Lucky rolled his eyes. “Have all of King Peter’s magicians go against a prophecy? You might as well ask the sun not to rise in the morning.”

“But—”

“Why would anyone even want to go to Simon’s, anyway?” Priscilla asked Lucky.

“Greg wants to find out more about the prophecy,” answered Nathan. “He wants to be as prepared as possible when he faces Ruuan.”

Priscilla once again tilted her head back to regard Greg down her nose. “Believe me, preparations aren’t going to help. You’re probably right though. He should talk to Simon. Once he sees what a doddering old fool the man is, maybe he’ll climb off his high horse and realize the prophecy was supposed to be about Marvin Greatheart, not him.”

“I already know that.” Greg nodded toward Lucky and Nathan. “Tell them.”

“Oh?” said the princess.

“Look,” said Greg, “I’m sorry about your sister, and I wish there were some way I could help, I really do. But I wouldn’t stand a chance against a dragon. I just want to get back home.”

The princess studied him a long while, as if trying to determine the truth of his words. Greg didn’t know why, but he found himself struggling to look sincere. Suddenly Priscilla’s eyes widened. “Oh, you poor thing.”

Greg tried to ask what she meant, but she cut him off. “We better see Simon, after all, get you back home where you belong. There’s no sense in you getting yourself killed for nothing. I can find some other distraction for Ruuan.”

“You’re still going to fight the dragon yourself?” Greg asked, astonished.

“Of course,” she said. “Penelope’s my sister, and no one else is going to do it.”

Greg felt a pang of guilt, and he almost told Priscilla he would help, but something stopped him. Most likely it was his sanity. Instead he tried not to think about Princess Penelope’s predicament as he and the others gathered up their things and headed into the forest once more.

The Prophet

The sun arced overhead and had begun to drop again when Greg smelled the potent aroma of wildflowers. By the time the group emerged from Wiccan Wood to gaze across a vast field, the fragrance was nearly overwhelming.

Greg quickly decided there must be a flower of every hue in the world here—maybe more, considering this was not his world. Ahead he could see bits and pieces of trail winding through the field toward a distant structure. Though a pretty golden brown in its own right, it looked unnaturally dull amidst the splendor of the surrounding flowers.

“Welcome to Heaven’s Canvas,” said Nathan, smiling broadly.

“Wow,” Greg said. “It’s amazing.”

Priscilla smiled. “Mom would be glad we took the time to notice.”

“Well, no use standing about,” said Nathan, and with that he strode down the loamy trail that wound its way more or less toward the distant house.

Greg rushed along with the others, stopping several times to gape. As they turned the last bend and trudged up the path toward the small house, an old woman stood upon the front walk, gathering wildflowers into a woven basket. She straightened as they approached, massaging her lower back with one hand as if the effort pained her, but she did not look their way.

“Hello,” Lucky called as they drew near. “Missus Sezxqrthm, hello.”

The woman continued to pick flowers, oblivious of the group’s approach. At least it gave Greg time to study her without her noticing him staring. He had heard some people on Earth lived to be a hundred, but he estimated this woman to be twice that old or older.

“Missus Sezxqrthm?” Lucky repeated. Still she didn’t seem to hear. “MISSUS SEZXQRTHM!”

With a jerk, the woman emitted a feeble scream.

“What in blazes!” she said in a voice that was twice as loud as need be, or four times what she should have been capable of. “Can’t you see I’m an old woman? Not that you ought to be sneakin’ up on anybody, mind, but—who are you, anyway?”

“It’s me, Missus Sezxqrthm,” said Lucky.

“What?” she shouted. “You ain’t Missus Sezxqrthm.”

“No . . . I’m Lucky Day.”

“It ain’t your lucky day?” she yelled. “What do I care? Who are you? What do you want?”

“We came to see your husband, ma’am.”

“Who?” the woman blared, squinting hard enough to cut right through him. “Speak up.”

“Your husband,” Lucky repeated louder. “Simon?”

“I know my husband’s Simon,” she replied gruffly. “And you don’t have to yell.”

Greg exchanged glances with Priscilla, who covered her mouth to keep from giggling in spite of the day’s tensions.

“Say, you’re Sonny Day’s boy, ain’t ya?” the woman asked Lucky.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Lucky.”

“Good for you.” The woman squinted at the princess, scrunching up her face as if trying to recall a memory long past, and Greg silently wondered just how one went about retrieving a single event from a couple of centuries worth of experiences.

“You look familiar, chil’. Have we met?”

“I’m Princess Priscilla . . . King Peter’s daughter?”

The woman scowled. “I know King Peter’s not here. He lives in Pendegrass Castle, clear on the other side o’ the Enchanted Forest.” She turned Greg’s direction. “Who’re you?”

“Greg Hart.”

The woman sniggered. “You ain’t Greatheart. I may be old, but I know a dragonslayer when I see one. Greatheart’s a tall, strapping young buck, makes my knees go weak every time I see him. Not that my knees are all that strong most o’ the time, mind, but well . . . you know.”

Greg stared back at her. “No, Mrs. Sezx—er, Mrs. Sezxquer—er—”

“Just call her Missus Sez, Greg,” Lucky advised him. “Most people do.”

Greg nodded. “We’re looking for Simon, Mrs. Sez.” He turned suddenly to Lucky. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me your prophet’s name is Simon Sez, and you go around doing anything he tells you?”

“Well, his name’s Simon Sezxqrthm, actually. Most of us just call him Simon Sez. And it’s not like we do whatever he tells us. He only tells us what we’re already going to do.”

Greg frowned. To Mrs. Sez he asked, “Is Simon here?”

She stared at him, confused. “You’re in where?”

“No . . . IS. SIMON. HERE?”

She nodded. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying, boy. Maybe you should talk to my husband, Simon.”

Greg swallowed back a comment. The old woman escorted them all into the house, through three empty rooms, and right out the back door. Greg was beginning to think she’d misunderstood again, until he saw an old man sitting at an easel in a tiny patch of green yard behind the house. He was facing the most beautiful landscape Greg had ever seen, yet the painting in front of him looked as if he’d toppled a paint can onto the canvas.

“Simon, we have guests,” the old woman shouted, her voice so loud Greg was sure he, too, would be deaf if he stayed here much longer. The old man looked up from his work. If his wife was two centuries old, this man was easily three or more.

“Wozzat? Hooreezfok?”

It took Greg a moment to recognize the first part as “What’s that?” and the last part as “Who are these folk?”

“This here’s Sonny Day’s boy,” Mrs. Sez said. “And I guess this must be his girlfriend . . . and well, I don’t know about them other two.” She leaned toward her husband and covered her mouth with one hand, adding in a whisper that shook the easel, “This one thinks he’s Greatheart, the famous dragonslayer.”

“Grauht, naint thadahoot. Wacniduferu?”

“What’d he say?” Lucky asked Mrs. Sez. He might as well have asked the easel.

“Are you going to answer his question, or not?” she yelled.

“What question?” moaned Lucky. “What did he say?”

“He asked what he could do for you.”

“We want to know about the prophecy involving Greghart and the dragon Ruuan,” Nathan tried.

The old man shouted something totally incoherent. Mrs. Sezxqrthm held a hand to her ear and forced him to repeat himself twice, until Greg felt his ears would bleed, but each time was no clearer than the last. Finally she nodded. “He says that was a long time ago, and his memory ain’t what it used to be. What do you want to know?”

“We just want him to verify that it was Greg Hart, not Greatheart who was supposed to slay the dragon,” Nathan said. “The boy here thinks maybe there’s been a mix-up.”

She clearly didn’t understand a word he’d said, but Simon was prompted to spout off more indiscernible ramblings. Again, he repeated it several times before his wife understood. “That’s what I was thinking, too,” she screeched back at him. The pair yelled more gibberish back and forth, and finally Mrs. Sez turned to the others and smiled as if the matter had been settled.

“Well, what did he say?” Priscilla cried.

The old woman wilted, as if she couldn’t be expected to endure talking to the four of them a moment longer. “Weren’t you listening? He said he don’t remember.”

“I’m afraid this is hopeless,” Nathan said. “We’re never going to learn anything from these two.”

“No,” said Greg. “We’ve already learned everything we need.”

The others looked at him questioningly.

“Don’t you see? His mumbling is so bad he couldn’t have possibly communicated the prophecy correctly. And she’s so deaf she couldn’t have possibly heard him. But she’s the only one who stands a chance of understanding a word he says, so that means whoever got word to the King’s scribe must have got it at least secondhand through her, and then the scribe probably got it third-hand and had to remember it well enough to write it down. And that’s another problem. Lucky said that the scribe’s handwriting is atrocious. No telling how far from reality the original prophecy was from how it reads now.”

Greg rested, thoroughly pleased with his summation.

“Nonsense, Greg,” said Lucky. “Prophecies are never wrong.”

Greg felt his blood pound in his temples. “No, what you mean is, no prophecy has ever been wrong before. That doesn’t mean this won’t be the first time.”

Lucky looked to Nathan for backup.

“Greg’s right,” Nathan admitted. “Nor does it mean that he won’t be harmed in the process. Ruuan could chomp off an arm or sear off a leg and not affect the prophecy at all, but Greg surely wouldn’t view the ordeal as a success.”

Lucky glanced at Greg, who felt the color drain from his face. “I guess I didn’t think of that.”

“So, we can’t count on the prophecy,” said Priscilla. “What about my sister?”

Everyone looked to Greg, including Simon and his wife, although in Mrs. Sez’s case it was probably a coincidence, as it was not likely she was hearing the conversation.

Greg stared back defiantly. “What we need to do is find Marvin Greatheart.”

“Look, Greg,” said Lucky, “I can guarantee Ruuan is going to be slain, whether by you or by Greatheart or by Simon himself, what does it matter? The plain and simple fact is that if Marvin’s going to show up at the last second, as you would have us believe, then what’ve we got to lose? There’s no reason we shouldn’t at least go and watch the show.”

“We’ll get ourselves scorched,” argued Greg.

“Okay, maybe there’s one reason. But I still think we should go. We’ll just have to be careful.”

“Lucky’s right,” said Nathan. “Even if the prophecy was supposed to say Greatheart slays Ruuan, it doesn’t mean he’s going to do it without our help. We owe it to Princess Penelope to do everything we can.”

Greg knew Nathan was right, and he wanted to say so, but what he heard himself say was, “We do?”

“Yes,” Nathan said firmly, “we do.”

“I don’t care who else goes,” said Princess Priscilla, “but that’s my sister we’re talking about, and I’m going to help her.”

Greg wasn’t sure what to say to that. In the end he agreed to go on. Princess Priscilla seemed far too stubborn to be talked out of anything, and Greg felt fairly certain it wasn’t safe for her to be out wandering these forests by herself. They would just have to escort her for now and hope Greatheart caught up to them before the Infinite Spire. If not, well, Greg would decide then what to do. It was best not to dwell on the matter now, for if he did he would surely come to his senses and sprint off into the flowers.

While the Sezxqrthm’s house looked cozy, and darkness was beginning to fall, the group decided against asking to stay the night. It would be halfway to morning before they could hope to get Mrs. Sez to understand the request, let alone run it by Simon and get a straight answer. It was easier just to say goodbye and head back to Wiccan Wood. They made camp by the edge of the forest, knowing it would be safer there than inside. Lucky unpacked bedrolls for himself and Greg, while Nathan gathered flowers to make himself a soft mat to sleep on.

“Look, Nathan’s going to sleep on a flowerbed,” Greg said, trying to ease his own tension. The others gaped at him as if he’d lost his mind, and it was enough to make Greg want to go back and apologize to the incoherent Simon for the look Greg had given him.

Princess Priscilla carried a pack similar to Lucky’s, only half as big. From it she pulled a full-size goose-down mattress, which she laid out on the ground next to Greg’s tiny bedroll, but before turning in, the boys looked to Nathan for their usual chikan lesson.

“I want to join in, too,” Priscilla said. She hunted out a suitable walking stick, and amazed Greg when she challenged him to a friendly sparring match, then promptly disarmed him and pinned him flat on his back.

Nathan grinned approvingly. “Maybe we should let you tackle Ruuan after all, Princess.”

“Where did you learn to do that?” Greg said, struggling to his feet.

“Dad taught me,” she told him. “Being a princess isn’t all white lace and satin, you know. I have to be able to protect myself.”

Greg rubbed his elbow where his arm struck the ground. “Yeah, well, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble.”

Nathan turned the night’s lesson over to Priscilla, who shared tips that, when combined with all Nathan had taught about breathing and concentration (which turned out not to be nonsense after all), helped Greg greatly improve his chikan skills. Soon Greg could best both Lucky and Priscilla in every sparring contest. Give him a stick and a moment to compose himself, and he felt he could defeat any opponent. Then he remembered the type of opponents Myrth had to offer.

Priscilla interrupted his thoughts. “Greg, can I talk to you about something?”

He stared at her, his stick hovering in midair.

“In private.”

Greg lowered his stick. “Sure.”

The two left Nathan and Lucky to practice and moved to the spot where the bedrolls were laid out. Greg looked to Priscilla expectantly.

“It’s about what you were saying at Simon’s,” she said, “about prophecies never being wrong.”

“I thought we settled that. This is going to be the first.”

“No, it won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

Priscilla glanced over at Nathan and Lucky and back again. “Yes, I can.” She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “If anything, this would be the second.”

Greg’s jaw dropped. “What are you saying?”

She looked at him sternly. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll deny everything.”

Greg lowered his voice, too. “Tell me what you know.”

“When my father received word of the prophecy from Simon, Mother started acting weird.” She grinned slightly. “That’s usually Dad’s department. I knew right away something was wrong, so I hounded her to tell me what it was.”

“What did she say?”

“To mind my own business.”

“Everything okay over there?” Nathan called out.

“We’re fine,” Greg said, feeling anything but. He fixed Priscilla with a stare. “So, what do you know?”

“I don’t think Mother would have ever told me, but each day closer to your arrival she grew more and more worried about Penelope. She’s been putting on a brave face for Dad, but I think she finally needed someone to confide in.”

“And she told you about another prophecy?”

“No.” Priscilla looked at the others again. “I mean yes. Sort of. She didn’t tell me anything about it, just that she thinks there was a prophecy that didn’t come true. Apparently there was some big cover-up. I don’t think many people know about it. Not even Daddy.” Priscilla quieted. “Greg, are you okay?”

Greg swallowed hard. “Since I’ve been here, I was sure that everyone on Myrth was crazy.”

“Thanks.”

“But there’s always been this one chance, however small, that they were right and I was the crazy one.” His voice barely escaped his throat. “Now even that small chance is gone.”

Priscilla shrugged. “Well, at least you’re not crazy.”

Greg found it impossible to sleep. He slipped away from the others and used the eternal torch to light a second length of wood, which he planted in the ground so he could free up his hands to write in his journal. He had intended the book to last only one summer, and while that in itself had required him to use small print, the number of bizarre experiences he had been recording since he arrived in Myrth had required him to achieve a new mastery of tiny penmanship.

Priscilla must have been having trouble sleeping too. She walked up behind him and spoke, nearly causing him to scream. “What are you doing?”

“Writing about my adventure,” Greg said. “It helps me relax.” He noticed his hand trembling. “Usually.”

“You know how to write?” she asked, amazed.

“Well, sure,” Greg said. “Don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Priscilla said indignantly. “But I’m royalty. Most . . . common folk never learn.”

“Most?”

“Well, a few do. Like my father’s scribe, Brandon.”

“Not very well, according to Lucky.”

Priscilla frowned. “He’s not that bad when he’s not drinking. Oh no.” Her face reddened in the cutest way. “He wasn’t drunk when you met him, was he?”

“I didn’t,” said Greg. “Meet him, I mean.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Normally Dad doesn’t allow it, but he really has gone overboard on this whole Greghart thing. It’s really embarrassing.”

“What is?”

“My dad—he’s usually not so—what I mean is, he’s quite smart. I don’t know why he can’t see the prophecy is wrong. I knew as soon as I heard. It’s so obvious.” She stared at Greg with an odd expression.

“What are you looking at?” he asked her.

“We need to get back to the castle so we can send you home.”

“If you’re waiting for me to disagree, we could be here a while.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He exhaled deeply. “But first I have a plan to save your sister.”

Priscilla’s face brightened. “You do?”

“All we have to do is make sure Ruuan never gets hold of her,” Greg explained.

Priscilla looked skeptical. “How would we do that?”

“Easy. We hide her. Ruuan can’t take her if he can’t find her.”

Priscilla frowned. “No. People around here take this prophecy stuff pretty seriously. We can’t interfere.”

“What?” Greg practically shouted. “But you know the prophecy isn’t true.”

“Of course not, but that doesn’t mean we can go around changing it.”

“Wait, you were the one talking about running off to fight Ruuan yourself.”

“That’s different. Once we’re away from the castle no one will know what we do. As long as we bring Penelope back, we can tell people whatever we want. They’ll have no reason to doubt us.”

“How about this, then?” Greg said. “We go to the castle, hide Penelope and tell everyone Ruuan took her. We can still go off for a while and pretend to rescue her. No one else has to be the wiser.”

Priscilla grinned, and it struck Greg how pretty she was. “I like the way you think,” she said. “You know, that could just work.” But then her smile disappeared.

“What’s wrong?” Greg said.

“How do we get them to go along with it?” she said, indicating the sleeping forms of Lucky and Nathan wrapped up tight in their bedding and flower petals, respectively.

“I know,” said Greg. “We’ll tell them you’ve come to your senses and decided to return home. Then they’ll have to see you safely back to the castle. After all, what’s the point of us saving one princess if we lose another in the process?”

Priscilla shook her head. “No, they know I can handle myself. Besides, Lucky and I have known each other for as long as I can remember. I doubt he’s ever seen me change my mind about anything. He’d never believe I’d change it about this.”

“Wait, that’s it.”

“What is?”

“You’re stubborn, right?”

She scowled.

“And you’re a princess, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then you tell them you want to go back, and if that doesn’t work, you order them.”

Fey Field

“EEEEE!”

Greg burst awake and jumped to his feet. “What’s going on? Who screamed?”

“Get it off! GET IT OFF!” Priscilla thrashed about on her mattress, punching and kicking an invisible foe.

Lucky and Nathan both jumped awake and rushed to her side.

“What is it, Princess?” said Nathan.

“Yeah, what’s up, Prissy?” Lucky asked.

Priscilla paused in her contortions long enough to scowl. “Sasha.”

Greg was about to offer a hand when Rake jumped up and landed delicately on his shoulder.

“Eeeee!” Priscilla screamed. “There it is again.”

She snatched up Greg’s walking stick and leapt to her feet, the stick poised over her head to strike. Nathan shot out a hand so quickly Greg nearly missed the movement. An instant later he held Greg’s stick at his side.

“Is that what all the fuss is about?” he said. “The shadowcat?”

Priscilla blushed. “Sorry, I thought it was a rat.”

Rake raised his fur and hissed defiantly from the safety of Greg’s shoulders. His long tail flittered around nervously, beating Greg about the eyes.

“This is Rake,” Greg explained. “He’s my . . . pet.”

“Don’t be silly. Shadowcats can’t be pets. They don’t like people.”

“Well, he seems to like me,” Greg said, pointing a thumb at his own chest. The movement caused Rake to lose his balance and dig his claws into Greg’s neck, causing Greg to scream.

“Yeah, I can tell,” said Priscilla. She studied Rake a moment. “He is kind of cute though, isn’t he?”

At this, Rake’s mood softened, and he allowed the princess to scratch behind his ears and stroke his soft fur. Only then did Greg notice the cold. Lucky obviously felt it too, and searched his pack for heavier garments. Though grateful, Greg couldn’t help but feel disappointed when Lucky pulled out a bright orange cloak for himself and a drab gray one for Greg. Priscilla checked her pack and found a luxurious reddish-orange fur coat fit for a princess. Sure it was pretty, and no doubt quite warm, but Greg didn’t like her wearing it. Every time he saw her out of the corner of his eye he thought another bollywomp had snuck up behind him.

After a hearty breakfast of wyvern sausages and fried potatoes, Priscilla tried to convince the others she’d changed her mind and wanted to return to Pendegrass Castle, but as expected, Lucky knew her far too well.

“Okay, what’s going on?” he demanded.

“What do you mean?” Priscilla asked innocently.

“Look, I’ve known you long enough to know you’d die trying before you ever gave up on anything. And then I question if death would only slow you down a bit.”

“But Greg needs to get to the castle,” she said, stomping her feet.

Lucky looked as if she’d truly surprised him. “What on Myrth for?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you guys said yesterday, about Greg going to see Simon to learn all he could about the prophecy. I mean, let’s face facts. Does he really look like someone who could slay Ruuan without a trick up his sleeve?”

Greg stopped searching for his hand within the sleeve of the huge cloak Lucky just gave him. “I heard that.”

“Look, if Greg does survive this thing,” Priscilla continued, “it may all hinge on something he has yet to learn. He needs to know all the facts so he can be ready.”

“I don’t get it,” said Lucky. “This is Greg’s destiny. Don’t you see? He can’t fail no matter what he does.”

Nathan, who had been working at shoving Priscilla’s mattress back into her tiny pack while she less than patiently held it open for him, paused. “No, see, that’s the kind of thinking that will get Greg killed. The only reason prophecies have been fulfilled in the past is because the special men and women who fulfill them aren’t the type to go strolling unprepared into the jaws of an awaiting dragon.”

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.”

Greg strained to hear, and finally, when he held his head at just the right angle, he caught the faintest of sounds drifting upon the wind.

“Yeah, I hear it now, too,” said Lucky. “Well, that explains what spooked the falchions.”

“It does?” said Greg, feeling rather stupid for not being able to see how it explained anything at all.

“Where other creatures might be calmed by a soothing melody,” explained Nathan, “falchions are well known to behave just the opposite. Even a short poem can enrage them.”

“They must have been fleeing the music,” surmised Priscilla.

“Yes, but why were so many of them in one place to begin with?” said Nathan.

“And who was playing the music?” added Lucky.

“Hey, you don’t think whoever’s out there intentionally angered the falchions, do you?” asked Priscilla.

Greg’s nerves had been starting to calm since the last of the falchions scampered over the ridge. Now they knotted up tighter than ever. If the stampede had been started on purpose, that made three attempts on his life. So far he’d managed to narrowly escape serious harm, but would he be as lucky next time?

“Wait,” he said. “I smelled it again. The ozone. Just before the stampede.”

“Ozone?” said Lucky. “Then it must be Mordred.”

“It is not Mordred,” insisted Nathan.

“How can you be so sure?” asked Priscilla.

Nathan looked reluctant to say more, but finally he spoke. “Mordred and I go back a long way. I know it seems like he hates you, but he doesn’t. Not really, anyway.”

“Are you friends with Mordred?” Greg asked.

Nathan smiled grimly. “Once. No more.”

“It’s gone now,” announced Priscilla.

“What is?” said Lucky.

“The music. Whoever it was stopped playing.”

Greg looked at her curiously. Aside from a few barely perceptible notes that might have been nothing more than wind, he’d never heard a thing to begin with. It was hard to believe Priscilla could be so sure of the sound. “How can you possibly hear that?” he asked.

She glared at him as if he’d somehow offended her. “I am a woman, you know.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” said Lucky.

Priscilla turned her glare on Lucky then, much to Greg’s relief. “Everyone knows women have better senses than men,” she said. “We have to, so we can recognize danger and protect our young.”

“What are you talking about?” Lucky said, laughing. “You don’t have any young. Heck, if anything you are the young.”

“I am not,” she cried. “You take that back, Lucky Day.”

Lucky muttered something under his breath.

“What did you say?” Priscilla demanded.

“If you were a real woman, you’d have heard me.”

Priscilla’s face turned to stone. She sputtered a few unintelligible syllables and then spun on her heel and stormed off toward Pendegrass Castle. Lucky picked up her pack along with his own and ran after her.

“Wait up,” he shouted. “Was it something I said?”

Celebration of the Hart

“You’re joking.”

Priscilla smiled and shook her head. “No, Greg, that’s why they call it Guano Trail. The whole path’s buried ankle deep in gooey bat droppings. Well, you’ll see when we reach the turnoff at Harpies Ridge.”

Earlier, when the group left Fey Field, the princess was so angry she wouldn’t talk to Greg simply because he’d been traveling with Lucky when she met him. Eventually though, Lucky had apologized, saying he was wrong and that Priscilla certainly could have young if she wanted, to which Priscilla promptly disagreed.

“Only grown women can have young. Even a child knows that.”

When Lucky had opened his mouth to object, Greg coughed and shook his head. Priscilla shot Lucky a smug look and started hanging closer to Greg after that. Since then, she had been talking to him endlessly. Greg didn’t mind. Being a princess, Priscilla had more fascinating tales of adventure than even Greg had in his journal.

“It’s still way better than having to climb the White Cliffs of Darius,” she told him now. “At least the bats at Guano Trail come out only at night. The birds at the cliffs circle all day long, dive-bombing anyone who trespasses through their territory. Of course, you don’t dare let go of the rock to cover your head, so you always end up drenched in watery bird droppings. Eeuuww. It’s so disgusting . . . what are you staring at?”

“Oh, sorry,” said Greg quickly. “It’s just that . . . well, you’re a lot more fun to talk to than Lucky.

“Priscilla smiled knowingly. “His carefree attitude starting to get to you?”

“You could say.”

“Try growing up with him. Sometimes he can be so annoying.”

Greg stared at her expression and had to smile too. To think, a few days ago he thought Penelope, with her fancy dresses and pasty white skin, was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

The best thing about Priscilla was that she helped Greg take his mind off what lay ahead, not to mention who lay behind, possibly waiting to kill him. Although everyone kept their eyes, ears, and noses open, they had heard no more music and hadn’t seen or smelled evidence of anyone or anything unusual in the woods since leaving Fey Field.

Now, as Lucky and Priscilla set down their packs for a short break at a nice spot where a fallen tree offered shelter against the wind, soft music filled the air, so close it might have come from their own group. Startled, Greg spun toward the sound and raised his walking stick. Nathan smiled approvingly.

“Shh!” Priscilla insisted, though no one had uttered a sound.

“Over there,” Lucky whispered, pointing toward a small copse ahead.

Nathan motioned for the others to wait. He hoisted his staff and moved in the direction Lucky pointed, his steps astonishingly soundless in the dried leaves that littered the forest floor.

Not surprisingly, Priscilla ignored Nathan’s orders and followed after him, moving nearly as stealthily as Nathan. No doubt secure in his talent, Lucky followed too. Greg’s heart pounded so strong he could hear it, but he edged forward anyway, and nearly shrieked when Rake’s tail brushed across his calves.

Ahead, Nathan and Priscilla crouched behind a tall flowering plant, peering between the leaves. Greg was just wondering if he dare speak when the music started up again. It came from a stringed instrument of some kind, perhaps a lute, and the tune seemed disturbingly familiar. Soon it was joined by a man’s voice, so close Greg could make out the words.

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

Even incineration, or worse . . .

Priscilla sprang upright. “Bart! What are you doing here?”

Greg straightened up hesitantly. He and Lucky made their way over to where Nathan and Priscilla were already greeting the familiar bard from Pendegrass Castle.

“Princess Priscilla?” Bart said. “Does your father know you’re out here?”

“My father knows I can take care of myself,” she said with a huff.

Bart spotted Lucky and Greg, and his face broke into a wide grin. “Greghart, is that you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Greg said uncertainly. He wasn’t about to forget the music they’d heard after the falchion stampede.

“Oh, this is such an honor.” Bart’s smile faded when he saw Greg’s expression. “What’s the matter, Greghart? You seem upset.”

“What are you doing out here in the woods?”

“I’m a bard, remember? I earn my keep traveling the kingdom and playing songs.”

“Oh, right. Well, were you in Fey Field earlier today?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“That’s what we figured,” said Lucky, smiling happily.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Bart said, extending his hand toward Nathan. “I’m Bart.”

“Nathaniel Caine,” said Nathan, the distrust in his voice unmistakably clear.

“I think this is the guy who’s trying to kill me,” Greg announced.

“Kill you?” said Bart.

“Bart?” Lucky said. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve known him my whole life.”

Nathan regarded Bart from beneath a creased forehead. “Pardon Greg for being suspicious, but there was an incident involving music earlier.”

“Oh no, I missed it, didn’t I?”

“You know about the falchions?” asked Lucky.

“Oh, so it was falchions, was it?” Bart said.

“We were almost trampled,” Greg said accusingly. “Afterward we heard music in the distance.”

“No!” said Bart. “You’d have to be crazy to play music around a falchion. Drives them crazy.”

“We know,” said Nathan. “Greg here was almost killed.”

“Then I did miss it,” Bart said, his disappointment clear.

“So you knew about it, then,” Greg said.

“Of course. Everyone knows about the Mighty Greghart’s adventures. Just not the details. How many falchions were there?”

“Hundreds,” said Lucky. “Maybe thousands.”

“Ridiculous. Falchions don’t travel in groups.”

“We know that, too,” said Nathan, “but Lucky’s right. I’d say five hundred, maybe more.”

Greg met Bart’s eye. “It’s almost as if someone herded them together specifically to set them on us. It wouldn’t be the first trap that has been sprung on me this journey.”

Lucky quickly explained about the footbridge on the edge of the Shrieking Scrub and the bollywomp attack in Wiccan Wood.

Bart was not as upset by the news as Greg would have liked. In fact, the bard hadn’t stopped smiling. “Oh, sorry, Greghart. It’s a terrible thing that someone’s out to get you, but—well, think of the songs.”

“Bart,” Priscilla scolded. “That’s a bit callous, don’t you think?”

“I said it was a terrible thing.” He reached up and wiped the grin off his own face.

“Are you sure he’s not out to kill me?” Greg asked.

“You don’t have to worry about Bart,” Priscilla assured him. “He’s been like an uncle to me. Even Father trusts him to carry messages for the crown from time to time.”

Greg eyed the bard suspiciously. “If you say so.” He made a mental note to keep his distance from the bard, just in case. But then Rake strolled up and rubbed affectionately against Bart’s shins. Greg didn’t know why, but he was sure Rake would know if Bart meant him harm.

At least he adamantly hoped so.

“Say, would you all mind if I tagged along with you a while?” asked Bart.

“Sure,” Lucky shrugged. “Why not?”

Because he might be trying to kill me, Greg thought.

Rake rolled over on his back so Bart could scratch his stomach.

“Oh, excellent,” Bart said. “Think how much better my songs will be if I get to know Greghart personally.”

“Do you have any new songs, Bart?” asked Priscilla.

“Of course. I haven’t seen you in a shadowcat’s age. Why, you’ve probably not even heard my Ballad of Greghart.”

“I’m not sure,” said Priscilla. “How does it go?”

Bart smiled and raised his lute as if about to play.

“Wait!” said Greg. “Isn’t that the one about decapitation and incineration?”

Bart’s smile widened. “I’m flattered you remembered.”

“Don’t you have anything else?”

“Oh . . . ” Bart said uncertainly, “um, sure. Well, here’s one I think you’ll enjoy.” He put his hand to the lute, strummed the instrument once and allowed the tone to die away to nothing, then he burst into song.

For all who knew the dragon Ruuan,

It’s so hard to believe

A boy alone would raid his home,

A princess to retrieve.

The beast be there to guard its lair

Within the glowing spire,

And the boy would be toast, when the dragon roast-

-ed him with his scorching fire.

O’—

“Stop!” Greg shouted.

“What’s wrong, Greghart?” asked Bart.

“We don’t have time for this. I say break’s over.” Under his breath he added, “I’m about as relaxed as I’m going to get.”

“We’re here!” Priscilla announced.

It had been a long day. Already the sun dipped low in the sky. Priscilla pointed to her left, where two streaks of mud split the weeds bordering the forest. “The castle is just a few miles down Pendegrass Highway.”

Greg hurried in the direction she pointed. Before long they passed a small group of people traveling in the opposite direction, a well-dressed couple and their three daughters. When the girls spotted Greg their eyes bugged out, and they whispered and giggled excitedly.

“Lovely evening, don’t you think?” Lucky said as Greg’s group rushed past. The wife smiled, and the husband took off his cap and bowed stiffly, but Greg and the others were already gone.

A short way farther a second family passed, another couple and their two small boys. Again Lucky greeted them. The boys pointed and screamed Greg’s name, each shouldering the other out of the way to get a better look. Even the parents grew flustered, gawking not only at Greg but at Priscilla as well, as if not in the habit of meeting royalty. But neither party stopped. As rushed as Greg’s group was, the family seemed just as eager to be on their way, continuing their hike in the middle of nowhere toward what Greg could only guess must be the other side of nowhere.

The closer they got to Pendegrass Castle, the more families they passed. Everyone knew Lucky, and many were impressed at seeing Priscilla, but the obvious attraction of the day was Greg himself. After the celebration King Peter prepared for his arrival, Greg was not overly shocked by the interest, but one thing did strike him as odd. Not one person seemed overly surprised to see him back from his quest. It was almost as if they expected him to be here.

“How does it feel to be a hero?” Lucky asked Greg after one woman nearly fainted at the sight of him.

Greg didn’t dignify the question with an answer. “Why isn’t anyone shocked I’m back?”

“Because it’s all in the prophecy,” said Bart. “Let’s see, how does it go? ‘The Mighty Greghart will brave the fires of the Molten Moor, risk decapitation within Wiccan Wood, and narrowly avoid being crushed by the creatures of Fey Field, only to arrive too late to prevent the princess from being taken.’”

“You can recite the prophecy?” Greg asked.

“Of course,” boasted Bart. “Better than anyone . . . well, almost anyone.”

“What do you mean?”

Bart puffed out his chest proudly. “I delivered the word straight from Simon Sezxqrthm’s wife to King Peter’s scribe so it could be officially recorded.”

“You delivered the prophecy?” Greg said. “You’re kidding?”

“This is great, Greg,” said Lucky. “Now Bart can tell us everything we want to know. We don’t even need to go to the castle.”

We do if we want to hide Penelope!

Greg looked to Priscilla for support.

“Shouldn’t we still go see the written version?” she tried. “Bart might not remember everything. I mean, it was a long time ago, right?”

“Nonsense,” said Bart. “I remember like it was yesterday. Why, I could recite every word.”

“Not so fast,” said Nathan, and Greg’s hopes lifted. But then Nathan said, “I’m still not sure it’s a good idea for Greg to know too much about his future.”

“We were coming back to read about it anyway,” Greg argued.

Lucky held a hand to his chin. “Maybe having Bart tell us everything without having to go all the way home is how we save enough time to reach the lair before Ruuan eats Penelope.”

Nathan pondered the idea while Greg restrained himself from screaming. Greg nudged the princess, causing her to stumble forward. “Didn’t you need to get back home for something, Priscilla?”

Lucky chuckled. “For a second there, Greg, it sounded like you were more concerned about going to the castle than you were about hearing the prophecy.”

Greg forced a nervous chuckle. “Imagine.”

“Does the prophecy say what Greg will do next?” Lucky asked Bart. “Anything in there about him going back to Pendegrass Castle?”

“Well, let’s see.” Bart muttered to himself as he recited the exact words in his head. “Nope, not a thing in there specifically about the castle . . . just the celebration.”

“I knew it,” said Lucky. “And everyone knows he’ll arrive there too late to save the princess.”

“Right,” said Bart. “So, I guess we might as well get started for the lair. Oh, this is so exciting. I can’t believe I’m getting to be part of it.”

“Wait a minute,” Greg said. “Why do I have the feeling Penelope’s not at the castle? This celebration you’re talking about—is that where all those people we’ve been passing have been headed?”

“Of course,” said Bart. “Didn’t we tell you that before?”

“I don’t believe this,” Greg cried. “We’ve got to reach Penelope before the dragon comes.” He turned on his heel and rushed back in the direction they had just come.

Priscilla ran after him, and the two led the way to the celebration at a run. “Sorry, I didn’t know,” she told him.

“I can’t believe we wasted so much time,” Greg said panting. To his left the sun was just dipping below the horizon. Already darkness was closing in, held off only by the brightness of the moon above.

Greg picked up the pace and didn’t slow even when Priscilla began to lag. He could hear the others hurrying, but didn’t dare look back. The trail ahead was empty. The last of the families must have reached the celebration. Only Greg and his group would be late, just as the prophecy predicted. To his right he spotted a trail shooting off into the woods and recognized the spot where he and the others entered the road earlier.

“How much farther?” he gasped.

“Not far,” said Lucky, who easily strode up from behind. “Less than a mile now.”

Greg picked up the pace again, ignoring the protest of his weary muscles. Behind him Priscilla dropped farther back. Lucky slowed and waited for her to catch up.

“Go,” Priscilla cried out as she approached him. “Why are you stopping? We don’t have ti—”

Greg risked a glance over his shoulder. Lucky had seized Priscilla around the waist. While the others watched in shock, he quickly stuffed her into his pack, where her screams cut off in an instant. “Go. We’re wasting precious seconds.”

The group slowed slightly as they mounted a gradual rise. Darkness pressed in around them, but the sky over the hill glowed brightly from the flames of hundreds of torches. Greg could hear faint music and laughter and knew they were close. He reached the top and gasped.

Of course he’d been gasping the whole way, but now he had even more reason.

Ahead in a shallow valley, it looked as though every man, woman and child in the kingdom celebrated, clapping and dancing about. Atop a pedestal at the center of it all stood Princess Penelope, dressed in one of her frilly gowns, arms crossed, impatiently tapping her foot, as if tired of waiting for the dragon to swing by and pick her up.

“Run!” Greg screamed at the top of his lungs. “The dragon’s coming!”

Amazingly, the entire celebration ground to a halt. Everyone including Penelope stopped to stare.

Only, Greg realized it wasn’t his voice that stopped them but an even more startling noise from behind. It was a terrible, bone-chilling cry that rent the air like a giant cleaver, and Greg didn’t want to see what could possibly make such a sound.

But he did see. Far off in the distance a blurry spot of blackness punctuated the dark gray sky. Quickly it grew until Greg’s worst fears were confirmed. The prophecy was falling into place exactly as foretold. The dragon Ruuan was coming!

Greg couldn’t imagine a more frightening sight, and certainly wouldn’t if he could. Ruuan’s wings flapped with an unnatural slowness that hinted at the dragon’s enormous weight, and just as Greg decided the beast must be the largest creature he’d ever seen, he realized it was still a good ways off and surely much larger still.

The dragon soared with incredible swiftness. It let out another piercing scream, this one all the more terrifying for its closeness, and released a blast of fire, incinerating the field below in an instant.

To his amazement, Greg found he could run twice as fast as before.

But where was he running to? Ahead, people screamed and scattered in all directions—all except Princess Penelope, who stayed put on her pedestal, albeit a little more nervously than before.

“Run!” Greg shouted again, but she couldn’t possibly hear. “Run!”

The dragon swept between Greg and the others, blocking out the entire sky. The glow Greg had seen before, when topping the rise, cut off in an instant as Ruuan dipped a wing to turn. The dragon’s tail sliced past Greg’s head as Ruuan released a jet of fire, and behind the celebration the entire woods exploded into flames. Ruuan was away in an instant, clearing the trees . . . and turning back. Suddenly, he headed their way again, growing faster as he neared.

Greg wanted nothing more than to stop and scream for the others to save themselves, but he knew he had to reach Penelope.

The dragon let out a roar that caused the very ground to tremble.

Greg stumbled but somehow kept to his feet. He sped for the clearing and was just yards away when something caught his foot. As if an invisible hand had reached out and grasped his ankle, he felt his leg nearly pulled from its socket. He landed hard on his belly in the dirt. Rake screeched and tore off into the darkness. Behind Greg, the others fell too.

Lucky’s pack spilled over the road, spewing broken melons and live chickens everywhere, but the oddest thing to come out of the pack was Princess Priscilla. She sprang to her feet before rolling even close to a stop, looking more like a maddened animal than anything Greg had seen on Myrth so far. She might not have had claws, but her fists looked just as dangerous, and she screamed to rival anything Ruuan might have offered.

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best thing for her to do. The noise drew the attention of everyone for miles, including Ruuan. The dragon swerved in mid-flight and descended upon Greg’s group, now blocking out not only the light of the celebration, but the blinding blaze of the burning woods.

Greg tried to tackle Priscilla, knock her out of harm’s way, but the buffeting wind from Ruuan’s wings knocked him down and pinned him to the dirt. Torrents of dust exploded into the air like a desert storm. Through his tears Greg watched the dragon descend in slow motion, snatch the princess up with its claws. Priscilla’s mouth formed a scream, but all sound was lost beneath the rushing wind.

Greg tried to scream as well. A blast of air struck his face, and when he opened his eyes again the dragon was already rising, with Priscilla struggling under the grip of talons the size of men. There was nothing Greg could do. He blinked tears from his eyes as Ruuan flapped through a slow turn, let out a bone-chilling screech and soared away. Within seconds, the dragon’s huge form was so distant that it appeared to float. Gradually it diminished to a blurry, black dot upon the horizon.

To Greg’s horror, the tiny speck blinked away, and dust settled into the spot where, just seconds before, Princess Priscilla had stood.

Aid from the Hart

“What just happened?” Greg screamed.

“Ruuan!” Lucky cried. “He took the wrong princess.”

“Actually,” said Bart, rubbing a bruised shin, “nowhere in the prophecy does it explicitly state that Ruuan takes Princess Penelope. I guess we all just assumed . . .”

“Or maybe the prophecy is just a lot of hooey,” Greg said.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Greghart,” said Bart. “The prophecy is all we’ve got, though I dare say it has misled me a bit on this matter. I’ll have to rewrite at least a half-dozen of my best songs. Oh, dear, what on Myrth rhymes with Priscilla?”

Greg struggled to his feet. He was vaguely aware of the party picking up again behind him. Apparently the townspeople didn’t care which princess Ruuan took, as long as the dragon left and there was food and drink to be had.

Greg rubbed his elbow. “Ow. What did we trip over?”

“How about villa?” said Bart. “Or armadilla?”

“A vine,” said Lucky, holding up something nearly invisible in the moonlight. “The other end’s tied to that tree. What kind of idiot strings a vine across the middle of a road?”

“No, I guess that’s armadillo, isn’t it?” said Bart. “What about vanilla?”

“Please, Bart,” Greg pleaded. “We’re trying to figure out who did this.”

“I’ll tell you who,” said a voice from the forest.

Greg spun toward the sound, his walking stick at the ready. Nathan emerged from the black woods, less than gently pushing a small boy whose yellow tunic, even through the darkness, shone bright.

“Melvin?”

“You know this boy?” asked Nathan.

“Of course,” said Lucky. “He’s Marvin Greatheart’s little brother. What are you doing here, Melvin?”

“Nothin’,” Melvin spat. “I haven’t done nothin’. And besides . . . nobody saw me do it.”

“So, you’re the one,” said Lucky. “I don’t believe it.”

“One what?” asked Melvin innocently.

“The one who’s been following us this whole time,” Greg realized. His heart began to quicken. “You’ve been trying to kill me.”

“Have not,” said Melvin. He shook loose of Nathan’s grasp. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you sawed through that bridge,” Greg said. “And you put a rabbit’s foot in my pocket so that bollywomp would attack me. You even set a herd of stampeding falchions on me.”

“Oh, listen to yourself,” said Melvin. “Falchions don’t travel in herds.”

Rake sniffed the ground by Melvin’s feet.

“What have we here?” Nathan said. He picked up something Melvin had casually dropped behind his back. About four inches long and fashioned of wood with a series of drilled holes, the object looked to Greg like a kazoo. Nathan put it to his lips and blew. An odd note rang out, and within seconds the brush rattled and a large falchion emerged from the forest.

Greg felt his anger rising. “So you did gather the falchions.”

“Did not,” insisted Melvin.

“I believe, young man,” said Nathan, “the evidence strongly suggests otherwise.”

“Who asked you?” said Melvin.

Greg closed in on the boy, furious. “Why’d you do it?” he demanded.

“What’s the big deal? I was just trying to scare you into going back home. It’s not right. My brother Marvin should be rescuing the princess, not you.”

“Oh, this is good stuff,” said Bart. “I know I’ll have to change even more lyrics, but imagine my songs when I’m through.”

Greg didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t believe Melvin was responsible for all the terrible things that had been happening to him. “You could have killed me.”

Melvin stared at Greg defiantly. “If you’re supposed to be this great dragonslayer who can do no wrong, like everyone says, then who am I to mess things up for you? How could someone as powerful as the Mighty Greghart be hurt by little ol’ me?”

“Look,” said Nathan, “you boys are going to have to settle this between yourselves another time. Now that Ruuan’s got Priscilla, we need to hurry to the lair.”

“Priscilla?” said Melvin. “You mean Penelope.”

Tears flushed the dust from Greg’s eyes. “Hurry? Did you see how fast that dragon flew? By now Ruuan must be back at his spire crunching on Priscilla’s bones.”

Melvin let out a derisive snort. “How do you guys put up with this? Hey, troll head, did you forget about the prophecy? How are you going to rescue the princess if Ruuan’s already eaten her? Really, you call yourself a hero?”

Greg shot him a nasty look. He hadn’t liked the little brat much even before he found out Melvin was trying to kill him.

Nathan’s expression turned grim. “I know, Greg. I don’t see how she could possibly survive for long with a creature like that, but if there is even a slight chance the boy is right, we had best hurry.”

“I’m not a boy!” said Melvin. “I’m going to be a great dragonslayer one day, just like my brother, and my father, and his father before him.”

“Perhaps you will,” said Nathan, “but right now you’re about an inch away from getting your hide tanned by my staff. Now, I think you better come with us. I’ll trust you more where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Fine,” Melvin huffed. “I’m not afraid to go to the dragon’s lair. I’ll show you how to handle a beast like Ruuan. Then everyone will know who the real dragonslayer is.”

Greg exhaled a shaky breath. He hated the thought of Melvin traveling with them, but as Nathan pointed out, it might be worse if the boy were loose in the forest. Besides, what could Melvin possibly do that was any worse than what was waiting for Greg at the end of his journey?

The end of his journey.

How much more that expression meant now. Before this moment, Greg had always thought of the end of his journey as the day when he would talk sense into the others, that magnificent day when he would be sent back home, well before he ever laid eyes on the dragon.

But it hadn’t happened that way, had it? He’d already seen Ruuan, and the dragon was more terrifying than anything even someone as experienced as Greg could have imagined.

Now Ruuan had Priscilla, not Penelope, and in spite of all his fears, Greg knew he must help. Perhaps he stood no chance against the dragon—okay, there was no perhaps about it—but the thought of Priscilla struggling under Ruuan’s grip still burned in his mind.

He knew one thing better than he had ever known anything in his life. Hero or not, he could never leave her to such a fate without at least trying to save her.

“Keep moving,” Greg said, his voice hollow but determined.

“No,” said Nathan, “it’s too dangerous. We will have to stop until morning.”

Where previously his evening chikan sessions had been nothing more than a fun pastime, tonight Greg paid closer attention than ever, aware that one tidbit learned now might tip the balance in battles yet to be fought. Melvin sat to the side with Rake, watching the lesson with obvious curiosity. Occasionally he’d call out about how that move would never trick anybody, or how he could do better, but Greg wasn’t fooled. He could tell Melvin was impressed. He even thought of asking the boy to join in, but he doubted Melvin would accept unless the invitation came from someone else.

Besides, he didn’t like the thought of Melvin armed with a stick.

Greg wasn’t even sure why he cared. After all, Melvin clearly hated him. And then there was the whole plotting Greg’s death thing. Still, Greg could almost understand. Melvin had probably spent his whole life thinking he was going to be the next great dragonslayer of Myrth. But if people started looking to Greg to handle their dragon issues, what was Melvin now but a has-been’s baby brother?

Besides, in much the same way Rake appeared to vouch for Bart, the shadowcat rested in Melvin’s lap now, affectionately banging its whiskers into Melvin’s leg. Obviously Rake must sense some good in the boy.

If only Melvin would show Greg a bit of his good side as well.

That night Greg slept little, drifting off only after Rake curled up next to him and began his incessant purring. In contrast, Melvin seemed to sleep quite peacefully, a fact that helped calm Greg, since up until the moment Melvin started snoring, Greg had been afraid to close his eyes for fear the boy might try to kill him.

Morning came slowly, but it did eventually come. Greg paced nervously while the others finished wolfing down breakfast, and then finally they were off. They entered a new section of forest Lucky referred to as the Weird Weald, and while Greg felt a little better

knowing he was at least taking action, he still felt they needed to hurry more.

“Oh, no,” Lucky said a few miles into their journey.

“What’s wrong?” asked Greg.

“We forgot the whole reason we came back, remember? You were supposed to lead the Army of the Crown to the Infinite Spire.”

“He’s right,” said Bart. “According to the prophecy, Greg will ‘lead the Army of the Crown through the Weird Weald, over the Smoky Mountains and past the White Cliffs of Darius to the base of the Infinite Spire.’”

“We can’t go back,” Greg insisted. “There’s no time.”

For once Lucky seemed even more upset than Greg. “But Simon said you needed the army.”

“Yes,” admitted Nathan, “but it doesn’t mean we have to go back for them. King Peter knows the prophecy as well as anyone. I’m sure he’ll send them along.”

“But Greg’s supposed to lead them,” insisted Lucky.

“Yes, well, we’ll be going first, and they’ll be following after. In a sense Greg will be leading them.”

“Look,” Greg said, “we don’t have time to go back. We don’t have time to argue about it either. We need to keep moving.” He picked up his pace.

Greg tried not to think about what Lucky had said. Having the Army of the Crown behind him when he faced Ruuan sounded like a good idea, but not half a day’s march behind. How could he hope to defeat the dragon now?

“What’s the matter, Greghart?” Melvin taunted. “You look pale. You’re not nervous about fighting Ruuan, are you?”

“Shut up, Melvin,” said Lucky. “You’d be nervous, too.”

“Would not,” said Melvin. “I’ve fought lots of dragons.”

“When did you ever?”

“Last summer,” the boy boasted. “Marvin took me hunting, and a dragon surprised us on the trail.”

“Really?” Greg said. Perhaps the boy could be useful after all. “What did you do?”

“I walloped him with a stick. And then Marvin finished him off with his sword.”

“You walloped a dragon with a stick?” Lucky said doubtfully. “Are you sure this wasn’t a wyvern?”

“Wyvern, dragon, what’s the difference?”

Lucky chuckled. “About two or three hundred feet, depending on the dragon.”

“I still walloped him with a stick,” Melvin insisted.

“I’ll bet it was a baby wyvern at that,” said Lucky.

“Was not!”

“Look,” said Greg, “if you want to be the one to slay Ruuan when we get there, that’s fine. Just so we rescue Priscilla and get out of there alive, okay?”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, I’m not about to do your dirty work for you. After Ruuan blasts you with his flame, then I’ll step in and handle things, not a moment before.”

“Shut up, Melvin,” Lucky said again, but the damage had already been done. The brief mention of the dragon’s fire squashed any hope Greg had of surviving the prophecy. He’d witnessed Ruuan’s flames at the celebration and knew nothing could survive that blast. Maybe little Melvin would step up and handle things in the end, but surely not before Greg met his doom.

To Greg’s surprise Melvin made no move against him that night either, but then why should he, when he could just bide his time and let Ruuan do the job for him? Eventually morning came, this one the coldest yet, and Greg pulled his cloak tight and rubbed his hands together as Lucky poured what smelled like hot cocoa from an open pitcher he’d pulled from his pack. Greg turned his down.

“You can drink that as we go,” he told the others. Before they could reply he was up and walking. “How much farther?” he asked Nathan a short way later.

Nathan looked unwilling to say. “Quite a bit, I’m afraid.”

“But Ruuan’s got Priscilla now.”

“Sorry, Greg,” said Nathan. “I don’t know any shortcuts.”

“My brother would ride a wyvern there if he had to,” said Melvin.

Greg shot the boy a glare. “Your brother isn’t here. If he was, I might not be in this mess.”

“It’s not Marvin’s fault you’re trying to horn in on his territory,” said Melvin. “If you’re going to pretend to be a dragonslayer, you have to face the consequences.”

“Look,” Greg said, coming to a halt and spinning to face the younger boy, “I’m not trying to—Watch out!”

When Greg witnessed the small band of trolls moving through Giant Forest earlier in the week, it had been from behind thick bushes, not to mention Nathan’s thick fingers, which had been clamped over his face. Still he recognized this one instantly just the same. Perhaps it was the low, bulging brow that clued him in. Or the rippling musculature of the upper body. But most likely it was the gnarled wooden club poised high above Melvin’s skull.

Without thinking, Greg whirled his walking stick up and around. He spun with the movement, redirecting the momentum straight between the troll’s eyes . . . and felt his stick snap.

At least it made the troll stagger backward. Melvin’s crystal-blue eyes stretched wide. For an instant, Greg thought the boy had frozen with fright, but then the troll bellowed its rage, and Melvin found the strength to crabwalk out of harm’s way. Greg weighed the broken stick in his hand. It didn’t weigh much. He began to dance about the circle, barely maintaining his rhythm with the short weapon.

The troll hesitated, though from the Manny-Malice-like expression on its face, Greg doubted it was smart enough to remember the pain of that last blow. Greg contemplated his chances of surviving a preemptive strike. They didn’t seem good.

Suddenly Nathan came somersaulting through the air, his weathered staff leading the way. The wood struck the troll in the eye before Nathan’s feet even hit the ground.

Greg cringed and looked away.

But the troll had survived worse. It might have even shaken off the blow if, when it tried to clasp a hand over its injured eye, it hadn’t struck itself in the forehead with its own club. Instead the beast shook the forest with its howl.

Nathan rolled past and struck another crushing blow to the back of its knees.

Greg didn’t stick around to watch. He ran to Lucky and flipped open the boy’s pack, and after pulling out two huge watermelons and a steaming roast turkey, he found what he was after. He grabbed the magic sword by the hilt and spun.

Nathan had the beast distracted with its back turned.

Greg rushed up and aimed. Afraid to get too close, he threw the sword with all his might. A blinding light flashed as the sword found its mark. The troll jerked, then suddenly, it lay face down on the ground.

“Whoa, you got him,” muttered Melvin, still sitting crab-like on the ground

Nathan yanked the sword free of the beast’s back with a sucking sound Greg would have been happy to miss. “A brilliant display, Greg.” He winked and added, “You must have had a good teacher.”

Melvin looked like he wanted to say something, but instead crawled to his feet and stormed off down the trail.

“Ungrateful guttersnipe,” Lucky said. “He didn’t even thank you.”

“Thank me?” said Greg. “I half expected him to tell me his brother would have done better.”

“The boy definitely has issues,” said Nathan, and for the first time since Priscilla was taken, all three of them smiled.

Greg noticed Bart hopping about, talking to himself. “What’s wrong, Bart?”

The bard threw up a hand. “Hang on. With but a stick, not a sword, not a dagger . . . he struck the troll and made him stagger. This is great stuff. I think I can get a whole song out of this one incident alone.”

Nathan frowned. “We better go. Where there’s one troll there’s likely to be more, and Melvin’s out there alone.”

“I don’t think we need to worry about Melvin,” said Greg. “I’m sure he’ll keep his eyes open from here on out.”

“I meant he’s where we can’t see him,” Nathan clarified.

“Oh,” said Greg, “right.”

Nathan headed after Melvin, followed closely by Lucky and Bart. Greg stayed temporarily behind. He jogged up the trail a few seconds later, a new tree branch in his hand.

“Everyone should have a stick,” Greg reminded the others.

Hart of a Leader

“What is that?” Greg asked. The clamor arising from the woods to the east was so loud, Greg could only pray they had stumbled across a whole den of monkeydogs. He asked the others if they thought this might be the case.

“Too loud for monkeydogs,” said Lucky.

“I think I’d be concerned if it were,” Nathan noted.

Greg raised his walking stick and waited anxiously as the noise grew louder.

And louder.

And louder still, a little too reminiscent of the herd of stampeding falchions at Fey Field.

“I can’t imagine what could possibly make such a sound,” Nathan said. “We must hide. With luck the danger will pass.”

Greg crouched in the bushes next to Melvin as, unbelievably, the noise continued to grow. At least Melvin was trembling too, Greg noticed. To their left, Lucky and Bart hid behind a heavy bole. High above them Nathan climbed, trying to get a better look.

“It’s a crossroads. Well, I’ll be.” Nathan let out a shrill whistle and scrambled down from the tree. From within the forest a man’s voice rang out. The noise ended abruptly, leaving a sudden quiet that seemed worse by comparison.

“Hail,” a man’s voice called from a distance. “Who goes there, friend or foe?”

“Nathaniel Caine,” Nathan called, “accompanied by Lucky Day of Pendegrass Castle; the talented bard, Bart, of the Kingdom of Myrth; Melvin Greatheart, brother to Marvin Greatheart, the famous dragonslayer; and the legendary Greghart, also of dragon-slaying fame.”

The bushes rattled in a much more monkeydog sort of way, and a lone man stepped from the woods. He wore a bright, royal blue tunic over loose-fitting trousers and walked with the rigid posture of a soldier.

“Nathaniel,” the man cried, “I can’t believe we found you.” A huge scar split his heavily weathered face, and Greg might have found him frightening if not for the deep smile lines around his eyes.

Nathan’s face broke into a grin. “Ryder Hawkins, my old friend. It’s been a long time.”

“Considering the type of circumstances in which we typically meet, not long enough.”

Greg and Lucky exchanged curious glances. In all their hours spent on the trail, Nathan had revealed almost nothing of his life before their meeting in the Molten Moor. He was a man of secrets, and Greg worried that if pressed too hard, Nathan might abandon him in his quest.

Nathan laughed. He and the stranger banged chests in a quick hug and slapped each other’s backs.

Then the stranger regarded Greg curiously. “So I’m guessing this is the Mighty Greghart everyone’s talking about, more proof that it’s not size but spirit that matters.” He reached a heavily callused hand Greg’s way, and Greg stared at it dumbly.

“Well, shake his hand,” said Nathan. “This is Captain Hawkins, First in Command of the Second Division of the Army of the Crown. It seems you’ll be leading his men to the Infinite Spire after all.”

It took a moment for Nathan’s words to sink in, but then Greg grabbed the captain’s hand and shook it like he was pumping a well.

“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.”

Ryder glanced down at Greg sternly. “No, I’m going to have to disagree with you there. The prophecy says you’re going to rescue her, and I don’t think it would qualify as much of a rescue if she was dead when you got there.”

Greg knew there was no point reasoning with crazy people. “Ryder, do you know how I’m supposed to defeat the dragon?”

The captain’s face took on a more compassionate expression. “Sorry. I wish I did, so I could put your mind at ease.”

Greg frowned. “I doubt you could say anything that would do that.”

“Listen, Greghart, I want to tell you something. I’ve lived side-by-side with fighting men all my life, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s a soldier. Look at you, green as a garter snake, and about as big as one too, and yet here you are, who knows how far from your own world, hiking through the heart of the Weird Weald on your way to single-handedly tackle the mightiest beast the world of Myrth has ever known.”

It occurred to Greg that Ryder wasn’t any better at putting someone at ease than Nathan was. “So?”

“So? If that doesn’t show how astonishingly brave you are, I don’t know what does.”

Greg said nothing. He didn’t have the heart to tell Ryder he was only here because the others had forced him to come.

“And I saw you practicing those moves last night with the Greatheart boy,” Ryder said. “You’re pretty good. Fast as lightning, too. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if you could best a few of my own.”

Greg looked up at the captain doubtfully. “Yeah, well, they’re just men. How am I supposed to fight a dragon?”

“Ah, now see, that’s where you have a real advantage.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No sir. You may be smaller than Ruuan, but you’ve got intelligence in your favor.”

Greg tried to imagine how this could possibly help. “Aren’t dragons supposed to be really clever?”

“Oh—um—right. Well, try to get a dialog going with him. Then he’ll at least appreciate the fact that you’re clever too.”

“Ruuan can talk?”

“Of course. And you’ll want him to. Remember, the more you can keep Ruuan talking, the less he’ll be shooting flames at you.”

Greg let his gaze drop to the ground so Ryder wouldn’t see him cry. “Yeah, that makes me feel a lot better.”

“Good, Greghart. Now, I think we’d best get these men moving again. We have a long road ahead of us.”

“Yeah, too long,” Greg admitted. He spotted the magician Agni apart from the others, meditating with his back against a tree. “Hey, Ryder, can you wait just another minute.”

Ryder looked around the camp at his exhausted troops. “One, but no more.”

With a groan, Greg pried himself to his feet and crossed to Agni. The magician looked up at him with the same hateful expression he had used the day before.

“I need your help,” Greg told him.

“I’ll give you credit for boldness,” Agni told him. “Why should I help you?”

“It’s not just me you’d be helping. You do want to save the princess, don’t you?”

The look in Agni’s eyes caused Greg to take a cautious step backward. No magician should look that angry. “I thought we had already done that.”

“What are you talking about?”

Agni glanced around the campsite to see if anyone was listening, then spoke in a low voice, though to Greg it sounded more like a hiss. “Mordred and I worked very hard at producing an illusion of Priscilla waiting to be picked up by the dragon. The spell was a masterpiece. Not even Ruuan would have likely realized she was not real until he actually tried to eat her. It would have moved this whole affair out of the public eye and given us time to come up with a plan. Perhaps we could have sealed the dragon in its lair. Then you had to come along and ruin everything. You had no right coming to Myrth in the first place.”

Greg could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Well, don’t blame me. You’re the one who brought me here.”

“That was before Mordred told me of your true role in all of this.”

“Are you going to help me or not? Isn’t that why the queen sent you?”

Agni scoffed. “It is a fool’s errand. There is nothing a single magician can do to stand against a dragon.”

Greg’s stomach began to churn. If someone with a magician’s powers thought there was no hope, what chance did he have?

“And even if I could save her, I wouldn’t.”

Greg’s mouth dropped open. “Why not?”

“You don’t understand these people. Living by prophecy has defined their lives for longer than anyone can remember. They know no other way. There would be no gain in my stepping in to handle this for you. Their lives would be destroyed.”

“But that’s still going to happen,” Greg insisted. “When I fail, not only will the prophecy be broken, but Princess Priscilla will be dead.”

“I admit, I can see no way you can succeed, but you are all these people have. Princess or not, I shall not step one foot within that spire. It would be suicide.”

Ryder’s voice rang through the clearing. “Fall in!”

The men instantly jumped up and fell into formation.

Greg watched them a moment and then turned back to Agni. “Queen Pauline sent you to help, so help. Can’t you at least get us there quicker?”

“You expect me to move an entire army halfway across the kingdom?”

“You moved me between worlds.”

“That was a mistake. Besides, it was different. You are just one person, and we had many magicians. Plus, we were bringing you to us. Now you are asking me not only to transport myself a great distance, but to bring all of you with me.”

“Are you saying you’re not powerful enough?”

Agni scowled. “You would do best not to challenge my power.”

“Can you do it or not?”

“Not in one jump, no. But perhaps partway, if I can picture a location well enough in my mind.”

Greg exhaled deeply. “No time like the present.”

Again Agni scowled. “Go lead your army. I will do what I can.”

Greg ran alongside the formation as Ryder shouted the order to move out, and joined Melvin and Lucky at the front. He felt as if they had been marching for only seconds before the scene ahead of him began to shimmer. The trees ahead seemed to meld together into one big blur, then suddenly he stood in a deep gully filled with fog.

“What just happened?” Lucky asked.

“Hopefully we just shaved a few days off this journey,” said Greg. “I wonder where we are.”

“We’re in the Smoky Mountains,” Melvin told him.

“Really?” said Greg. “We have a mountain range by the same name back home.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have dragons in your world,” Lucky said.

“We don’t.”

“Well, why are your mountains smoky?”

Greg quickly dropped the subject.

If the men behind noticed they had just been transported to a new location, not one said a word. Perhaps they thought this was just another of the many skills of the Mighty Greghart. Before long Agni approached from behind, looking more haggard than Greg remembered.

“You did it,” Greg told him.

“You have a keen sense of the obvious.”

“Why haven’t you done it again.”

Agni frowned. “It is not that simple. I must rest for a time before I can try again. Perhaps in the morning.”

Up until recently Greg hadn’t thought the trip could be more difficult, but the high altitude added even more bite to the air, and he found it hard enough to force himself toward the spire without having a steep incline dropped in his path.

He talked to a few soldiers along the way, hoping the company might ease his fears, but even the soldiers grew more uneasy the farther they hiked. Greg might have taken comfort knowing he was not the only one on edge, but it was hard not to dwell on the fact that, even when banded together in a group of five hundred armed men with a magician in their company, the others were afraid to get much closer to Ruuan.

Greg felt uneasy for another reason, too. Everyone viewed him as such a great hero. He wished he could tell all of Ryder’s men the truth, but he also remembered what the captain said about these men risking their lives, and about the dangers of doubting prophecies.

They entered a peculiar section of trail where the stones grunted when Greg stepped on them. Though just startling at first, the noise soon grew unbearably loud, what with five hundred soldiers following close behind. A short time later they passed through an even stranger area where the rocks all wobbled as if made of Jell-O. With each new oddity he passed, Greg missed Priscilla all the more. He knew if she were here she’d have plenty of stories about the history of these mountains, and probably even a few about how she had wrestled a harpy or single-handedly fought off an entire band of goblins deep in one of these narrow passes. Greg had an idea Priscilla’s imagination was nearly as active as his own, but make-believe or not, he would give anything to hear just one more of her stories.

They camped that evening on a plateau overlooking a row of jagged, snow-covered cliffs. But then Greg spotted the thousands of tiny dots circling the air above the mountain and knew it was not snow lining those cliff faces. These must be the dive-bombing birds of the White Cliffs of Darius Priscilla had told him about. If only she could be here to share the sight.

In the morning they set out again. They’d traveled only a short while before Greg once again saw the forest shimmer and transform into the face of a mountain so tall he could no longer see the Infinite Spire behind it. He slowed to a halt, and the five hundred men behind him were forced to do the same, though they did look rather uncomfortable about stopping without receiving a proper command.

Ryder came rushing to the front, accompanied by Bart, wanting to know why they had stopped.

“Had to,” Greg said. “The trail ends.”

Ryder laughed and patted Greg roughly on the back. “Sorry, son. I’ve been hearing songs about you for so long I forget you’re new to these parts.” He reached out and tapped the face of the mountain, and the rock pulled back with a grinding rumble, revealing a hidden staircase within a narrow crevasse rising steeply upward through the mountain.

“Whoa,” said Greg. “How’d you do that?”

“They call this Death’s Pass,” Ryder said.

Greg shuffled back and peered cautiously into the crack.

Bart chuckled and clasped Greg’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, it’s just a name. Remember the Ballad of Greghart? ‘From the House Pendegrass, past the trolls at Death’s Pass, he would rescue a lass from a dragon.’”

“Trolls?” Greg croaked, taking a further step backward.

Bart hesitated a moment and backed up as well.

“Don’t worry, you two.” Ryder laughed. “No troll is about to show itself in there today.”

“You sure?” Greg asked.

“Of course. They’re much too afraid of the goblins.”

Greg stammered incoherently until Ryder finally let him off the hook. “It’s okay, Greghart. We won’t see any goblins today either.”

“We won’t?”

“No, goblins are a cowardly lot. They run when they’re outnumbered, and there’s never more than a few thousand gathered at one time in this whole mountain range.”

“A few thousand? But there’s only five hundred of us . . . .”

“You and I know that,” said Ryder with a wink, “but it shouldn’t be a problem. Goblins aren’t very skilled at counting.”

Though the footing through the pass was treacherous, and Greg felt disturbingly claustrophobic the entire way, Ryder was right. They didn’t see a single goblin or troll. It took all day to reach the top. When they finally stepped out onto the rim of a huge canyon, Greg got his best view of the Infinite Spire so far, or worst, depending on how he looked at it.

“We’re here,” he said with a gasp.

“Nope,” argued Ryder. “Still over a week off, I’m afraid.”

If Agni hadn’t been wearing a black robe when he stepped up from behind, Greg would not have recognized him. His skin was a dull gray, and he looked ten years older.

“Are you okay?”

The magician looked like he wanted to speak but only nodded.

“I guess you couldn’t have placed us at the top of that climb.”

Agni rolled his eyes. “I told you I must be able to picture the location in my mind. The clearing at the base of the cliff face was as well as I could do.”

He broke into a fit of coughing then, and Greg felt guilty for his question. “I’m not complaining,” he told the magician. “You’ve been a huge help.”

Agni shook his head and spoke to no one in particular. “I’m helping him to a quicker death, and he thanks me.”

The army camped for a much-needed rest and then pressed on the next morning. They marched for nearly an entire day before Agni managed to complete another spell. This time, when the scenery cleared ahead, they found themselves atop a ridge where Greg could actually see the base of the spire jutting from an ominous black lake at the center of a shallow valley. The army came to a sudden halt. Order or not, plunging to their deaths didn’t seem a sensible thing to do.

Greg couldn’t stop staring. Witch Hazel had told him the spirelings guarded the magical passage within the spire so no one would try to raid Ruuan’s lair, but seeing the spire now made him wonder why they bothered. Just the sight of it was more than enough to keep Greg away.

He forced his gaze down to the angry waters of the lake. “How are we supposed to get across tha—”

Greg’s heart nearly stopped. The valley was not filled with water at all, but with men. No, not men either. Something . . . else. Short stocky creatures with huge, bulbous eyes and glowing teeth . . .

“Spirelings,” whispered Lucky, who had stepped up beside Greg.

Greg tried to speak, but his voice lodged in his throat. He kept thinking about what Witch Hazel had told him. “Canarazas. Roughly translated it means ‘razor teeth.’”

As if they weren’t already threatening enough, each spireling carried a large, double-edged axe, and Greg found it terribly upsetting that not one thought it necessary to carry a shield.

Melvin stepped up to his other side and surveyed the spireling army. “Huh. A lot more than I thought.”

“You’ve seen spirelings before?” asked Lucky.

“Sure. Sometimes Marvin brings me here, and we tease them to see how many we can get to come out of their tunnel.”

Nathan stepped up and placed a hand on Melvin’s shoulder. “I’d like to meet your brother some day.”

“How about today?” Greg barely managed to croak.

“I wish Marvin was here,” said Melvin. “I doubt even he knows there’s this many spirelings living with Ruuan.”

Captain Hawkins peered over Greg’s head into the valley below. “Right on schedule.”

Greg drew in a shaky breath. “We just shaved weeks off this trip. How can we be on schedule?”

Bart, too, peered somewhat nervously at the spirelings below. “You’re supposed to rescue the maiden on the night of the full moon. We, of course, thought it would be the next full moon, three weeks from now, but it is not the first time you have surprised us.”

Greg glanced at the sky. The sun still hovered above the horizon to the north, but the moon was already visible over the mountaintops to the east. It looked as big and full as could be. “Then it happens tonight.”

“No, tomorrow,” said Ryder, but then he looked at the moon himself and appeared less certain. “Full moon’s tomorrow night, right men?”

“Um, I think so,” came a host of replies, although no one seemed particularly certain.

Greg noticed two soldiers out of formation. They approached carrying something large between them.

“Agni!”

The soldiers laid the magician down as delicately as possible at Greg’s feet. Greg knelt at the man’s side and nearly shrieked when he saw Agni’s face.

The magician was conscious, but just barely. He peered at Greg from tired eyes sunken amidst the wrinkled, ashen face of an old man. “I did my part. Now you do yours.”

Greg swallowed hard. “I guess you’re not strong enough to send me the rest of the way?”

Agni struggled for breath. “I—I couldn’t anyway. I must be able to picture the place, and I have never been inside the spire.” His eyes closed then, and he went still.

At first Greg thought the worst. Then he observed the shallow rise and fall of the man’s chest.

“We better camp here,” Ryder said, taking one last look at the valley below. “My men need plenty of rest if they’re going to face that lot tomorrow.” He barked out a command that seemed to hang in the air forever, and as one, the men broke formation and began setting up camp.

That night there was no evening celebration. Instead, an air of impending doom settled over the camp as the soldiers sat in silence, contemplating their fates. After all, nothing in the prophecy defined which of them would live or die tomorrow, and Greg couldn’t understand how any could hope to survive when they were clearly outnumbered a thousand to one.

The moon shone nearly as bright as day, but even if it had been dark, Greg wouldn’t have stood a chance of sleeping. Rake wasn’t there to help either. The shadowcat must have felt the disquiet as much as Greg did, because it had faded into the shadows long ago and had not been back since.

Nathan crouched next to the boys’ bedrolls. Please don’t try to console me, Greg thought.

“You okay, Greghart?”

“Been better.”

“You’ll be fine. Just remember to use your head.”

Greg cringed. With his luck the soldiers were eavesdropping, and tomorrow they’d all be singing about how Greghart was going to lose his head.

“Here,” said Nathan, holding out his staff, “I want you to take this.”

“I have my own, thanks.”

“No, you should use mine. It’s . . . special.”

Greg didn’t stop to ask what Nathan meant. He grabbed the staff and hugged it tightly to his chest.

“One other thing,” said Nathan. “As with anything in life, a little preparation tonight could save you a lot of trouble in the end.”

“Okay . . .”

“The fireproofing spell Hazel gave you will not last indefinitely. You will want to finish your business in the spire and return as quickly as possible.”

“Believe me, I won’t stay up there one second longer than I need to.”

Nathan nodded. He reached out to the staff in Greg’s hand and moved it into sensen position. “Remember your center. Only from a position of peace can you achieve power. Now, sleep well, my young friend, for you will want to be well-rested when you meet the dragon.”

Before Greg could utter another word, Nathan rose and stalked off into the night. Greg’s heart pounded so hard he couldn’t think of sleeping now. What was Nathan trying to tell him? And why was he being so cryptic? Greg knew he would get no answers to these questions. He tried to push them from his mind, but they kept drifting back, demanding to be heard. Exhausted, yet wide-awake, he fell back on the one thing that had always given him solace. He pulled out his journal and pen and began to write.

It didn’t take long to bring the book up to date, and then when he still couldn’t get to sleep, Greg kept on writing, making up his own adventure as he’d done so many times back on Earth. It was a crazy thing to do, really—jotting down the end to his tale before the outcome was known—but Greg had seen the dragon. The story would never be told if he didn’t do it now. After Greg’s incineration, everyone would be so disappointed, even Bart would stop singing his ghastly ballads.

One would have thought that writing about Ruuan’s long talons and serrated teeth couldn’t have been worse therapy, that dwelling on the dragon’s enormous, leathery wings and fiery breath would have made Greg feel all the more uneasy about his fate. But the Greg Hart of his story cared little for such trivialities, and somehow that made them less horrible in real life, too.

The storybook Greg thought nothing of shouldering his way through the spirelings below and storming into the cave at the base of the spire. He found the secret passageway in seconds and marched with fearless determination into Ruuan’s lair while the dragon lay sleeping. Quickly he untied the princess and very nearly escaped without even waking the beast.

But then Ruuan’s head rocketed upward and swiveled atop the dragon’s long, sinewy neck. His jaw dropped, and out rushed a jet of scorching steam. Boldly I pulled the princess to me and raised my shield. The air roared for an unbelievably long moment. Finally the danger was past.

I laughed in the dragon’s face. Ruuan punctuated the steam with a jet of fire that nearly knocked me over backward in spite of my shield.

Again I laughed.

Ruuan leveraged himself to his feet and lunged, but my superior speed and lightening quick reflexes kept me from harm. Like a hero from some old swashbuckler movie, I scrambled behind the dragon and up its back, using its scales like a set of steps.

Ruuan struggled to reach me, to clamp me in his jaws and crush me, but I slipped up his neck and behind his ears, where the beast could not reach. As Ruuan’s head jerked about, trying to dislodge me, I held fast with my knees, raised my sword high.

With all my might I drove my blade home and felt the dragon stiffen. Like a collapsing building, the beast fell. The trip down was more fun than any amusement park ride. I leapt off at the last instant and landed nimbly at Priscilla’s side.

“That was amazing!” she cried.

“Yes, well, I hope I’m not late.”

As Greg finished, his eyelids grew heavy, and he started having trouble holding his pen. The journal slipped from his lap and toppled to the ground. The next thing Greg knew, something sharp clamped down on his wrist. “Ow!”

Rake jumped away. The shadowcat had returned from hiding and apparently felt, if it was awake, Greg should be too. The air hummed with a droning rumble that sapped all of Greg’s strength and made him want more than anything to go back to sleep.

But Rake looked determined to keep him awake. Greg blinked and looked about the campsite, then jumped to his feet and stared at the valley below. “Lucky, wake up. You’ve got to see this.”

The Infinite Spire

Lucky was nearly impossible to wake. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Greg stuffed an acorn into each of Lucky’s ears. “Come on, I’m not kidding. Wake up and look around you.”

Lucky lifted his eyes and scowled. He pushed himself up on one elbow and surveyed the campsite. On one side, Nathan lay sleeping with Rake curled up next to his face. On the other, Bart and Melvin lay snoring, with Rake snuggled between them in a ball of blue-black fur.

“There’s two of them!”

“Not just two,” Greg said. “Look around.”

Lucky finally spotted the many shadowcats scattered about, one to every three or four men in the campsite. “What’s going on? Where did all these shadowcats come from?”

“Quiet. You’ll wake the others.”

“But what’s going on?” Lucky demanded.

“I don’t know,” Greg said. “But it’s not just up here. The spirelings are asleep too. There’s shadowcats all through the valley. I think it’s a sign.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think this is how we’re supposed to get past the spirelings. Now, hurry up, get your things. Who knows how long this will last?”

He looked to the spire and hesitated. He’d hoped this moment would never come. He questioned whether it was really here now. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he should be dreaming. If he just took the acorns out of his ears he could fade into peaceful oblivion . . . and then maybe this whole dragon issue would go away.

But then he remembered Priscilla. He helped Lucky to his feet and picked up Nathan’s walking stick.

“What’s that?” Lucky asked, pointing to a rectangular object on the ground.

“My journal.” Greg scooped up the book and tucked it into his tunic. He started to pick up his drab cloak, too, but Lucky shook his head.

“You won’t need that where we’re going.”

Greg nodded. As if in a dream, he felt himself tread over the ridge and down the slope into the valley. Everywhere he looked spirelings and shadowcats littered the ground. The spirelings’ teeth and claws looked even more horrifying up close, and Greg just knew that any moment one would snap awake and sound an alarm that could end only in his being torn to shreds by thousands of jagged teeth. But the spirelings did not wake.

Greg and Lucky wove their way through the maze of bodies, moving as quickly and as quietly as they could, until they reached a huge, cleared area in front of the cave mouth. (Apparently the spirelings didn’t want to rest too close to the opening, just in case the dragon decided to come out.)

At the edge of the camp stood a wagon full of food and supplies. Seeing it reminded Greg he was going to miss breakfast. Even a condemned man gets a last meal, he thought, but then so had he. Only, no one had bothered mentioning it was his last when he had eaten dinner earlier.

“What’s with the rails?” Lucky asked softly.

“What?” Greg reached up and took the acorns out of his ears. “What?” he repeated.

Only then did Greg notice the wagon had no wheels but rested on rails like a sleigh. At first he thought this odd, but then he saw the glassy floor of the cave, no doubt worn smooth by the passage of dragon scales for centuries on end. He felt this one fact alone bode poorly.

As Greg faced the open cave mouth, just steps from going inside, a sudden thought struck him. They’d come a long way to reach this point, faced numerous obstacles and dangers too frightening to contemplate, and now that they were here . . . well, Greg was far more terrified than ever. His breath came to him in ragged gasps. His hands shook so badly he could barely hold Nathan’s staff. It was the worst case of cold feet he’d ever experienced, maybe the worst case of cold feet anyone had ever experienced, and he knew then he’d been right all along. He was anything but a hero. After all, would a real hero weigh his chances of sprinting past the spirelings and all of Ryder’s men to reach the forest before anyone could tackle him?

Yet in spite of his fears, Greg thought of Priscilla. He didn’t know if it made him a hero, but there was no way he was leaving here without her. He edged up to the enormous cave mouth and surveyed it with a discriminating eye. In this case his eye was discriminating against anything so large as to require an opening fifty feet in diameter to crawl through.

“Sure is a large opening,” he mumbled to himself.

Lucky studied the entrance with a puzzled expression. “No larger than it has to be for Ruuan to squeeze in and out.”

Greg felt a trickle of sweat run down his back.

“Good thing he can fold his wings tightly to his body,” Lucky added.

“Yeah, good thing.”

“Well,” Lucky said glumly, “you really should get started. It’s a long climb to the dragon’s lair.”

“Me? Aren’t you coming?”

Lucky shrugged. “It’s not like you need my guidance anymore. Just follow the tunnel to Ruuan’s lair. You can’t miss it. It’s the only dragon’s lair up there.”

“I don’t think so,” said Greg.

“Sure it is. Dragons are very territorial.”

“I mean, I’m not going alone.”

“You want me to come with you?” Lucky said, his expression brightening. “That would be great. I’ve never seen a live dragon up close before. When Ruuan took Priscilla, I couldn’t pick my face up out of the dirt.”

Greg frowned. “You want to go up there?”

“Well, sure. Don’t you?”

Greg shook his head, remembering what Nathan had said about Lucky’s good fortune one day running out.

The back wall of the cave stood no more than fifty feet away and veered sharply to the left, beginning a tunnel that wound its way up the inner circumference of the spire. Greg stepped closer and peered inside, only to be met by a blast of heat.

“Whoa, that’s hot!”

“No kidding, Greg,” said Lucky. “A fire-breathing dragon’s lived in there for centuries.”

“Yeah, I know, but—” He knew he would need a fireproofing spell at some point within the spire, but he never thought he’d have to use it to take his first step inside.

Quickly he removed the two vials Hazel had given him and pulled the stopper from the one she’d claimed was dragon spit. He had no reason to doubt her. It smelled putrid and decayed, exactly like Greg imagined the mouth of a dragon would. With very little enthusiasm, he and Lucky dripped the sticky substance over the soles of their boots and walked around experimentally. With each step his boot first stuck to the ground and then popped loose with a slight tug. It was an odd feeling, but one Greg got used to after a little practice.

He then removed the red vial Hazel gave him.

“That’s not the fire-proofing spell, is it?” Lucky asked.

Greg didn’t especially like his tone. “Yeah. Why?”

“It’s just that fireproofing spells are usually blue. That looks more like a fire-inducing spell. Are you sure Hazel heard you right?”

Greg held the vial at arm’s length, as if it had sprouted teeth. “She knew why I wanted it, and she had no reason to trick me.” Except she’s a witch, Greg’s mind screamed. “Um . . . here, try it.”

“Me?” said Lucky. “You should go first. That way we’ll be sure it’s the right potion. After all, you certainly couldn’t fulfill the prophecy if you burst into flames at this point.”

Greg felt a twinge of panic. “Yeah . . . on the other hand, you’re the lucky one. If you drank the wrong potion and exploded . . . well, that wouldn’t be lucky at all, would it?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Lucky admitted. “Which is why they’ll say I had the good fortune to have you sample the potion first.”

Greg was running short on arguments. “I’m not really thirsty,” he tried, but he knew there was no point. No matter how much he hated going on from here, it was Priscilla’s only chance. He took one last fleeting look at the bubbling red potion, raised it to his lips and downed half in a single swallow. An icy chill surged through his body, so cold he had to toss the remaining potion to Lucky and race into the cave mouth or catch his death of cold.

Lucky gulped down his half of the potion and quickly followed.

“F-f-f-freezing!” Greg said once Lucky joined him inside the tunnel.

Lucky hopped about with his arms wrapped around his chest, shivering uncontrollably. “En-n-n-njoy it while you c-c-c-can. You’ll be p-p-p-plenty warm soon enough. Now, let’s get moving.”

Greg turned and headed up the tunnel, then stopped abruptly after just a few steps. “The sleigh.”

Having been holding his head down low as he negotiated the steep climb, Lucky bumped right into him. “Hey, w-why’d you stop?”

“I think I’m supposed to take the spirelings’ sleigh with me.”

“What for? W-we’ve got everything we need in my pack.”

“Yeah, I know, but Nathan told me the fireproofing spell won’t last, and that I may need to get out of here quickly.”

Lucky studied the slope ahead of them. “We might be able to use it to get out quickly, but it’s sure not going to be a quick trip up, dragging that thing behind us.”

“Yes, but Nathan said something else, too. A bit of preparation may save me a lot of trouble in the end. I think this may be what he meant.”

Lucky shrugged. “It’s your destiny.”

The two boys ran back out of the tunnel into the freezing air. Greg hopped about behind the sleigh while Lucky yanked off his pack and pulled out a length of heavy, corded rope.

“You can tie this to the front of the wagon,” Lucky suggested, and then, after a very brief lecture on the difference between wagons and sleighs, Greg secured the rope to the front of what was clearly a sleigh, grabbed the torch from Lucky’s pack to light their way, and the boys heaved with all their might.

The sleigh didn’t budge.

“Lighten the load,” Greg ordered, and Lucky jumped into the bed and started hurling away supplies.

With the sleigh empty, the boys were able to free it from the dusty soil and slide it onto the glassy tunnel floor. Still the incline was steep, and they tired quickly. If they eased up for even a moment the sleigh dragged them back down the slope in spite of their sticky boots. They had to alternate their breaks, one bracing against the full weight of the sleigh while the other rested.

Greg had stowed Nathan’s staff in Lucky’s pack, but he still had the added difficulty of trying to hold the eternal torch with one hand while he pulled, using it to inspect the tunnel walls for some sign of the Passageway of Shifted Dimensions. According to Hazel the tunnel was undetectable, but still he searched. If he admitted the impossibility of finding the passageway, he might as well give up now.

Wait.

Oh, yeah, Priscilla.

After what seemed like hours, Greg was too exhausted to go on. Of course, the same could have been said when they started off, but now he was also beginning to notice the heat. Hopefully he was just overexerted, because the alternative was too terrifying to contemplate. He slowed to a stop, panting.

“I don’t think I can go on,” he told Lucky. “And as much as I hate to say it, I don’t think we have much time left on the fireproofing spell.”

Lucky nodded, the cords of his neck standing out under the strain.

Greg’s arms threatened to pop out of their sockets. “Just out of curiosity, if you burst into flames at any point, is it okay if I assume the prophecy was wrong?”

“It’s not wrong,” Lucky said, but even he seemed uncertain.

Though neither boy dared mention it, Greg knew their next break would be their last. Sure, they could abandon the quest, try riding the sleigh out, but then Priscilla would be lost.

“Go ahead, rest,” Lucky told him. “You need it more than I do. I haven’t had to carry the torch.”

“Thanks,” Greg said. “You sure you can hold it?”

“I think so. Ease off slowly.”

Relief surged through his body as Greg eased off the rope and shook the tightness from his arms. Lucky’s arms were shaking so violently Greg could barely bring them into focus, but the sleigh stayed put, at least for the moment. A diamond-shaped object, roughly the size of a shield, lay on the floor of the tunnel ahead. Greg picked it up and admired its leathery smooth feel.

“What’s that?” Lucky groaned.

“Don’t know,” said Greg. “Here, you look.” He traded places with Lucky one last time, his arms protesting from the strain as Lucky took the object and inspected it.

“Well?” Greg grunted.

“It’s a dragon’s scale,” Lucky told him. “Must have fallen off Ruuan on his way through here.”

“Too bad he’s not here now,” Greg grumbled. “Maybe he would carry us up to the lair if we asked nicely.” He felt the rope begin to slip through his fingers and strengthened his grip. “I have an idea. Try wedging that scale under the runner of the sleigh.”

Lucky walked behind the sleigh and did as Greg asked. “Try easing up on the rope.”

Greg didn’t need to try. The rope was already slipping through his fingers. The sleigh held at first, but then the scale slipped on the glassy floor and kicked loose, nearly jerking the rope from his hand. Greg screamed. He threw his weight into it and managed to stop the sleigh before it ran over Lucky, who stood scratching his head, confident his talent would keep him from being flattened.

“Okay, I have another idea,” Greg said.

“Is this one as likely to get me killed?” Lucky asked curiously.

“Check and see if there’s any dragon spit left,” Greg said as he strained against the rope.

Lucky plucked the black vial from around Greg’s neck and held it up to the torch. “Maybe a drop or two.”

“Try using it on the scale.”

Lucky returned to kneel behind the sleigh. He popped the cork and shook the vial over the dragon’s scale, scattering a few remaining drops across its surface. “Let’s hope it’s enough,” he said as he wedged the scale back into place. “Try it now.”

Greg really had no choice, as his arms were again giving out. He eased off the rope in the sense that he suddenly let go, and this time the scale held firm. Unfortunately only one runner was blocked. With a jerk the sleigh pivoted sideways and crashed into the tunnel wall. Lucky shrieked and dodged out of the way, possibly reconsidering how far his talent would carry him.

“You okay?” Greg asked.

“Of course. Hey, look at this.”

Greg felt uncomfortable dropping the rope, but the sleigh seemed firmly wedged between the wall and the dragon scale. He moved around to join Lucky, where a fine crack no wider than a thread crept up the tunnel wall for several feet, beginning at the spot where the corner of the sleigh had impacted the surface. Greg drew his finger over the line, and the end of the crack crept along in front of it, giving the impression Greg held his finger on a giant zipper in the stone.

“It’s a doorway,” Lucky said.

“Not just any doorway,” said Greg. “It’s the Passageway of Shifted Dimensions. We found it.”

“No way. I mean—I knew we would. How does it open?”

Greg thought a moment. “Hazel said we needed to command it to open in the name of the prophet.”

Lucky shrugged, pivoted toward the door, and raised his arms wide. “I Command You To Open In The Name Of The Prophet!”

Nothing happened.

“Try using his real name,” Greg suggested.

“I Command You To Open In The Name Of Simon Sezxqrthm!” Lucky tried.

Still nothing.

Greg grunted. “You’ve got to be kidding. Here, let me.” He faced the door just as Lucky had done and spoke in a much more ordinary tone. “Simon Sez, open.”

With a click the door swung inward, spilling a wave of refreshingly cool air into the tunnel, proof of the powerful magic within.

“You did it!” Lucky said.

“Seems so,” said Greg. He just wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

The Passageway
of Shifted Dimensions

Greg had assumed the white crack outlining the passage had been caused by light filtering in from behind, but the door opened to a side tunnel of utter darkness. He could make out only the first ten feet or so by the light of his flickering torch.

“I hope this is it,” he whispered.

“Of course it is,” said Lucky. “How many magical passageways do you think are up here?”

“Who knows? The tunnel is infinitely long. There may be quite a few. Let’s see if we can get this sleigh in there. I’ll pull the rope. You push from behind.”

Lucky scrambled around to the back of the sleigh and prepared to push while Greg picked up the rope and stepped into the passageway, pulling out the slack. Greg’s arms felt like rubber, but to his surprise the sleigh moved on the first tug, sliding easily into the passageway, only to become firmly wedged in the narrow opening.

“Doesn’t fit,” Lucky grunted. “What do we do now?”

“Push it back out,” said Greg. “It’s already served its purpose. We’ll just have to leave it.”

He waited for Lucky to step out of the way, then set down his torch, dousing the area in sudden darkness, and pushed. The sleigh held tight.

“What are you waiting for, Greg?”

“It’s stuck. Just crawl under.”

Lucky agreed, but unfortunately the sleigh sat too low to the ground. He could fit neither under nor over it. “I knew it was too good to be true,” he called out. “Well, you go ahead. You can tell me all about the dragon when you get back.”

Greg’s stomach churned. If only he would get the chance. He groped the floor of the passageway for the eternal torch until his fingers bumped into the hard wood and lit the area with an eerie, flickering glow.

“Er, thanks for all your help,” he told Lucky.

“No problem. See you soon.”

One last trembling breath and Greg stepped into the ominous passageway.

“Wait!” Lucky called out.

Greg seized in his tracks, all too happy to oblige.

“Here,” Lucky said with a grunt. The magic sword he had been carrying in his pack this whole trip rattled across the stone and slid to a stop at Greg’s feet. “You can’t fight Ruuan without a sword.”

Greg bent to pick up the weapon, but he was too tired to lift it. He could never swing it in battle. “Where’s my walking stick?” he called back.

A moment later the stick shot past his ankle hard enough to pierce the bone had it struck him.

“Watch out,” Lucky called.

Greg slid the sword back under the sleigh, making sure to give Lucky more of a warning than Lucky gave him. “You keep that,” he said. “Who knows? You might consider yourself lucky you had it.”

After one final good-bye, Greg started up the passageway. He paused to pick up Nathan’s walking stick after the first thirty feet, and then followed the winding passage upward, wondering if enough cool air would spill into the tunnel to protect Lucky once Hazel’s fireproofing spell gave out. He also wondered why Lucky, with his unnatural ability to beat the odds, was the one stuck outside the passage, but it was best not to think about such things.

So much time passed, Greg began to wonder how much of a shortcut this Passageway of Shifted Dimensions really offered. Hazel had told him the lair was halfway up the Infinite Spire. Now, maybe the magic of the passageway cut that distance in half again, or quarters, maybe even eighths, but still . . . he had just willed himself to pick up the pace when a voice rang out in the passage ahead. As if drenched in a fresh layer of dragon spit, Greg’s boots glued themselves to the spot.

It took only a moment to realize he stood in a normally dark tunnel holding a bright light for anyone to see. He threw down the torch, dousing the area in blackness so close it pressed against his eyes.

But didn’t Hazel also say something about the spirelings being able to see in the dark?

Greg snatched up the torch again and stuffed it down the collar of his tunic, where he could grab it when needed for sudden bursts of light. The quick flash of the torch sparking to life and dousing out again left behind big orange spots that moved in front of his eyes no matter which way he looked. Even so, he pressed on, shuffling his feet and holding his walking stick before him so he wouldn’t run into the walls. Suddenly it felt very small and awkward in his hand.

Ahead the voice sounded again, this time joined by a second.

Greg eased forward, debating with himself whether he dare reach for his torch. To his relief he caught a faint glimmer ahead. He hoped that meant the spirelings had a limit to how well they could see in the dark. He moved closer to the light, and the voices grew louder. So far he’d heard only two, both deep in pitch, far more booming than he would have thought possible from the short creatures he’d seen outside.

Greg flattened himself against the wall. The guards were garbed exactly as their brethren, in tattered pants and light chain mail draped across their bare chests. One sat comfortably on the hard stone with his heavy, double-bladed axe draped across his lap, the other with his axe resting by its handle on his shoulder. Greg felt a horrible churning around his middle and wondered at his chances of sneaking past Lucky, the spireling army, and all of Ryder’s men.

Then he saw it. On the wall behind the guards, ornate carvings showcased a small alcove dug into the wall. From the alcove came the glow he had seen from far down the passageway. Greg knew immediately he’d found the spirelings’ amulet. He just needed a distraction.

Or maybe he didn’t.

As if the guards knew he’d been there all along, they leapt to their feet and spun to face him, their bulbous eyes locked on the spot where Greg stood. Greg’s hand leapt to the torch, and the passageway exploded with blinding light. The last image he saw was of the two spirelings screaming and covering their eyes, and then he was off, retreating down the passageway as fast as his legs would carry him.

Terror welled up inside him, yet a part of him felt exhilarated by the chase. He’d used his speed to save himself for as long as he could remember. But what about the wagon blocking the end of the passage? Sleigh, he heard Lucky’s voice scold him. Wagons have wheels. Either way, if Lucky hadn’t managed to clear the passage, Greg would soon find himself trapped at a dead end.

No, not a dead end, he scolded himself, just an end.

Er . . . how about just a wagon . . . okay, a sleigh. Get a grip. Just don’t fall. Lucky will have the escape route clear by now.

The slapping of spireling feet gained so quickly Greg might as well have been standing still. Fear rose up inside him even faster. His heart beat so strongly he thought it might burst from his chest. He’d never been so scared in his life. Not when the ogre chased him through the Enchanted Forest. Not when the bollywomp’s claws raked across his flesh in Wiccan Wood. Not even when he narrowly escaped the stampeding falchions in Fey Field. But he couldn’t possibly outrun these creatures, and where would he go if he could?

Greg knew he must act now, this very moment, or die. He pushed back his fear, planted his feet firmly in front of him, and spun to face his pursuers.

The closest spireling rocketed toward him in a blur.

Greg dropped the eternal light, freeing both hands to wield Nathan’s staff. Blackness engulfed his vision, but the sight of the spireling diving toward him stayed etched in his mind.

His eyes actually pained him, he strained so hard to see, but the darkness was thick as the surrounded stone. Then he closed his eyes and allowed his many evenings practicing on the trail to serve him. He ducked and thrust his stick the way Nathan had taught him, and felt the impact up his arms, clear through to his shoulders.

There was a grunt and a thud and the clank of metal on rock as the guard’s axe skidded across the floor. Greg felt something, too: an electrical charge in his hands where the smooth wood of Nathan’s staff met his skin, and another where the Amulet of Ruuan pressed hard against his chest.

He felt more than heard the whoosh of the second spireling soaring though the darkness. Again he spun toward the sound, whipped his stick up and around to protect himself, and connected. The force drove him backward, knocked him off his feet, but then he heard the thuds of the spireling hitting first the wall and then the floor, followed by a feeble groan, and the clink of a metal axe easing onto stone.

Greg groped frantically for his torch. Once again white light flooded the passageway, blinded him, forced him to blink away the pain. The first of the spirelings lay unconscious or dead several feet away. The other sat propped against the wall, its axe just out of reach, a grimace etched across its face. It cringed from the light but was too hurt to raise an arm to shield its eyes.

“I-I’m sorry,” said Greg. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I-I just . . .” His voice trailed away. Nothing he could say would make this better.

The spireling did not acknowledge Greg’s words. It closed its eyes and exhaled shakily. Greg wondered if it would die.

Or is it catching its breath?

Fighting back hysteria, Greg ran over and kicked the spireling’s axe out of reach, then scurried over to retrieve the weapon as best as he could on his newly throbbing foot. The axe was even heavier than it looked. Greg didn’t have the strength to lift it. Instead he dragged it back up the passage toward the shrine.

As he’d thought, the shining light originated from an amulet identical to the two he had given Hazel, mounted in a depression in the stone. Greg reached in and removed it from its setting, dousing the light. He backed away, holding the amulet, still warm with power, at arm’s length.

To his right he heard a groan and spun toward the sound. One of the spirelings had tried to follow, but it now lay unconscious on its stomach, evidently too weak to catch him.

Greg pushed back his guilt. He vowed that if it were at all possible he would see the amulet returned to the spirelings one day. He hated taking it to Hazel, but knew he must. Something told him it wouldn’t be wise to break a promise to a witch.

Well, now he’d done as she asked. What next? If he could believe Hazel, his only hope of reaching Ruuan’s lair was through this passage. Still he hesitated. He couldn’t stop thinking about how quickly the fireproofing spell had been wearing off earlier. What if Lucky never made it past the wagon?

Sleigh!

And what about Princess Priscilla? Could she possibly still be alive in Ruuan’s lair? Only if Ruuan were protecting her from the heat for some reason. Greg hated to think what would happen if that protection ran out, how Priscilla would feel the painful burn of the air against her skin and in her lungs.

He stood frozen, uncertain which way to go. Then he heard it, a high-pitched whine from far above that grew louder and dropped in pitch the way a bomb does just before impact. The analogy spurred Greg’s mind into action. He sprinted from the sound, back toward Lucky, hopping over both fallen spirelings in a single stride.

Greg ran with all his might, but with each step the noise grew louder, until his ears felt as if they might bleed. Still the sound bore down from above, pressing in on him from all sides. He cringed, expecting to be flattened by more spirelings, or worse, but to his surprise, the sound passed overhead and descended as fast as it had come. Within seconds it was gone. Greg exhaled deeply, disbelieving, feeling lucky to be alive.

Lucky!

Greg raced toward the main tunnel, panting and gasping until he caught sight of the sleigh still wedged in the end of the passageway ahead.

“Lucky!” he screamed. “Lucky?”

To his horror, he heard only silence. He dropped to his knees and peered beneath the sleigh. The dragon scale Lucky wedged under the runner rested on the tunnel floor just feet away, but a few yards farther, rocking back and forth silently, lay a second scale, and Greg knew now what had caused that deafening noise.

Ruuan had just left through the tunnel.

Fighting back his panic, Greg slipped Nathan’s staff through the narrow gap between the top of the sleigh and the doorframe. With a clatter it dropped into the bed. Still holding the torch in his other hand, Greg wedged a shoulder against the sleigh and heaved.

It wouldn’t budge. Greg slipped the torch through the gap, too, leaving him in total darkness but with both hands free. He wedged his shoulder again until he felt the sleigh move slightly. Before he could think to congratulate himself he heard a voice in the distance. At least one of the spirelings had awakened.

Greg pushed even harder, the tendons in his neck bulging, and the sleigh moved again. Not an inch or two, not even a foot. No, it jumped from the passageway as if shot from a cannon and started down the tunnel. It was all Greg could do to get a hand on the rope to keep from losing it altogether.

Even with dragon spit spread across the soles of his feet, Greg couldn’t rein in the sleigh. For a few feet he was dragged behind it like a water-skier on a towrope. Then one runner ran aground on a dragon scale, and the sleigh stopped. Greg stopped too, but not until he smacked into the wood. The sleigh pivoted on the stuck runner until it was facing downhill and then kicked loose again. Still maintaining his death grip on the rope, Greg was swung hard into the wall, where he bounced off only to land in the bed of the sleigh.

He scrambled upright and peered down the tunnel, but without his torch, all he could make out was blackness. The wind in his face forced him to close his eyes, but he didn’t need to see to know how fast he was going. The sleigh sped so swiftly down the spiraling tunnel that Greg could feel it climb the walls. Centrifugal force pinned him to the bed and kept him from groping the darkness for the eternal torch that should have been within easy reach.

Down and down he went at mind-numbing speed, but even his numb mind could predict the only two possible outcomes to this ride. Either he would crash before the bottom, find himself dragged behind the sleigh for the final mile, his skin peeled off after the first fifty feet, or he could get lucky, make it all the way to the end and fly out of the cave mouth, only to land on a sleeping spireling, awaken the whole camp and be chopped to tiny pieces by their many double-edged axes.

Greg tried taking a quick peek ahead. The rushing air caused his eyes to water, but he was able to make out a faint glow ahead, more of a dark charcoal gray highlight to the otherwise black surroundings. The end of the tunnel drew near, and Greg thought his fate surely lay with the spirelings.

Terrified, Greg ignored the wind and fought to keep his eyes open. The brightness increased until he was convinced the cave mouth would surely pop into view around the next bend (a safe bet in the sense that the next bend was the same bend he’d been following all along). But then the light cut off abruptly, and when he rounded the final stretch, in the brief instant just before launch, Greg managed to make out not the open cave mouth ahead but the enormous face of a dragon. Ruuan had chosen that exact moment to peer through the opening, no doubt curious as to the source of so much racket.

Too late the dragon pulled back. The sleigh rammed into Ruuan’s heavily ridged forehead, splintering timbers in all directions. Greg felt as if he’d been splintered, as well. Blackness crept into the sides of his vision and flowed steadily inward until he could see nothing at all. This time his other senses refused to step up to the plate. He lay helpless, unable to move, as the world of Myrth slowly faded away.

When he came to, Greg lay face to face with Ruuan, though he’d have needed to be at least twenty paces farther back to realize it.

Why is that rotting piece of ogre meat wedged between those two stalactites? Wait . . . those are teeth.

Greg scurried back. Ahead, he spotted a small wedge of light. Given the choice between the dragon’s mouth and the cave mouth, he chose the latter to dive through.

Once his eyes adjusted to the bright moonlight, Greg saw the dragon’s limp form extending the length of a football field away from the spire. Throughout the valley the spirelings were still fast asleep. Even better, Lucky lay resting just a few feet away, his eyes half open.

“Lucky, you’re alive!”

“I am?” Lucky said with a groan.

“But how? What happened?”

Lucky tried to sit up, winced, and lay back again. “Ruuan came down the tunnel,” he said, gasping, “ran over me . . . dragged me along under his belly.”

“Whoa,” Greg said, bending down to check on him. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

Lucky nodded. He tried to give Greg one of his I-told-you-so looks, but it came out more like I-am? He took a moment to catch his breath and then said, “Good thing Ruuan was braking hard for the end of the tunnel by the time he hit me. Any faster and I would have been disintegrated on impact.”

“I can’t believe you weren’t,” Greg said. “All that noise . . .”

“What about Ruuan?” said Lucky. “Where’d he go?”

Greg realized Lucky was too close to the dragon to recognize what it was. “He’s right here . . . I think I killed him.”

Lucky peered up at the enormous mound beside him. “I wish I could die.”

“But Lucky, don’t you see? I killed Ruuan. It’s all over. You should be excited.”

“Inside I’m jumping up and down with joy,” Lucky said, wheezing. He forced himself to a sitting position and shook about a cup of dust from his ears. “Where’s Priscilla?”

If Greg’s eyes hadn’t already been filled with tears from the ride down the tunnel, they would have surely welled up now. “Still in Ruuan’s lair, if he hasn’t eaten her.”

“She’s still in the lair? But you were supposed to rescue her, and by the way I don’t think there was anything in the prophecy about you running Ruuan down with a wagon.”

In a moment of hysteria Greg nearly grinned. “Sleigh, Lucky. I ran him down with a sleigh. You might say I ‘sleighed’ him.”

Lucky frowned. “Are you making fun of the prophecy?”

“No, listen,” Greg said. “We’ve never actually seen it written out, right? Maybe we’ve been assuming too much.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lucky said.

“No more than your silly notion about having some supernatural talent that keeps you from harm.”

“But it does.”

“What? Look at you,” Greg said. “You can’t even stand. You just got dragged for miles under the belly of a speeding dragon. How lucky is that?”

“Very,” Lucky answered angrily. “I’ll have you know it was getting awfully hot in that tunnel, and my half of the fireproofing spell had worn off. The only thing keeping me alive was the air spilling from the passage. If Ruuan hadn’t come along and dragged me out of there, I’d have been baked to a crisp.”

Greg started to argue but just couldn’t bring himself to do it. The fireproofing spell had been wearing off quickly. He only managed to survive himself because he escaped into the Passageway of Shifted Dimensions.

“Wait, if you’re so lucky, what were you doing in the tunnel to begin with? What kept you from making it inside the passageway with me, where it was cool?”

“I don’t know.” Lucky moaned. He managed to push himself to a seated position and rested there a moment, breathing heavily. “Because then things wouldn’t have worked out, I suppose. Maybe you wouldn’t have made it to the amulet with me tagging along. You did get the amulet, didn’t you?”

Greg felt the lump beneath his tunic and nodded. He thought about the two spireling guards and how lucky he’d been to defeat them in the dark. Would things have worked out as well if Lucky had been in that cramped passage with him? And if he hadn’t gone back out to the main tunnel to check on Lucky, he never would have had the chance to sleigh the dragon. Maybe it was destiny.

No. Greg refused to go along with the madness. “What about Priscilla?”

“No problem, Greg. Ruuan won’t be eating her now that he’s dead. We just need to go up and get her.”

“How are we supposed to do that? The fireproofing spell wore off, remember?”

“I don’t know,” said Lucky, reaching out a hand for Greg to help him up, “but there must be a way. The prophecy won’t be complete until you rescue the princess.”

Greg pulled Lucky to his feet and helped him balance the way he might help a rope stand on one end. “Wait, there is!” Greg held out the spirelings’ amulet. “Hazel said the spirelings used this to protect them from the heat of the spire.”

“I CAN THINK OF ANOTHER WAY,” came a booming voice from behind Greg.

As both boys spun to face the sound, the wall behind them surged upward, and a section of it arced around to stare Greg directly in the eye. Greg tried to gulp but couldn’t bring himself to it. Ruuan was less dead than he first appeared, but certainly more enraged than anyone within the length of, say, a football field would have wanted.

Captive Hart

Greg found the second trip up the tunnel much quicker than the first, what with the dragon assisting by carrying him in its jaws. Earlier he’d thought there couldn’t be any worse stench than the smell of dragon spit, but now he knew that a single vial of the stuff could hardly compare to an entire dragon’s mouthful.

The darkness lasted but a minute. Then Ruuan’s mouth flew open, and Greg was blinded by the white-hot rock lining the dragon’s lair. He caught only a brief glimpse of the enormous cavern full of jewels and precious artifacts before being roughly deposited into an opening in the glowing rock wall.

He tumbled to a stop. Cool, refreshing air rushed over his body. Several beams of moonlight drifted in from a row of portals in the stone a dozen feet above his head, but none could push back the dark. Perhaps they were responsible for the chill—Greg had an idea the air outside an infinitely tall spire might get quite frigid—but more likely this was some sort of magic storage locker, an enchanted refrigerator where Ruuan kept his prey so it wouldn’t spoil, or burst into flames.

“Ugh, awful,” he sputtered, trying to get the taste of dragon spit out of his mouth.

Lucky rustled nearby, groaning. “Try riding on the outside. Believe me, this was better.”

“Greg! Lucky!”

All sorts of thoughts rushed through Greg’s mind before he recognized the voice, none of them pleasant.

“Prissy?” said Lucky.

“Sasha!” insisted the voice.

Greg was so happy he could—wait, he wasn’t happy at all. “Priscilla?”

“Right here.”

He felt something wrap around him, pinning his arms to his side. “That is you, isn’t it?”

“Of course, silly. I knew you’d rescue me.”

“About that . . .” said Lucky.

Greg’s eyes began to adjust until he could just make out the princess’s questioning gaze. “I’m afraid the rescue’s not going very smoothly.” He quickly explained about the incident with the sleigh, and how moments ago Ruuan had unfortunately been less dead than they thought.

“Oh, this is terrible,” said Priscilla. “What are we going to do?”

“Now don’t panic,” said Lucky. “I’m sure Greg will come up with a plan. He is the one going to rescue you, after all.”

“Would you stop talking about me like I can do no wrong?” Greg said. “I don’t have a plan. I can’t possibly fight Ruuan. I’m lucky to be alive at this point.”

He stormed off and began feeling the walls of the cell, searching for a means of escape. As far as he could tell there were two. One, he could simply step into Ruuan’s lair, where with any luck the dragon would eat him before he melted into the rock, but that option seemed less than desirable. Two, he could climb the wall, squeeze through one of the portals, and plunge to his death. Again, not pleasant, but since the lair sat halfway up an infinitely tall spire, at least he’d never have to worry about hitting the ground. Of course, there was a third option—he could just stay where he was until Ruuan came for him—but technically that didn’t qualify as a means of escape.

Desperate for a fourth option, Greg looped the cell again, searching for anything he might have missed. As it turned out he’d missed the pile of human bones stacked in one corner, where the moonlight couldn’t penetrate. He also missed the pack of filthy rats picking at a more recent carcass nearby. Oh, and he missed the harpy resting against the far wall tearing apart a rather nasty looking serpent with her pointed beak. He made a mental note to try to be more observant.

“Lucky?”

The sound of rapid footsteps interrupted by repeated thuds and associated curses, as of someone running into rock walls, filled the air. Apparently Lucky was having trouble following the sound of Greg’s voice as it echoed throughout the chamber. Finally Greg spotted a dark figure approaching from his left. He hoped it was Lucky.

“Ugh, harpies,” came Lucky’s voice. “I hate those things. They make me want to vomit.”

The harpy paused in mid tear and glared up at Lucky balefully. She regurgitated a small pile of serpent slush over the front of her chest, licked it up with her long, reptilian tongue, and resumed eating.

“Oh, yuck. See what I mean?”

“That’s Gretchen,” said Priscilla, who walked up from behind. “Don’t stare. She doesn’t like to be disturbed while she’s eating.”

“You know it?” said Lucky.

“Her. Of course. We’ve been sharing this cell together for days.” Priscilla lowered her voice and added, “Try to be nice, would you? I imagine Ruuan will be coming for her soon.”

“Ruuan will be coming for us all,” he said. “We need a way out of here.”

“There was an opening out front,” said Lucky helpfully. “Remember? Ruuan tossed us through it.”

“We can’t go out that way,” Priscilla said. “Ruuan’s still out there.”

“Well, we certainly can’t go out the back. We’re too far up.”

Given his choices, Greg thought that soaring through the air for eternity seemed far preferable to any other means of death he could think of—though probably only because he didn’t like to think about any of the other means.

“Would you two quit arguing?” said Greg. “We need to put our heads together to come up with a plan. Now, we could try sneaking past Ruuan, couldn’t we?”

“You kidding?” said Lucky. “The rock out there’s so hot it’s melting, and we don’t have another fireproofing spell.”

“So we just need another spell,” said Priscilla. “Where can we get one of those?”

“From the witch.” Lucky must have realized the flaw in that plan and shook his head glumly.

“We don’t need a spell anymore,” Greg told them. “Remember, I have the spirelings’ amulet.”

They strode to the front of the cell and peered through the crack in the rock at the dragon. He lay upon a large pile of treasure, his eyes closed, as if asleep.

“What if he wakes up?” Priscilla asked.

Greg realized he had given away the magic sword. Even his stick was lost somewhere down at the bottom of the spire. “We need a weapon.”

He peered outside again at the pile of treasure. Hard to get a good look, what with the three-hundred-foot-long dragon curled up on top of it, but Greg was sure the treasure must be magically protected from the heat, for amidst the pile of sparkling gems he was able to distinguish a broken wooden bucket, the rusty head of a double-edged axe, and a short plank with a half-moon cutout that looked like it might have once been part of an outhouse. Apparently Ruuan wasn’t particular about the treasures he collected.

But nowhere did Greg see anything that he might use to fight a dragon, as if such a thing existed. He’d just convinced himself the situation was hopeless when Lucky nearly jumped through the crack, pointing and somehow shouting without making much of a sound.

“Look!” Lucky gasped.

“What?” said Greg. “You see a sword?”

“No, better,” Lucky said, hopping up and down excitedly. “Look.”

Greg sighted along Lucky’s finger toward the opposite side of the lair, where a huge, blond man, clad in nothing but a loincloth and worn, leather sandals, tiptoed stealthily past the sleeping dragon. In one hand he held a shield woven from the scales of a dragon, in the other a long, battle-worn sword. His broad shoulders and bare chest rippled all the way to his trim waist, and each of his legs bulged as broad as Greg himself.

“Greatheart!” Priscilla cried. “What’s he doing here?”

“Who cares?” said Lucky. “We’re going to be rescued.”

Greg had to catch himself from crying out. Suddenly everything made sense. The prophecy was true after all, but just as he’d always suspected, it was never about him. One glance was all it took to see that this man was a real dragonslayer, and Greg couldn’t be happier to hand over the title. He’d never wanted to be a hero anyway. Okay, maybe he did, back when he was on Earth writing in his journal, safe in the knowledge that dragons didn’t exist. Now he’d give anything to be just another twelve-year-old boy.

But then something horrible happened. Ruuan’s eyes popped open, and his enormous head lifted high into the air. The Mighty Greatheart’s eyes widened too. He wisely abandoned his covert approach and made a mad dash for the cell.

“Watch out!” Greg shouted as Marvin dove for cover, floating slow-motion through the air. Then time caught up. The dragonslayer soared through the crack in the rock an instant ahead of a jet of searing flames. Greg, Lucky and Priscilla jerked back, barely avoiding incineration.

“You okay, Marvin?” Lucky screamed as the would-be hero rolled to a stop.

The Mighty Greatheart jumped up quickly and adjusted his loincloth. While the others were now used to the dim lighting, he was not. He peered about, squinting, until he spotted the source of the sound.

“Fine, I’m fine,” he boasted, though Greg did notice a tremor in his voice. “Just caught me a bit by surprise, he did. I’ll have another go at him in a moment.” He turned and squinted at Greg. “I suppose you’re that Greghart fellow Mum told me about. Where’s the princess?”

Greg glanced around, but Princess Priscilla had disappeared into the dim recesses of the cell.

“I guess that blast scared her off. Say, are you sure you can do this? I mean, that was a close call just then.”

Greatheart scoffed at him. “You call that a close call? Why I’ve had closer calls going to the loo in the morning. I’ll show that dragon a close call. Where’s my sword?”

Greg thought he sounded a lot like his little brother, Melvin. He picked up the dragonslayer’s sword and handed it back to him, and Lucky handed him his shield.

“Oh, and Mum said you had my amulet.”

“Um,” Greg said. He didn’t want to tell Marvin that he really had Hazel’s amulet, and that the one Mrs. Greatheart gave him was back at Hazel’s shack.

“Oh, there it is,” Marvin said, spotting the chain around Greg’s neck.

Greg had no choice but to drop Hazel’s amulet into Marvin’s outstretched hand. “Now, watch closely while I show that dragon why they call me the greatest dragonslayer Myrth has ever known.”

The Mighty Greatheart straightened impressively as if posing for a portrait. Greg admired him for several seconds before he realized the man’s stoic expression had frozen in place. The dragonslayer’s eyes lost focus and he toppled forward, landing on the hard rock with a dull thud. Behind him, Priscilla stood panting, a large bone from the stack in the corner dangling from one hand. She dropped the bone to the floor with a hollow clatter, retrieved the amulet and the dragonslayer’s sword, and held them out to Greg.

“Okay, you should get going, before he wakes up.”

“What did you do?” Greg screamed.

Even in the dim light he could see Priscilla roll her eyes. “He was about to go out and fight Ruuan. I had to stop him.”

“Stop him? That’s just what we wanted him to do.”

“No,” Priscilla corrected, “that’s what we want you to do. You’re the one in the prophecy, remember?”

“What? I thought you didn’t believe in the prophecy.”

“That was before I saw how far you’ve come. Now get out there and slay the dragon,” she said, slipping the chain over his head and around his neck.

“But—”

“She’s right, Greg,” said Lucky. Then as an aside he added, “though I think I’d have tried discussing the matter with Marvin before I clubbed him over the head.”

“This is crazy.” Greg paced toward the entrance, spun back to face the others and pointed behind him through the crack in the wall. “Greatheart was the only chance we had. Now he’s out cold, and we’ve still got an angry dragon over there.”

He stopped when he noticed both Lucky and Priscilla backing away, their eyes wide with horror.

“NO, YOU HAVE AN ANGRY DRAGON RIGHT HERE.”

The Dragon Ruuan

Greg tried to jump away, but a tongue the size of a Slip-N-Slide caught him around the waist and yanked him off his feet. It was as wet as a Slip-N-Slide, too, but not in a fun way.

Greg felt a momentary blast of heat as the spirelings’ amulet adjusted to the new surroundings. Then everything went cool again as Ruuan tossed him roughly on the white-hot floor of his lair. Then again, the amulet was meant to be used in the passageway. Its magic might not be strong enough to save him here at the source of the fire. That would mean the dragon was protecting him from the heat with its own magic. For what reason Greg didn’t know, but he was struck by a sudden image of Rake playing with a field mouse just before chomping it up and swallowing it.

He leapt to his feet and turned, but Ruuan cut off his escape with a scalding blast of steam. Bart’s haunting voice popped into Greg’s head. He’d face any sensation, laugh at decapitation. Even incineration, or worse.

Greg spun and fled the other way, but a well-placed jet of fire had him sliding to a stop in that direction as well. He gaped up at the dragon, petrified, dreading to see what Ruuan would do next.

In a coordinated effort of contracting and expanding muscles, Ruuan rose to his full height. If the dragon had looked enormous before, now he seemed nearly as tall as the Infinite Spire itself. His underbelly glowed like polished gold, gradually melding into brilliant scales of blue that covered his back and sides. Under different circumstances Greg might have described him as beautiful, but at the moment all he could think about was the sound of crunching bones.

“WHY ARE YOU TRESPASSING INSIDE MY SPIRE?”

“Sorry.” Greg cleared his throat and tried to keep his knees from knocking. “I was, uh, just trying to stay warm. It’s quite chilly tonight. Have you been outside? Of course you have, that’s where we met.”

“SILENCE.”

Greg shut up instantly. His knees threatened to give out, but he somehow managed to remain standing under the dragon’s scrutinizing glare.

“DO NOT LIE TO ME.”

“No, of course not,” stammered Greg. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

“YOU’RE DOING IT AGAIN.”

“Sorry, yes I am. I didn’t mean to, really.”

“OF COURSE, YOU DID. THOUGH I CAN’T SAY I BLAME YOU. YOU MUST BE TERRIBLY AFRAID YOU’RE ABOUT TO BE EATEN.”

“You mean I’m not?” Greg squeaked.

Ruuan lowered his head until his chin was just feet from Greg’s own. Greg cringed, trying not to breathe in the stench of the dragon’s breath. The smell caused him to relive the horrible trip up the spire, and while he wouldn’t have thought it possible, the memory of the trip felt even worse than the original experience.

“CERTAINLY I’M GOING TO EAT YOU,” Ruuan told him. “BUT DON’T WORRY, IT WON’T HURT.”

“It won’t?” Greg practically sobbed.

“NOT AT ALL. I’M GOING TO ROAST YOU FIRST.” Ruuan’s face broke into a hideous grin that made Greg want to cry even more. “OF COURSE, IT’S POSSIBLE YOU MAY FIND THAT PART A BIT UNPLEASANT.”

Greg knew the time had come to fight again, but how? He couldn’t fight a dragon. He didn’t even have the magic sword . . . or Nathan’s staff. Why hadn’t Nathan known this would happen? What was all that useless talk about finding his center? And about power coming from a position of peace? Then he remembered what else Nathan told him. He wouldn’t win this battle on his size or his battle skill.

“NOW, ARE YOU GOING TO TELL ME WHY YOU ARE HERE OR AREN’T YOU? NOT THAT IT MATTERS. YOU’RE EITHER A TREASURE HUNTER OR HERE TO PULL OFF SOME IMPOSSIBLE RESCUE. WHICH IS IT?”

“I-I came to rescue Princess Priscilla,” Greg admitted, realizing how ridiculous that must sound.

“A RESCUE, THEN. WELL, AT LEAST YOURS IS A NOBLE MISSION, IF THAT HELPS YOU FEEL BETTER ABOUT YOUR DEMISE.”

“B-but, you can’t kill me,” Greg pleaded. “You just can’t.”

“I MOST CERTAINLY CAN,” Ruuan assured him. “BUT JUST OUT OF CURIOSITY, WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I SHOULDN’T?”

Greg tried desperately to think of a reason. He supposed the dragon wouldn’t care that everyone expected him to start the seventh grade when he got back home. Then he had an idea.

“If I don’t return, others will come looking for me. I’m very popular in the kingdom.”

Ruuan grinned even wider. “EXCELLENT. I WON’T NEED TO GO OUT TO HUNT.”

“But they’ll come in numbers,” Greg argued. He forced himself to straighten to his full height and tried to look like a hero. “And there’s one man in particular I know you won’t want to meet. Why, he’s defeated plenty of dragons far bigger and meaner than you.”

Ruuan’s grin disappeared in an instant. “YOU KNOW A MURDERER OF MY KIND? I WOULD WELCOME SUCH A MEETING.”

Okay, intimidation wasn’t working. Greg avoided Ruuan’s penetrating stare and noticed again the huge mound of riches barely visible below the dragon’s tail. A second idea struck him. “If you let me go I could bring you treasure.”

“HMM,” said the dragon. “I DO LIKE TREASURE.” Greg gazed up hopefully. “BUT AS YOU CAN SEE I HAVE PLENTY.”

“You can never have enough treasure. Besides, I can give you special things. Things you can’t get anywhere else.”

“REALLY,” Ruuan said skeptically. “WHAT SORT OF THINGS?”

“How about a magic amulet? I’ll bet you don’t have one of those.”

The dragon’s expression shifted. If Greg hadn’t liked it before, he liked it even less now. “WHAT AMULET? LET ME SEE IT.”

“Not so fast. There’s still the matter of the princess.”

“SHOW IT TO ME.” Ruuan’s booming voice shook the walls as it bounced around the cavern.

Something sticky splattered across Greg’s face and burned his skin in spite of any protective magic. Heart racing, Greg groped for the amulet about his neck, slipped it over his head and held it out by the chain. His hand shook so badly the amulet must have looked like nothing more than a blur.

Ruuan squinted, trying to focus. Then the dragon’s brow creased, his pupils flashed a bright red, and he met Greg’s eye with a hateful glare. “THIEF! HOW DARE YOU OFFER ME MY OWN AMULET IN EXCHANGE FOR YOUR LIFE?”

In his panic Greg had forgotten that the Amulet of Ruuan once belonged to Ruuan himself.

“I—I—”

“SILENCE! WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?”

Greg held his tongue.

“WELL?”

“You told me to be silent,” Greg whimpered.

“DO NOT MOCK ME, MORTAL. WHERE DID YOU GET MY AMULET?”

“From the Witch Hazel,” Greg told him. “I didn’t think it was yours, I swear.”

“LIAR. YOU STOLE THIS FROM THE SPIRELINGS DIDN’T YOU? DIDN’T YOU?”

“No!” Greg shrieked. He fumbled for the loose amulet in his tunic and thrust it in front of Ruuan’s eye. “This is the amulet I stole from the spirelings.”

In his terror he didn’t realize his mistake at first. Ruuan’s pupil expanded to the size of a basketball. He inspected Greg’s second amulet with one eye, then pivoted his head around, causing Greg’s stomach to lurch, and inspected it again with the other. A puff of scalding steam erupted from nostrils the size of doorways. Greg pressed his back against the cave wall. In spite of the protective magic the dragon’s hateful glare burned into him.

“YOU WILL OF COURSE DIE FOR TAKING THE SPIRELINGS’ AMULET. BUT FIRST YOU WILL TELL ME HOW YOU CAME ABOUT THE OTHER.”

“I-I told you,” said Greg. “Witch Hazel gave it to me.”

The dragon offered him a scolding look. “I KNOW THE WITCH. IT IS NOT LIKELY SHE GAVE YOU ANYTHING.”

“No, I swear. You’ve got to believe me.”

“AND WHY WOULD SHE DO SUCH A THING?”

“Uh . . . because I gave her two others like it?”

The dragon scowled. “NOT A VERY SKILLED TRADER, ARE YOU?”

“But she was going to kill me if I didn’t,” Greg insisted.

“HMM. THAT SOUNDS MORE LIKE HAZEL. SO, TWO AMULETS FOR A SINGLE AMULET AND YOUR LIFE, THEN.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“STILL NOT MUCH OF A TRADE.” Ruuan looked somewhat uncertain of himself.

Greg didn’t know if that was a good thing or not, but he did remember Ryder’s advice to him quite clearly: The more you can keep Ruuan talking, the less he’ll be shooting flames at you. “I had to trade with the witch. It was the only way I could get the things I needed to come here.”

“NORMALLY I WOULD NOT BELIEVE YOU, MORTAL, BUT I HAVE REASON TO QUESTION IF WHAT YOU SAY IS TRUE. SO TELL ME, WHERE DID A TINY BOY LIKE YOU GET TWO OTHER AMULETS LIKE THESE?”

“King Peter gave me one,” Greg said, “and the other belongs to Marvin Greatheart, the famous dragonsla—er—it belongs to Marvin Greatheart.”

“MARVIN GREATHEART?” said Ruuan. “THE SAME MARVIN GREATHEART WHO SCAMPERED THROUGH MY LAIR A MOMENT AGO?”

Greg cleared his throat. “That would be the one, yes.”

“HMMM.” Ruuan appeared to debate the truth of Greg’s words. “KING PETER MUST THINK VERY HIGHLY OF YOU IF HE GAVE YOU HIS AMULET.”

“He didn’t exactly give it to me,” said Greg. “I have to give it back.”

“OH. SO HE DID NOT KNOW YOU WERE COMING HERE WITH IT.”

“No—I mean, yes, he knew.”

The dragon frowned, an expression hard to miss on someone with a ten-foot wide mouth. “AND WHY WOULD GREATHEART GIVE YOU HIS AMULET? HE IS ONE IN PARTICULAR I WOULD THINK WOULD NOT GIVE IT UP EASILY.”

“Well, he didn’t exactly give it to me either,” explained Greg. “His mom did.”

“GREATHEART’S OWN MOTHER GAVE AWAY HER SON’S MAGICAL AMULET? YOU EXPECT ME TO BELIEVE THIS?”

“It’s the truth, I swear. But she expects me to bring it back too.”

“DON’T TELL ME SHE ALSO KNEW YOU WERE COMING HERE?”

Greg stood trembling, his eyes diverted to the ground.

“WELL?”

“You told me not to tell you.”

The dragon scowled and blew another softer blast of steam. “I MUST ADMIT YOU ARE A CONUNDRUM.”

Greg didn’t know what a conundrum was, but he hoped it was a good thing. But then he noticed the dragon’s frown had returned.

“WHY, PRAY TELL, WOULD BOTH KING PETER AND MRS. GREATHEART EXPECT A HAPLESS LAD LIKE YOURSELF TO RETURN FROM MY LAIR ALIVE?”

Greg gulped. Would Ruuan understand about a prophecy? Especially one that ended with his being slain by the tiny boy who stood before him?

“WELL?” the dragon prompted.

“Because of a prophecy,” Greg ventured, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“A WHAT? SPEAK UP, BOY.”

“A prophecy,” Greg repeated, though try as he might, his voice was no stronger than before.

Ruuan’s jaw dropped open in obvious astonishment. The opening reminded Greg of the cave mouth he’d entered earlier of his own accord. What had he been thinking?

“DON’T TELL ME YOU’RE THE FAMOUS GREGHART?”

“You know about the prophecy?” Greg asked, amazed.

“OF COURSE. DRAGONS AND PROPHECIES HAVE ALWAYS BEEN INTIMATELY LINKED. YOU CAN”T HAVE ONE WITHOUT THE OTHER. WHAT I DON’T KNOW IS HOW SIMON SEZXQRTHM COULD HAVE WRITTEN ONE ABOUT YOU.”

Greg quickly explained how he believed the prophecy to be in error, how it was supposed to be about Marvin Greatheart, and how Ruuan’s lair was the last place in this world he wanted to be. Amazingly, the dragon adopted a pondering expression.

“HMMM. THIS IS QUITE DISTURBING.”

“Imagine how I feel,” Greg said.

“I WOULD NOT BE SO QUICK TO DISREGARD SIMON’S PROPHECY AS WRITTEN. WHILE IT MAY SEEM UNREASONABLE TO YOU—AND I CAN CERTAINLY SEE WHY IT MIGHT—THE SEZXQRTHMS HAVE NEVER BEEN WRONG IN THEIR PREDICTIONS BEFORE.”

“No, you can’t just dismiss a prophecy,” Greg was quick to agree. “Believe me I’ve tried.” This was the first time everyone’s unwavering belief was actually working in his favor, and he thought he better take advantage of the moment while he could. “You said dragons and prophecies are intimately linked, that you can’t have one without the other.”

“YES, SO?”

“So, if I fail to fulfill my destiny, people will stop believing in prophecies. And you know what that means.”

“THEY’LL STOP BELIEVING IN ME.”

“Worse. They’ll stop bothering to predict the future. Prophecies will no longer exist.

“WHICH MEANS DRAGONS WILL NO LONGER EXIST,” the dragon whispered, though even then his voice echoed throughout the chamber. “I’LL DIE IF THE PROPHECY IS WRONG.”

“And you’ll die if it’s right,” Greg added in a whisper of his own that barely reached the dragon’s ear. He noted the look of sadness in Ruuan’s eye. “Sorry . . . I guess this isn’t working out so well for you, is it?”

“PERHAPS IT IS TIME,” said Ruuan sadly. “DRAGONS HAVE RULED MYRTH FOR MILLENIA, BUT NOW I AM THE LAST OF MY KIND, AND THE END OF AN ERA, AS WELL.”

“Then you’ll actually let me slay you?” Greg asked incredulously.

“GOODNESS, NO, BOY. AS WITH ANY RESPECTABLE DRAGON, WHEN I GO I INTEND TO TAKE AS MANY MORTALS WITH ME AS I CAN. NOW, WOULD YOU PREFER TO BE ROASTED, MAULED, OR EATEN?”

If ever there was a question that deserved to be rhetorical . . . “Are those my only choices?”

“UNLESS YOU CAN THINK OF ANOTHER DEATH YOU WOULD PREFER.”

Greg thought again about the plunge from the portals inside Ruuan’s storage locker. He shook away the image. “Why do I have to die at all? Or you, for that matter. Maybe there’s another answer.”

“I’M LISTENING.”

“What if we just told everyone you were dead?” said Greg.

The dragon frowned. “IF I TOLD PEOPLE I WAS DEAD THEY WOULD PROBABLY SUSPECT SOMETHING WAS UP.”

“No, I mean, what if I told everyone you were dead?”

Ruuan paused to consider. “NO,” he finally said, “IT WOULD NEVER WORK. AS SOON AS THEY THOUGHT I WAS DEAD, EVERY FORTUNE HUNTER ON MYRTH WOULD BE UP HERE ROOTING THROUGH MY THINGS.”

“No,” Greg said. “No one can climb the tunnel. It’s too far. And the secret passageway I came up is heavily guarded by the spirelings.”

“YOU MANAGED TO GET THROUGH IT.”

“Only because the entire spireling army is camped outside and lulled to sleep by shadowcats. How often is that going to happen?”

“HMMM,” said Ruuan, flames licking out the corners of his mouth. “THIS PROPHECY HAS WORKED OUT QUITE WELL FOR YOU SO FAR, HASN’T IT?”

Greg worked hard to clear his throat. “The point is, no one would have to know you were still alive.”

The dragon considered for a long moment. “I DON’T KNOW,” he eventually said. “I WOULD NO LONGER BE ABLE TO GO OUT TO HUNT . . .”

Greg hadn’t thought about that. “How about if you waited until a really dark night, then slipped in and out without anyone seeing you? Once you’re clear of the spire, no one will know it’s you. I can’t speak for everyone on Myrth, but all dragons look pretty much the same to me.” Greg had never actually seen another dragon but was sure if he did, it, too, would look like something he should run from.

“BUT I AM THE LAST OF MY BREED. DO YOU THINK THE MEN OF THIS KINGDOM OF YOURS KNOW THAT?”

“No,” Greg answered quickly. “I mean, um, I doubt it.”

Still the dragon looked uncertain. “BUT WHO IS EVER GOING TO BELIEVE A BOY LIKE YOU WAS ABLE TO DEFEAT A POWERFUL DRAGON LIKE MYSELF?”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” said Greg.

Ruuan regarded him doubtfully.

“I know it sounds crazy, but everyone around here has been convinced I was going to defeat you from the start. I think they’d actually be more shocked if I didn’t slay you.”

“HMM, I STILL DON’T KNOW,” said Ruuan.

Greg groaned. “Now what?”

“WELL, JUST BECAUSE EVERYONE WILL THINK THE PROPHECY HELD TRUE DOESN’T MAKE IT TRUE, YOU KNOW. THERE’S STILL AN ISSUE OF INTEGRITY HERE. WE DRAGONS HAVE ALWAYS LIVED BY A STRICT CODE OF HONESTY AND ETHICS.”

Greg’s mind raced. “That’s very admirable,” he said, “but I think I can help you there, too.”

“REALLY? PRAY, TELL ME HOW?”

Greg wasn’t sure if Ruuan had said ‘pray’ or ‘prey’. Either way he knew he better come up with something good. “Well, as I was telling my friend Lucky earlier—”

“WHO’S LUCKY?” Ruuan interrupted.

“The boy you brought up here with me.”

“DOESN’T SOUND LUCKY. BESIDES I DON’T RECALL SEEING ANOTHER.”

“Well, there was. He’s right in there,” Greg said, pointing toward the cell where the others stood in the shadows, watching helplessly.

“REALLY? TWO OF YOU? MY, YOU HUMANS ARE TINY THINGS.”

“Yes, well, as I was saying, I was telling Lucky that I have, in a sense, already slayed you.”

“OH, REALLY. HOW DO YOU FIGURE?”

“Not slay, s-l-a-y, but sleigh, s-l—well, whatever. I hit you with a sleigh down at the bottom of the tunnel and knocked you out.”

Ruuan’s expression darkened. “SO, THAT WAS YOU. YOU KNOW THAT REALLY HURT.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“I ASSUME IT WAS AN ACCIDENT?”

“Yes, of course.”

Ruuan nodded, leaving Greg with a disturbing sense of vertigo. “SO, TECHNICALLY YOU BELIEVE YOU HAVE ALREADY FULFILLED THE PROPHECY.”

“All except for rescuing the princess,” Greg said.

“AND I CAN HELP YOU THERE,” Ruuan whispered. The dragon seemed to ponder for a moment. “IT MIGHT JUST WORK. YOU WOULD JUST NEED TO GIVE THE SPIRELINGS BACK THEIR AMULET SO THEY COULD CONTINUE TO GUARD THE PASSAGEWAY—”

“Hold on,” said Greg. “I can’t do that.”

Fire blasted from Ruuan’s nostrils. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, CAN’T?”

Greg barely dodged the flames. “I-I promised Witch Hazel I’d bring the spirelings’ amulet back. It was part of my agreement with her for letting me live. If I don’t—well, I don’t know what she’ll do, but she’s a witch. I’m sure she’ll do something.”

“THAT WITCH!” said Ruuan. “SHE’S BEEN A THORN IN MY SIDE AS LONG AS I’VE KNOWN HER. TELL ME, WHAT WAS YOUR EXACT AGREEMENT WITH HER?”

“My exact agreement?”

“YES, THINK BACK. WHAT WERE THE EXACT WORDS YOU BOTH USED?”

“Well, I don’t know that I can remember the exact words.”

“TRY,” Ruuan said, allowing a wisp of smoke to drift out one nostril. “PRETEND YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT.”

“Oh, right. Well, let’s see . . .” Greg found it difficult to concentrate with a three-hundred-foot-tall dragon looming overhead. The fact his life depended on it did little to help. Still he tried his best to remember. “She told me to get the amulet from the magical passageway,” he said, “and then I was supposed to take it and the one she gave me back to her shack in the Shrieking Scrub.”

“ARE YOU SURE THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT SHE SAID?” Ruuan asked. “THINK. THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT.”

Greg closed his eyes and tried to remember Hazel’s exact words. Ruuan’s putrid breath drifted across the cavern, lifting Greg up on his heels, but he managed to stay focused all the same. He pictured Hazel’s cold, dark eyes and her sallow skin. He recalled the way she rocked back and forth in her old, wooden chair by the flickering candlelight, and the croaking sound of her voice when she spoke.

“Wait,” he said. “I think I remember. She asked me to do her a favor.”

Ruuan’s eyes brightened. “GOOD, GREGHART. WHAT FAVOR?”

“She wanted me to bring back her amulet ‘when I was through.’” Greg’s voice slowed. “I have to die, don’t I?”

“RELAX. I’M SURE SHE JUST MEANT WHEN YOU WERE THROUGH WITH YOUR BUSINESS HERE. THAT SHOULD BE NO PROBLEM. BUT WHAT ABOUT THE OTHER AMULET, THE ONE YOU STOLE FROM THE SPIRELINGS?”

“Right, let’s see. She asked me to bring ‘something else as well.’”

“THAT SHOULD BE EASY ENOUGH.”

“No, wait. She said the fourth amulet was the most powerful, that the spirelings used it to control the Passageway of Shifted Dimensions, and that you gave it to them.”

“SHE TOLD YOU THAT?”

“Yes, why? Isn’t it true?”

“THE LESS YOU KNOW ABOUT THE AMULET, THE BETTER,” the dragon advised him. “WHAT ELSE DID SHE SAY?”

Greg’s eyes widened as he recalled the witch rising from her chair, straightening her crippled back and growing into something—else. “She threatened me. She said, ‘You will bring me the amulet from the Infinite Spire, and in exchange I will give you the things you asked for,’ which included my life, although I never really asked for that.”

“WAS THERE ANYTHING MORE?”

Greg tried hard to recall. “Yes, she told me not to disappoint her. She said, ‘If you do not return directly with the Amulet of Ruuan, or if you do not bring me the other amulet from the Infinite Spire, you will not live to see your home again.’”

“AND YOU’RE SURE THOSE WERE HER EXACT WORDS?”

“I think so.”

The dragon shot him a disapproving look.

“Okay, I’m sure.”

“SHE NEVER SPECIFICALLY SAID YOU HAD TO BRING HER THE SPIRELINGS’ AMULET?”

“I see where you’re going.” Greg thought back. “No, she always referred to the ‘other amulet’ or the ‘amulet from the spire.’ If only I had another amulet to give her.”

The dragon’s mouth pulled into a wide grin. “AH, I CAN HELP YOU THERE.”

Ruuan swung his long neck behind him and deftly picked through the huge pile of treasure with his tongue until he found a rusty amulet on an iron chain. He plucked it from the pile as easily as Greg might have done with his fingers, whipped his head back around, and offered the trinket to Greg, the chain looped over one tip of his long forked tongue. Greg reached for the chain as eagerly as he might have reached for a shaken wasp nest, plucked the amulet from Ruuan’s tongue and yanked back his hand.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “I can’t give Hazel this.”

“LOOK AGAIN, GREGHART.”

Greg did as he was told. Before his eyes the amulet transformed into a pie-shaped wedge about the size of a quarter, a perfect match to the three others he’d been given and the one he stole from the spirelings.

“Wh-what’s this?” he gasped.

“A SPELL, GREGHART. THE AMULET HAS NOT CHANGED, ONLY ITS APPEARANCE.”

“And this will fool the witch?”

“NOT FOR AN INSTANT,” said the dragon.

Greg groaned. “Then I’m right back where I started.”

“NO,” Ruuan said, “BECAUSE IT WOULD FOOL YOU.”

Greg stared up into the dragon’s eye. “You’re not suggesting what I think you are?”

“IF YOU RETURN THIS AMULET TO THE WITCH, TECHNICALLY YOU WILL HAVE FULFILLED YOUR PROMISE TO HER. ALTHOUGH SHE WILL INSTANTLY KNOW IT’S A FAKE, SINCE IT LOOKS JUST LIKE THE OTHERS, THERE IS A CHANCE, ALBEIT A SMALL ONE, SHE MIGHT ASSUME YOU WERE UNAWARE IT WAS NOT REAL.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I WILL NOT LET YOU LEAVE WITH THE SPIRELINGS’ AMULET. YOU CAN EITHER TRY TO TAKE IT FROM ME,” Ruuan said, rising to his full height, “OR YOU CAN TRY MY PLAN INSTEAD.”

Greg swallowed hard and strained his neck to keep Ruuan’s head in sight. “I’ll try the plan.”

“THOUGHT YOU MIGHT.”

Greg stared, speechless, as the dragon’s head dropped like an elevator back down to ground level and Ruuan’s reptilian jaws once again pulled themselves into a grin.

“HOWEVER, I WAS LYING TO YOU WHEN I SAID I WOULDN’T LET YOU TAKE THE SPIRELINGS’ AMULET OUT OF HERE. ACTUALLY I WANT YOU TO PUT IT BACK FOR ME.”

“Really?” Greg asked, amazed.

“WELL, I CAN’T DO IT MYSELF. THE PASSAGEWAY IS FAR TOO NARROW.”

“But aren’t you afraid I’ll keep it?”

“NO.” The dragon’s tone cut off all doubt as cleanly as a machete. He was obviously not the least bit concerned that Greg might disobey him.

Greg was not surprised. Who would be crazy enough to double-cross a dragon? But then Ruuan said something that caught him completely off guard.

“YOU HAVE GIVEN ME NO REASON TO DISTRUST YOU . . . ASIDE FROM COMING HERE TO KILL ME, THAT IS. FURTHERMORE YOU SHOWED TRUE HONOR IN ATTEMPTING TO RESCUE YOUR PRINCESS WHEN, AS YOU HAVE TOLD ME YOURSELF, YOU NEVER BELIEVED THE PROPHECY WAS TRUE. YOU MUST HAVE BEEN SURE YOU WOULD PERISH HERE TONIGHT, YET STILL YOU CAME.”

Greg didn’t know what to say. Indeed the dragon spoke the truth, but Greg also knew a large reason he did what he did was because he never really felt he had a choice.

“AND THERE IS ANOTHER REASON,” continued Ruuan. “WHEN I GAVE YOU AN OUT, ALLOWING YOU TO LEAVE FREELY WITHOUT THE SPIRELINGS’ AMULET, YOUR FIRST INSTINCT WAS TO FULFILL YOUR PROMISE TO WITCH HAZEL, AGAIN AN HONORABLE ACT.”

“But—”

“OH, I KNOW YOU’RE THINKING YOU WERE JUST AFRAID TO BREAK A PROMISE TO A WITCH, BUT THERE WAS MORE TO IT THAN THAT. YOU ARE FAR BRAVER THAN YOU THINK, YOUNG GREGHART. AFTER ALL, THEY DON’T WRITE PROPHECIES ABOUT JUST ANYONE.”

“No,” Greg said uneasily. “Of course, they don’t.”

“BESIDES,” Ruuan added, “UNTIL YOU RETURN WITH THE TWO AMULETS ENTRUSTED TO YOU, I PLAN TO HOLD ON TO YOUR FRIENDS.”

Promise from the Hart

Greg tried to wipe his sweaty palms on his tunic, with little success.

“IT WAS INCREDIBLY BRAVE OF YOU TO COME HERE.” Ruuan shook his head, and Greg had to jump back to avoid being flattened.

“What’s wrong?”

“I WAS JUST THINKING, YOU MUST HAVE FELT YOUR CHANCE OF SURVIVAL TONIGHT WAS NEXT TO NONE.”

“Well, none, actually.”

“YES, WELL NOW I’M IMAGINING YOUR CHANCES WITH HAZEL WHEN YOU RETURN WITHOUT THE SPIRELINGS’ AMULET.”

Greg felt himself blink.

“THEY WON’T BE AS GOOD,” Ruuan clarified.

At least Ruuan wasn’t sending him out to face the witch alone, exactly. Greg had asked the dragon to carry him to Hazel’s, and to his surprise, Ruuan agreed. At least he would carry Greg as far as the edge of the Shrieking Scrub. Just as Ruuan’s powers were strongest here in his lair, he said Hazel’s were greatest at the center of the Shrieking Scrub. Besides, the Molten Moor was the only spot in the area big enough for Ruuan to land.

“How will I get back?” Greg wanted to know.

Ruuan craned his neck toward his mound of treasure again and dug through it with his tongue. “TAKE THITH,” he said, when his huge jaws returned to face Greg. Except for the lisp, it was the kind of thing Manny Malice always said right before he swung a punch.

At first Greg didn’t see anything to take, but then he spotted a tiny gold ring slipped over one tip of Ruuan’s tongue. “What is it?”

“A VEWY SPETHAL WING,” Ruuan said. “WUD YOU JUTH TAKE ID?”

Greg removed the ring so Ruuan could speak.

“WHEN YOU WANT TO RETURN TO MY LAIR JUST INCANT THE MAGIC WORD, AND THIS RING WILL BRING YOU HERE. YOU NEED NOT WORRY. THE MAGIC WILL PROTECT YOU AGAINST THE HEAT.”

“What’s the magic word?” Greg asked.

“ TRANSPORTUS .”

“Transport us?”

“RIGHT, ONLY WHEN YOU SAY IT, IT SOUNDS LIKE TWO WORDS. IT’S ONLY ONE. TRANSPORTUS. NOW, I HOPE YOU HAVE IT, BECAUSE IT’S TIME TO GO.”

Ruuan’s jaws drew open like a rising drawbridge and beckoned Greg inside. Greg was understandably reluctant, and not just because of the putrid stench of dragon spit that wafted out at him. “That’s not your back,” he noted.

“THE TUNNEL IS TOO NARROW FOR YOU TO RIDE OUTSIDE. THIS IS THE ONLY WAY I CAN CARRY YOU SAFELY DOWN.” When Greg did not immediately climb in, Ruuan added, “IF I INTENDED TO EAT YOU, I WOULDN’T NEED YOUR COOPERATION.”

Greg supposed the dragon was right, but still he hesitated. “What about the spirelings’ amulet? You wanted me to take it back to them, remember?”

“IT CAN WAIT. NOW, CLIMB INSIDE.”

Greg continued to stare into the gaping maw, unable to will himself forward, until Ruuan helped him to it with a gentle nudge of his tongue.

With a snap the dragon’s jaws clamped shut, closing off all light. Greg’s stomach flipped as Ruuan’s head lifted. He heard the familiar whoosh of air as the dragon jetted down the spiraling tunnel, and then he smacked into Ruuan’s front teeth when the dragon came to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the Infinite Spire.

“SORRY. I FORGOT THE SPIRELINGS WERE CAMPED OUT HERE.”

Greg took advantage of the gap between the dragon’s teeth and leapt free. Everywhere he looked, spirelings lay about under the moonlight, still asleep with purring shadowcats nestled at their sides. Fatigue hit him like a baseball bat. His gaze sank to the ground, and there at his feet, amidst the debris of the splintered sleigh, lay Nathan’s staff. He stooped to retrieve it and couldn’t find the energy to straighten up again.

“CLIMB UP ON MY BACK,” Ruuan instructed. “WE MUST FINISH THIS BEFORE THE SUN RISES.”

Greg peeked up from beneath his armpit toward the dragon’s back, which although Ruuan had crouched to help, still stood some fifty feet off the ground, and his knees began to melt. Ruuan’s tongue lashed out, coiled around Greg’s waist and jerked him high into the air. Before Greg could so much as scream, he found himself lodged between two gold spikes jutting from behind the base of the dragon’s neck. Next thing he knew, he was airborne, soaring miles above the dark countryside, just moments from plunging to his death.

The rush of air helped clear Greg’s head of the effects of the shadowcats’ purring. To his surprise, the ride felt quite comfortable and secure, no doubt attributable to the dragon’s magic. He might have even described it as a pleasant experience, if he weren’t on his way to trick a witch.

Though weeks away by foot, Hazel’s shack was just minutes away by dragon. Ruuan circled the Molten Moor twice before settling delicately on the inner bank, barely squeezing his wings between the boles of two trees. Greg scrambled to the ground before Ruuan’s tongue could seek him out, then looked up to the dragon for some words of advice.

“DON’T SCREW UP.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to tell me?”

“NO. I WILL WAIT FOR YOU IN MY LAIR. YOU MUST GIVE THE WITCH BACK THE AMULET SHE GAVE YOU, BUT HEED MY WORDS. DO NOT LEAVE WITHOUT THE ORIGINAL TWO. OH, AND BE CAREFUL. THE WITCH IS NOT NEARLY AS FORGIVING AS I.”

Before Greg could respond, Ruuan leapt away, flattening him to the ground under the rush of air wafting down beneath his wings. By the time Greg could pry his head up again, Ruuan was gone. He stood alone then at the edge of the Shrieking Scrub. A piercing scream split the night, leaving him trembling long after the echoes died away.

Nathan once warned Greg not to get caught dead in the Shrieking Scrub after dark. Sage advice, if you asked Greg. But now it looked as if the only way to heed Nathan’s words was to proceed in the dark and somehow manage not to get caught dead before he finished his business with Hazel and found his way back. At least the moon was shining brightly. Maybe he could get off on a technicality.

Greg recognized the crumbled remnants of footbridge ahead. The stagnant . . . for lack of a better term, water . . . of Black Blood Creek lurked invisible in the moonlight, but he could sense it below him, wedged firmly between the banks of the creek. Seeing no other option, he used Nathan’s staff to pole-vault across. A second piercing scream split the night as he soared through the air, but cut off instantly the moment his feet struck the opposing bank. Then the scrub fell into the same eerie silence Greg remembered from his first visit, the only sounds being Greg’s shallow breath and the pounding of his heart.

Greg wrapped his arms around himself. Why did he let Lucky talk him into leaving behind his cloak? With no choice but to go on, he took a deep breath and set off toward Hazel’s shack.

He didn’t see Hazel’s crow this time, but probably only because it would have been too hard to spot in the moonlight. He thought about Ruuan’s opinion of Greg’s chances of survival. He’d been terrified many times on this quest, but at least before he had others with him. Never had he felt as alone as he did at this moment. It was all he could do to keep from turning back.

Even so, he eventually reached the tiny shack. This time Hazel was already waiting on her porch. He marched quite boldly, under the circumstances, up the steps and stopped just feet from her.

“Hmph,” said Hazel, “that Simon fellow really is quite impressive, isn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Greg, unconsciously rolling Nathan’s staff from hand to hand. “Anyway, I’m back.”

“And Ruuan?”

“He—I—well, he won’t be bothering us anymore.”

Hazel stared deep into Greg’s eyes, as if inspecting his soul.

Can witches read minds?

Finally Hazel blinked. “So, the dragon is dead then?”

Greg considered his words carefully. “I sleighed him, as the prophecy said I would.”

“Excellent.” Hazel looked very impressed but less surprised than Greg would have expected. “So, you have something for me, then, little one?”

“Y-yes,” Greg said, wondering if it was too late to dart into the scrub.

“Well, come, let’s have them.” She held out a withered hand.

“What about the two amulets I gave you?” Greg asked cautiously.

“I’ve got them right here,” Hazel said, a little too sweetly. She brought her other arm out from behind her back and held up the two shiny amulets by their chains.

Greg stared at her, his heart pounding just as hard as it had when he’d faced Ruuan. He considered snatching the treasures and running for his life, but in the end removed his own two amulets and gave them to the witch.

Hazel smiled for an instant. Then her fist clenched tightly, her face flushed red, and her eyes locked on Greg. “What is this?” she shrieked. “You seek to trick me?”

Greg felt his knees go weak. He sized up his staff, wondering if it would be suicide to attempt a preemptive strike against a witch. “W-what do you mean?”

“This is not the amulet from the spire.” Hazel hurled one amulet to the ground. “Where is it, boy? Where is it?”

“I-I got that from the spire, I swear.”

The witch’s stare bored into him, so penetrating Greg really did believe she could read his mind, if not the minds of all his ancestors before him. He tried to think of other things: blue skies, green meadows, peaceful places that didn’t have witches . . .

“The dragon put you up to this, didn’t he? Ruuan still lives.”

Greg winced. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true.” Hazel’s whole body trembled, and just like before, she began to straighten her tormented back until she stood twice Greg’s height and more. Her hair surged into serpents, and her features changed into something else, something predatory, far more powerful than any woman or man. She raised her hands high into the air, and Greg felt his hair stand on end. Electricity fizzled between the tips of her splayed fingers.

Just as he’d sensed when to make his move against the spireling guards, Greg knew he must take action now or never get a second chance.

The witch hissed her incantation, thrust her arms forward, and a blue bolt of lightning shot from her fingertips, straight at Greg’s chest.

Greg ducked and thrust out Nathan’s staff. The spell struck the stick in mid arc and reflected the tingling blue energy straight back at Hazel. She gasped and dodged, but the bolt grazed her arm, and the two amulets Greg originally gave her dropped to the floor with metallic clinks.

Greg dove without thinking. His fingers clasped over the chains. He tucked and rolled. In an instant he was back on his feet again, spinning to face the furious witch.

Hazel already held her arms high for a second attack. “You will die for this,” she shrieked. “And then I will bring you back from the dead and kill you over and over again.” A brilliant blue bolt shot from her hands.

Again Greg whirled Nathan’s staff around to meet it. Only this time the weapon splintered into sawdust.

Hazel paused, her fingers splayed above her head, and smiled.

Greg felt all hope rush out of him. He wondered how much faster it would flow through a gaping hole in the center of his chest.

Hazel thrust her arms forward, and again the energy erupted from her fingers.

Greg dove to the side and was back on his feet in an instant. He no longer had a stick to help focus his energy, but his chikan training still helped guide him, along with his lifelong experience at running from danger. The two amulets in his fist glowed, and he felt them tingle through their chains. He danced about the clearing as Hazel shot bolt after bolt his way, each closer than the last.

“Hold still!” shrieked Hazel, who was even worse than Nathan at doling out advice.

A blinding flash warmed Greg’s skin right through his tunic. The Shrieking Scrub burst into flames behind him, but he wasn’t hit. The amulets surged with so much power Greg could barely grip the chains. Their magic must be protecting me! If only he would get the chance to thank King Peter and Mrs. Greatheart for lending them to him. And Nathan for lending his staff. Then he remembered the dragon had given him something as well.

Ruuan’s ring could save him.

“You can’t escape,” Hazel cackled.

Yes, I can, Greg thought.

“Transportus!” he shouted desperately.

A final blue bolt sprang from Hazel’s fingertips straight at Greg’s forehead. Caught flat-footed, Greg cringed, certain he was dead.

But the lightning never struck. Greg felt a disturbing jerk, an icy cold washed over him, and then his feet landed on stone. His eyes popped open. He was no longer in the Shrieking Scrub. He was standing in Ruuan’s lair in the same spot he’d left, next to a glittering pile of treasure in an otherwise empty cavern.

Reunion of the Hart

A piercing whistle met his ears and intensified until Greg felt his head might explode. Out of the tunnel soared Ruuan, who in a flurry of leathery wings managed to stop just short of crushing Greg. The dragon’s pointed teeth pulled into an enormous grin.

“AH, YOU BEAT ME BACK. YOU HAVE DONE WELL, YOUNG GREGHART, AS ANY WHO KNEW THE PROPHECY MIGHT HAVE SUSPECTED YOU WOULD.”

Greg patted himself down and inspected his limbs in disbelief. Then he spotted Lucky, Priscilla, and Marvin Greatheart waving from the crack in the wall.

“COME,” said the dragon. “MY MAGIC WILL PROTECT YOU.”

The others looked reluctant.

“It’s okay,” Greg told them. “It’s safe.”

Priscilla squealed and rushed forward, hugging Greg tight enough to make him blush. “Are you really back? You were only gone a few minutes.”

“It’s the Shrieking Scrub,” Greg remembered out loud. “Nathan said time did some crazy things there.”

“Wait, you did it, didn’t you?” Priscilla suddenly realized. “You fulfilled the prophecy.”

Lucky moved to shake Greg’s hand, but broke down and threw his arms around him instead. “Was there ever a doubt?” he said, grinning.

Greg stared at the boy, tears in his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, plenty of doubt.”

“Congratulations, Greghart,” said Marvin. In addition to his loincloth he wore a band of cloth nearly as broad wrapped around his head, no doubt covering the bruise Priscilla left on his skull. He extended a hand for Greg to shake. “We heard you dealing with the dragon. Never thought of negotiating with one of the beasts. Seems a bit easier than the brute force way Dad taught me.”

Still trembling, Greg reached out his own hand. He spotted the two amulets clenched tightly in his fist, relaxed his grip until the color came back into his knuckles and raised the treasures out toward Ruuan.

“I-I guess you want these back.”

“I WOULD LIKE NOTHING MORE,” said Ruuan, “BUT I’M AFRAID THE TIME FOR THAT HAS NOT YET COME. KING PETER HAS PLACED HIS FAITH IN YOU TO RETURN THAT WHICH HE LENT YOU, AND LIKEWISE, MRS. GREATHEART ENTRUSTED YOU TO RETURN ONE AMULET TO HIM,” he said, nodding at Marvin.

“You’re going to let us keep them?” Greg said.

“FOR NOW. JUST AS I WILL ALLOW YOU TO KEEP THE RING I HAVE GIVEN YOU, FOR NOW. AND I AM GOING TO GIVE YOU THIS, AS WELL,” he added, reaching out his tongue.

Greg nearly declined—what would he do with a dragon tongue?—but then he noticed the spirelings’ amulet resting on one tip.

“AFTER YOU RETURN THAT TO ITS PLACE IN THE PASSAGEWAY OF SHIFTED DIMENSIONS, YOU MAY BEGIN YOUR JOURNEY HOME. MY MAGIC WILL SEE YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS SAFELY FROM THE SPIRE, BUT BE WARNED. ONCE OUTSIDE YOU’LL BE ON YOUR OWN. GO SAFELY, YOUNG GREGHART. I LOOK FORWARD TO OUR NEXT MEETING.”

“Our next meeting?”

“Come on, Greg,” said Lucky. “I don’t know if it’s my imagination or not, but I’m starting to feel awfully hot.”

“Huh? Oh, right.” Greg thanked the dragon for his help, and then silently for not eating him, and was about to leave with his three companions when Ruuan stopped Marvin with a well-placed jet of steam.

“I’M AFRAID THE TINY GREATHEART LAD MUST STAY WITH ME FOR A TIME. IT WOULD AROUSE SUSPICION IF HE WERE SEEN LEAVING WITH YOU.”

Greg agreed, and even if he didn’t he wouldn’t have dared argue. Before he left he gave back Greatheart’s amulet and asked that Marvin thank his parents for letting him borrow it. “Tell them I couldn’t have survived without it,” Greg told him. “I think that’ll make them both very proud.”

With Ruuan’s magic protecting him, Greg had no trouble scampering unnoticed between the two spireling guards and setting the amulet back in its shrine, but when they reached the main tunnel Lucky refused to take another step.

“Don’t worry,” Greg assured him. “Ruuan won’t be coming down this time.”

“Yeah, come on,” Priscilla said. “It’s the only way out.”

Lucky never did agree, but he eventually succumbed to a rather strong push from Priscilla. The three made their way down to the ground, with Priscilla, who had never treated the soles of her shoes with dragon spit, skiing at arm’s length ahead of Greg, while he maintained a firm grasp on the collar of her fur coat.

The whole way, Greg worried they would meet up with the spireling army halfway down the tunnel, a sudden end to a nearly successful and rather miraculous attempt at fulfilling a prophecy. But the spirelings were still sleeping soundly among the purring shadowcats. The three children quickly covered their ears.

“My bag,” Lucky said. He bent to retrieve the magical pack, now frayed and torn, amidst the splintered debris of the disintegrated sleigh.

“Shh,” Greg insisted. He spotted the magic sword and picked it up, too.

Even Priscilla found something, but it burst into flames the moment she touched it.

“The eternal torch,” Lucky said.

“Shh,” Greg and Priscilla reminded him.

Greg stowed the torch and the sword inside Lucky’s pack, noticing two large lumps in the side of the damaged bag, and then they set out across the valley, tiptoeing their way through the maze of sleeping spirelings. It wasn’t easy to balance with their fingers plunged into their ears, but eventually they reached the end of the valley and climbed to the ridge that marked the edge of their own campsite.

There they found Ryder and his men still scattered about, snoring loudly in harmony with the shadowcats. Nathan and Bart were there, too, sleeping soundly with Rake curled up and purring between them. But to Greg’s surprise, Melvin sat wide-awake atop the ridge, leaning against a tree trunk with his hands clasped behind his head and a smug expression on his face.

“Melvin, you’re awake,” Greg said, his fingers still plugged into his ears.

Melvin reached up and removed an acorn from his own ear. “What was that, Greghart?”

“What are you doing, Melvin?” Lucky asked.

“Oh, nothing.” Melvin’s voice was even more smug than his expression. “Just sitting around, watching the sights.”

“Oh?” said Greg, wondering just what sights the boy might have witnessed.

“Hey,” said Lucky, “you don’t think he saw—ow!” Priscilla had just jabbed him in the ribs.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” said Melvin. “But I didn’t mind waiting. The moon’s so bright you can see for miles.”

Greg scowled at the younger boy. “What are you trying to say?”

“Just that on a darker night it might be possible to overlook some things,” said Melvin, “but on a night like this . . . well . . .” He let his words trail off so Greg might fill them in for himself.

“Oh, just spit it out, Melvin,” said Priscilla. “You saw Greg with Ruuan, didn’t you?”

“How could I have seen him with the dragon?” Melvin said in a sickeningly sweet tone. “I’m sure you slayed him, didn’t you, Greghart?”

“Oh, come off it,” said Lucky. “So you caught us. You better not say anything, you little snitch, or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Melvin challenged.

Lucky’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. He obviously didn’t know what he would do, and Greg didn’t have an answer either. If Melvin chose to reveal Greg’s secret, there really wasn’t much they could do about it. But then what of Greg’s agreement with Ruuan? Would the dragon seek out Greg to exact his revenge, flaming everyone and everything in his path along the way?

“Hah, I thought as much,” said Melvin, obviously interpreting Lucky’s silence as evidence of a hollow threat.

“All right, Melvin,” said Greg, “what do you want?”

“Relax, Greghart, I’m not going to rat you out.”

“You’re not?”

“Nah. Oh, I agree a few weeks ago I’d have been happy to. I mean, after what you did to my brother.”

“I didn’t do anything to Marvin,” Greg protested.

“Except destroy his career.” Greg was about to object again when Melvin cut him short with a wave. “I know you claim it wasn’t your fault, and maybe that’s true, but it doesn’t really matter now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you saved my life. Ever since, I’ve felt like I owed you something. It was awful. I couldn’t even be myself around you.”

“But I never said you owed me anything,” Greg objected.

“That made it all the worse,” said Melvin. “Only a true hero could be so modest about saving someone’s life.”

“Look,” said Greg. “I never meant to make you feel bad. I saved you because that troll was about to club you over the head, that’s all. I would have done the same for anyone.”

“Stop,” said Melvin. “I can’t take any more. We’re even now, okay? You saved my life. Now I’ll save yours by keeping quiet about the dragon.”

“Sounds like a good deal to me,” Lucky advised Greg.

“Me too,” said Priscilla.

Greg looked Melvin straight in the eye. “You promise you’ll never tell anyone about Ruuan?”

“Cross my heart,” said Melvin, drawing an invisible ‘X’ across his chest. “Not even my own brother.”

“Marvin already knows,” Greg said. “But you won’t tell anyone else, agreed?”

“Agreed.”

The two boys shook hands, and Greg felt reasonably assured the younger boy would stick to the agreement, even if Melvin did squeeze harder than necessary to seal the deal.

Home Is Where the Hart Is

As if the handshake had been a signal, shadowcats began to pour from the campsite like rats deserting a sinking ship. In a moment only one remained. Rake leaned forward and stretched out his front legs, then sat licking his whiskers and staring at Greg disinterestedly. Soon after, the first of the soldiers began to stir. Then others joined him, until the whole campsite was abuzz with activity.

“Princess Priscilla, you’re back,” he heard a voice exclaim behind him. “Greghart, you’ve done it.”

Greg turned just in time to avoid being trampled. Nathan hugged him fiercely and then inspected him at arm’s length. “Still have all your limbs, too. Well done.”

“I, uh, lost your staff.”

Nathan smiled approvingly. “I rather expected you to.”

Before Greg could comment, a voice rang out from behind.

“Excellent work, soldier.” Ryder grinned even wider than Nathan. “I’m afraid, though, I must have somehow slept right through it. Come, tell us of your adventure.”

“Give him room, give him room,” Bart said, shouldering his way past the others so he, too, could congratulate Greg. “When you get ready to reveal your tale, you see me first, okay? I’ll pass the word along to the others, I promise.”

News of Greg’s return spread quickly through the camp. Within seconds, hundreds of Ryder’s men had gathered around Greg and his friends.

“There’s not much to tell,” said Greg, his face red with embarrassment. “I . . . uh . . . sleighed the dragon, and then I rescued the princess . . . just like the prophecy said.”

Shouts of approval erupted from the soldiers up front and quickly rippled through the crowd. “Hip, hip, hooray!” someone screamed, and five hundred men echoed the phrase in a chorus that reverberated throughout the mountains.

Greg glanced over the ridge to see if the spirelings had been awakened. To his surprise about half of them had already filed into the cave mouth at the base of the Infinite Spire. Somehow they must have known their part in the prophecy was over.

“Hip, hip, hooray!” the army finished.

Greg took the moment to scoop up the cloak he had abandoned atop the ridge and slipped it on to ward off Melvin’s icy glare. He then shrugged and held out his palms to show his helplessness in the matter, but Melvin just scowled and walked away.

“What about Agni?” Greg asked.

“He’s doing well,” Nathan told him. He winked. “I have a few skills as a healer.”

Once again Greg knew there was more Nathan was not telling him, but he didn’t care. He was just happy to be alive.

The soldiers were so excited it would have been impossible for even Ryder to mobilize them that day. Greg revealed little of the details of his encounter with the dragon, so Bart made up his own version of events and quickly put them to song. He played the new ballad endlessly, while the others sang and danced throughout the entire day and long into the night. Not a single soldier slept. The celebration went on and on till morning, louder and more festive than ever before.

With no chance to sleep, Greg decided to go back and correct the last entry in his journal. He might not be able to tell anyone what really happened in Ruuan’s lair, but at least he could record the events on paper, even if the pages would never be seen.

But his journal was not under his tunic where it belonged. He retrieved the eternal torch from Lucky’s pack and scoured the area thoroughly. Still no luck. The last he remembered having it was in this very same spot, a few hours earlier, when he was sure he would never return from the lair. So much had happened since then. He could have dropped it anywhere. Well, if it was inside the spire, that’s exactly where it would stay. Nothing could ever convince him to step foot inside that tunnel again.

Although for most of the men sleep never came, morning eventually did, and in spite of their lack of rest, the five hundred soldiers broke camp in record time and were soon ready to hit the trail.

Greg stood next to Ryder at the head of the ranks. “You want to do the honors, Greghart?” Ryder asked him.

“You do it, Captain. I don’t think the prophecy said anything about me leading them home again.”

“Very well,” Ryder said smiling. “MOOOOVVE HOUT!” he commanded, and as one the five hundred soldiers of the Army of the Crown took up the march.

The trip back over the Smoky Mountains and through the Weird Weald to the edge of the kingdom was a lot harder now that Greg had to walk the entire way, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t even need to worry about monsters. With all the soldiers making noise, any monsters that may have crossed their path were wise enough to do so quickly and well in advance of the army’s approach.

The celebration that had begun back at the ridge beside the Infinite Spire never really ended, which just made Greg feel more and more guilty about fooling all these people into thinking he was some sort of hero. He debated sharing his feelings with Nathan, but didn’t know how the man would react to the news. Once, during their evening meal, Greg plopped down next to Nathan and decided to risk a test.

“Ryder’s men sure are happy about this whole dragon business,” he mentioned between bites.

“And well they should be,” Nathan said. “It’s not every day a prophecy is fulfilled.”

“No,” said Greg. “Truer words were never spoken.” If Nathan thought the comment odd he said nothing about it. “Nathan, what do you think these men would do if they found out the prophecy was wrong? What if I’d been killed in Ruuan’s lair . . . or something?”

“Well, luckily you weren’t, now, were you?” Nathan said, smiling.

Greg remained quiet a long while before he thought to try a new approach. “You know I don’t feel much like a hero.”

“True heroes seldom do.”

“But—”

“Yes, Greg?”

Greg glanced at Nathan to judge his reaction. “I just don’t think these men ought to be treating me like I’m anyone special. I really didn’t do that much.”

“Nonsense. You risked your life going into that lair. You handled Ruuan, you brought the princess out safely, and you even fulfilled your promise to the witch without losing the amulets you promised to return to King Peter and Mrs. Greatheart.”

Greg studied Nathan harder. He’d never told anyone what went on in Ruuan’s lair. “How did you know I traded amulets with the witch?”

Nathan was studying Greg just as hard. “It was an easy conclusion to make. You’re the type who would never break your promise, even one to a witch. Since you’ve never mentioned going back to Hazel’s, I can only assume you’ve already done so.”

Greg shook his head, convinced Nathan knew more than he was letting on.

“I know you’re having serious doubts right now, Greg, but you must push through them and accept what has happened.”

“If you’re worried I’m going to say something that makes Ryder’s men doubt the prophecy,” said Greg, “I’m not. I understand how important it is to all of them.”

“It’s not just important to them. It’s important to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you don’t believe you actually fulfilled this prophecy, it will make it all the harder for you to accept your role in the next.”

Greg’s pulse quickened. He studied Nathan’s face. If the man was joking, he was hiding it well. “Are you saying I have to complete another prophecy before I can go home?”

“No, of course not,” said Nathan.

Greg expelled the breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. “Oh, good . . . .”

“The magicians will send for you when they need you again.”

“No!”

Nathan’s blue eyes softened. “Sorry, I wish I could tell you more.”

“Then there is a second prophecy?”

“There are no more prophecies I know of that mention you by name,” Nathan said. “Now, I believe that is Pendegrass Highway ahead. It looks as though we have made it home.”

“Greghart! Greghart! Greghart!”

Hundreds and eventually thousands crowded in behind the army as it marched along the final stretch toward their destination. Soon Pendegrass Castle rose into view, and Greg could see King Peter waiting on the castle lawn with Queen Pauline and Princess Penelope at his side.

Penelope squealed and rushed forward in what some might have considered a run. She met her sister with a heartfelt embrace, and the two girls began giggling and talking back and forth so quickly Greg couldn’t understand a word they said.

Greg had never heard anyone clear a throat in a royal manner before, but Queen Pauline managed it. Priscilla rushed forward and disappeared into the folds of her mother’s robe.

“Don’t you ever run off like that again!” The queen held her daughter a long moment, then turned her loose and stared with tears in her eyes. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Me, too, Mom. Me, too.” Priscilla hugged her father while Queen Pauline embraced Greg like a son.

Finally King Peter stepped forward, his eyes glistening with tears. In a resounding voice, so that all could hear, he announced, “You have made me proud today, Greghart, just as I knew you would. Myrth has never known a braver hero. The whole kingdom owes you a tremendous debt.”

With that the entire crowd, with the possible exception of Melvin, erupted into boisterous applause. King Peter leaned in close and spoke to Greg in a softer, more personal tone. “More importantly, I thank you, and my family thanks you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Greg. “I really didn’t do that much.”

King Peter frowned. “I see we better get you home right away.”

He whisked Greg into the castle, leaving the cheering crowd behind. With Lucky and Nathan following closely at his side, he escorted Greg directly to the dim, torch-lit anteroom where the magicians were already gathered. Greg had to wonder if the mysterious men in black robes had ever left the room. Several of them stepped forward to shake his hand and congratulate him on his success, but a few others did not seem as impressed. One in particular looked absolutely furious.

For some reason, Greg still had trouble believing it wasn’t Mordred trying to kill him on the trail. Even so, he had the odd feeling the magician had been with him throughout his journey. If so, Greg was glad he never chose to show himself.

“Mister Mordred . . . sir,” he murmured.

“Don’t speak to me, you mountebank.” Mordred practically spat the words. “I can’t be fooled by your boastful pretensions.”

“Mordred, please,” commanded King Peter. “We’ll have none of that.”

“We’ll see how well you fare in your next visit,” Mordred hissed under his breath. That having been said, he shuffled back to a far corner of the room, where he stood leaning heavily on his gnarled walking stick, glaring at Greg.

So, even Mordred thought Greg would return. But why? Greg longed to question him about what he knew, but something told him the magician wouldn’t be too keen on helping. Perhaps it was the way Mordred was absently turning his staff in his hand, no doubt picturing himself breaking it across Greg’s forehead, or worse. Greg was just glad King Peter was here to keep the magician in line. Nathan got it wrong. Not everyone should have a stick.

After pulling his gaze from Mordred, Greg thanked Nathan for all his help. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, back when I was in Ruuan’s spire, I smelled that same burnt electricity smell again.”

“You did?” Nathan’s eyes darted toward Mordred. “Was this before or after you returned the spirelings’ amulet?”

“After.” It bothered Greg a little that he’d never mentioned even taking the spirelings’ amulet.

“Hmm,” said Nathan pensively. “Fate is a funny thing.”

Greg never had a chance to ask what he meant.

“You ready?” King Peter asked.

“Oh, your amulet,” said Greg. He retrieved the chain from around his neck and handed it out to the king, who seemed hesitant to take it.

“I guess I could hold on to it for you,” King Peter told him.

Greg was still wondering what he meant when Lucky, who had disappeared a minute earlier, came rushing back into the room.

“Wait.” Lucky hurried forward and handed Greg a stack of folded clothing. Greg’s worn-out sneakers topped off the pile. “Put these on. Everything must be as it was when you arrived.”

Greg stood holding the clothes, looking at the many faces staring his way.

“Allow me,” said one of the magicians. He waved his hand and the air seemed to solidify between them, forming a divider that hid Greg from view.

Quickly Greg slipped out of his tunic and tights and into the jeans, tee-shirt and shoes he had been wearing when he arrived on Myrth. The jeans were tighter than when he last wore them. His shirt, too.

“Did these shrink?” he asked as he stepped from behind the curtain.

King Peter laughed. “Yes, you have grown quite a bit since last we met,” he said. “Dragon hunting has suited you well.”

Greg looked down at his own body, noticing the muscle tone in his legs and arms. King Peter was right. Hours of hiking every day had helped him build muscle where before there was none.

“Has he grown taller, too,” one of the magicians asked.

The king laughed. “Boys his age spurt up quickly, so possibly. But even if not, he’s definitely standing taller.”

“Oh, one more thing,” said Lucky. He reached out a foot and kicked over a large vase, dousing Greg’s sneakers with water.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Everything’s got to be the same as when you arrived,” Lucky said. “Now, I think you’re ready.”

Greg pressed his foot on the floor experimentally. Water squished out from his shoe and puddled up on the stone. “Uh, thanks, Lucky, and thanks for all your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I know.”

Greg shook his head, until Lucky broke down and laughed, saying he was only joking. The two boys embraced and said their good-byes, and then Greg stood awkwardly in the center of the room as the magicians moved in to surround him. Under different circumstances he might have been terrified when the circle of hooded men joined up hands and began chanting, but this was one of the best things that had happened to him in weeks.

“Wait. I didn’t get to say good-bye to Priscilla,” Greg said, suddenly remembering. She’s supposed to stand on tiptoes to give me a grateful kiss.

“Don’t worry, Greghart,” King Peter said. “You’ll be seeing her soon enough.”

Just then the air flashed and split apart, revealing another dimension beyond. In the black void of space rushed dozens, hundreds, thousands of bright spheres, a ceaseless stream of radiant stars. And planets, too. Countless other worlds, each one possibly home to a different Greg Hart—in all, thousands of more fortunate Greg Harts who Lucky had deemed fit to live their lives in peace.

“Now!” said Lucky, and Greg was jerked through the rift so hard he nearly left his dripping sneakers behind.

Even though he’d known all along what was about to happen, Greg still found himself screaming the entire way down the long tunnel back to Earth. He was still screaming when he landed in the cool, moist soil of the woods behind his house, his face buried in a blanket of broken sticks and leaves.

“What a baby. I haven’t even touched you yet.”

That’s Manny Malice’s voice!

It took Greg only a moment to realize the magicians must have sent him back to the exact instant he’d left, an instant when his Neanderthal classmate was waiting to crush him for no reason other than the simple joy of the beating.

Greg felt a branch wedged beneath his palms. He clasped his fingers around the wood and pushed himself to his feet. In an instant Manny charged, the branch whirled, and the underbrush flattened as Greg swept through the spot where a moment ago Manny’s knees had miraculously been supporting the huge boy’s weight.

Manny was not put off long. He leveraged his way back to his feet and emerged from the brush madder than ever. Greg raised his stick again. It felt small and frail under his grasp, less adequate even than the one he’d used against the troll in the Weird Weald.

“Stop!” came a panting female voice from down the trail. Kristin Wenslow rushed up and strategically positioned herself between Greg and Manny. “Leave him alone,” she told, to Greg’s relief, Manny.

But Manny was not one to take orders. His face had gone blood red, and he pushed Kristin aside as if swatting away a fly. With a scream she flew off the path and disappeared into the underbrush.

Greg was so horrified he nearly missed the older boy’s attack. Manny charged like a raging bull, except that a bull would have surely used more grace. Again Greg’s chikan training took over. He leaned easily out of the way and swept out Manny’s foot with a single stroke of the stick. Manny somersaulted onto what had until then been a large shrub.

While slower in getting up this time, Manny still came, although more cautiously than before. Greg fell into the rhythm Nathan had taught him, whirling his branch through the intricate pattern of motion that served to put his mind at rest. The branch, though shorter than any Greg had trained with on Myrth, felt perfectly natural in his hands.

Manny must have sensed Greg’s confidence. He slowed his charge and eventually stopped altogether. The branch coasted to a stop, too, and Greg craned his neck to stare Manny defiantly in the eye.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Greg said, and to his surprise, realized he actually meant it.

A wise man would have known not to attack. Manny, however, bellowed like a troll and lunged forward.

Greg didn’t even think about reacting. He didn’t need to. He stepped easily out of the way, and struck Manny flat across the waist, doubling the older boy over as effectively as if he’d extracted Manny’s spine. Manny landed hard on his face and didn’t get up again. If not for the moan, Greg might have thought him dead.

“That was amazing!” Kristin had pulled herself from the bushes and was staring at Greg as if he’d just yanked her from the jaws of an angry dragon. “How did you do that?”

“What . . . ?” said Greg. “Oh, that . . . I don’t know, I just . . . hi, Kristin.”

“You’re Greg Hart, right?”

Greg felt his face flush. He couldn’t believe she knew his name. But then, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“I thought you were . . . shorter,” she said, raising her chin slightly to look him in the eye. Greg froze in place, afraid to move. “And . . . I don’t know . . . skinnier.”

“I guess I sprouted up over the summer,” he said hoarsely.

A feeble groan drew away Kristin’s attention.

Manny looked like he was debating getting up. Fortunately he wasn’t good at deliberation, so it would probably be a while.

Kristin turned back to Greg. “You should probably get out of here.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“But I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

Greg looked back at her, confused.

“School starts, remember?”

“Oh, right,” said Greg. “I-I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She flashed him a smile that weakened his knees even more than a grin from Ruuan, then stooped to check on Manny while Greg reluctantly turned and headed down the path toward his house.

Greg’s muscles ached beyond belief, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep for the next two weeks, but still he had a spring in his step that hadn’t been there since early that summer. First he had rescued a princess from a fire-breathing dragon, and now, even more miraculously, Kristin Wenslow had actually talked to him!

It had to be a dream, all of it. The trip to Myrth, the dragon Ruuan, the Witch Hazel, and now Kristin Wenslow. All just a fabrication of his overactive imagination.

Even so, Greg’s heart beat so hard he thought it might explode. In fact, he actually felt his skin squirm under his shirt. He nearly fainted when his buttons popped open and something sprang from his chest.

With the lightest of thumps, a small, furry creature landed on all fours on the path by Greg’s feet.

“Rake!”

The shadowcat shook off the indignity of having fallen and then rubbed up against Greg’s shins, his tail stretched high. No, it wasn’t a dream at all, Greg admitted to himself. He’d been faced with an adventure bigger than any he’d faced in his own journal, and now here he was, home, alive, and Kristin Wenslow was expecting to see him tomorrow. It was just possible this year wouldn’t be nearly as bad as he’d been dreading.

Greg scooped up Rake and placed him gently on his shoulder, where the shadowcat happily curled up behind his neck, its soft fur comfortably familiar on Greg’s skin. He began walking again, uncertainly at first, his sneakers squishing rhythmically. A part of him wanted to go back and continue his talk with Kristin, but an even bigger part was dying to get home.

Soon he began to trot. Rake crawled beneath his shirt so he wouldn’t be flung off, and for the first time in what seemed an eternity, Greg found himself sprinting joyously along the winding path toward his house.

He couldn’t wait to get a new journal, to jot down everything that had happened to him on Myrth these past months.

No. He would buy a tablet, a memo book, even an address book before he got another journal. Never again did he want to confuse his made-up adventures with real life. A moment later he broke from the woods and sprinted across the green lawn toward his house. The day was hot for this late in summer, but Greg couldn’t remember when a summer’s day had ever felt as good.

The Adventure Continues!

Coming Soon

Journals of Myrth: Book Two

The Hero Who Slayed Ruuan

A Hart Day at School

Short of a valley full of purring shadowcats, nothing could drain away a boy’s consciousness faster than one of Mrs. Beasley’s excruciatingly long algebra lectures.

“Did you not get enough sleep last night, Mr. Hart?”

“Wha-huh?” Greg’s head snapped up and tottered about in a fair imitation of a bobblehead doll. Eventually the snickering of his classmates managed to reach Greg’s ears. He ran his fingers through his hair, but the unruly nest, now bent further backward from resting his head in his arms, refused to lie flat. “Oh, no ma’am . . . I mean, yes . . . er, I’m fine.”

Mrs. Beasley peered at him over her spectacles, her lips scrunched up smaller than a dime. Rumor was the woman possessed no sense of humor, but before it could be proved she would have to listen to at least one thing a student had to say. Her cold stare never wavered as she spoke, and her voice dug under Greg’s skin like a rusty knife.

“Why don’t you come to the board, Mr. Hart, show us all how to solve this equation?”

Greg’s stomach knotted even tighter than Mrs. Beasley’s lips. The laughs took up again, which was bad enough, but one booming chortle lingered long after all others died away. Greg turned to see Manny Malestino, or Manny Malice, as he was better known, sneering one row over and two seats back.

Slouched as deep in his chair as he could go, his knees propped high into the air, Manny looked as though he had needed to lie on his back and suck in his stomach to strap on his desk. He was an anomaly, way more mass than any one boy ought to have, or any two men for that matter, and all of it seemingly bent on making each day of Greg’s life more miserable than the last.

“What are you laughing about, Mr. Malestino?” Mrs. Beasley’s shrill voice rang out. “Perhaps you’d like to demonstrate your keen wit for us instead?”

The usual murmuring ceased, as not a single boy or girl in class dared make fun of Manny Malice. Manny’s eyes darted toward Greg for an instant, but Greg wisely chose that moment to wipe up the large puddle of drool on his notes.

“I’m waiting,” said Mrs. Beasley.

“Uh, no ma’am,” said Manny.

“I mean, I’m waiting for you to come to the board.”

Throughout the room students threw hands over their mouths or raised books in front of their noses. It was the type of silence that could make ears bleed.

With a grunt, Manny slid upright in his chair and screeched around the hardwood floor, struggling to pry himself loose from his desk. By the time he broke free, the unnatural silence had grown so thick it was a wonder Manny managed to wade through it. Greg was afraid to smile for fear Manny might somehow hear him. Still, it was all he could do not to stab out a foot as Manny passed.

Mrs. Beasley’s voice pushed past Greg’s smugness. “And you can help him, please, Mr. Hart.”

As if a floodgate had been opened, the entire class erupted. Greg winced. He glanced across the room to see if Kristin Wenslow was among those laughing. As crushes went, the one he had on Kristin could have flattened just about anything, maybe even a brute like Manny. She caught his eye and swept a strand of light brown hair from in front of her face. A vision. That’s how he would have described her—mostly because a sound just didn’t seem appropriate, he’d never touched or tasted her, and a smell would have been just plain rude.

“We don’t have all day, Mr. Hart.”

“Sure seemed like it when you were lecturing,” Greg said too softly for anyone to hear.

“What was that?” Mrs. Beasley’s voice rang out. The woman could hear a feather drop at fifty paces.

“I said, I’m coming.”

Greg glanced one last time at Kristin, climbed out of his chair with un-Manny-like grace, and trudged toward the front of the room, where Manny stood staring dumbly at the whiteboard. The mutant boy’s frame rose like a mountain, growing higher and higher the nearer Greg approached, until finally Greg reached the board and Manny’s navel turned to greet him.

“I’ll get you for this, Hart.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“I don’t see any writing,” observed Mrs. Beasley.

Manny stared at the board as if it were covered with hieroglyphics. Greg watched him struggle a few seconds, then snatched up a marker and scribbled the answer to the problem Mrs. Beasley had posed the class.

“Not bad, Mr. Hart,” said Mrs. Beasley. It was possibly the nicest thing she’d ever said to him. She turned then and asked if everyone understood Greg’s solution. Greg suspected she was hoping they didn’t.

“You tryin’ to make me look stupid, Hart?” whispered Manny.

“No need for that.”

Manny couldn’t have possibly picked up the insult, yet his single brow bent itself into a vee. “After school,” he growled. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

Mrs. Beasley whipped around and glared over her spectacles at the two of them, her eyes wide and calculating. Greg stared back, afraid to move. He’d once faced an ogre in an enchanted forest, a mysterious witch in the gloom of her decrepit shack, and a dragon at the center of its white-hot lair. None offered the same level of intimidation Mrs. Beasley could muster. Finally her frown began to straighten. Soon Greg barely recognized her.

“You may sit down,” she informed them both. She then walked to the board, scratched out another problem, and directed her wrath at another student.

Greg exhaled slowly and returned to his seat, preoccupied now with the clock. Time passed so slowly, he half expected to witness the hands creeping backward, but in the end the bell rang and Mrs. Beasley granted everyone permission to leave. Even so, Greg stayed put while the others packed up their books and spilled out of the room. Math was the last period of the day, and Manny was sure to be waiting outside.

“Aren’t you going home?”

Greg’s eyes snapped forward, where Kristin Wenslow’s freckled face hovered high above him. His heart lifted. For a second he forgot Manny was waiting to pulverize him. “Kristin?”

“The bell rang. Didn’t you hear?”

“Yeah, I . . . uh . . . just wanted to finish jotting down some notes before I left.”

“But your books are all packed up.”

“Huh? Oh, right. I’m done now.”

Kristin continued to stare down at him, the overhead lights framing her soft hair like a halo. Greg considered reaching out and touching her, but stopped when he imagined her shrieking and knocking over desks trying to lurch out of his reach.

“Well?” she said.

“Well what?”

“Are you going to leave or what?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Greg. “I mean no! I just remembered I need to jot down a few more notes first. Don’t worry. I’ll make the bus.”

Kristin bit her lip in the cutest way. “If you say so. I . . . um . . . guess I’ll see you later.” And just like that, she wriggled her shoulders to center her backpack, offered a confused smile, and ambled out of the room.

Greg stared dumbfounded at the door. He’d have given anything to go with her—anything at all—but if he had to be flattened by Manny Malice, he could at least do it without Kristin watching. Again he checked the clock. Three forty. He’d need to leave soon or miss his bus and have to walk home. On the other hand, if he stayed put, at least he’d be able to walk . . . .

Finally he arrived at a decision. He reached behind his chair for his backpack and jumped when something coarse and wet streaked across his knuckles.

“Rake! You scared me.”

Displaying the same reluctance Greg had been feeling, a small creature never before seen in Mrs. Beasley’s classroom peered out from the pack and gradually emerged to explore Greg’s fingers with its tiny pink tongue. Greg nearly smiled in spite of his impending doom.

Roughly the size of a squirrel, but with shimmering blue-black fur and a long tail that could easily wrap twice around its body, Rake was a shadowcat, the only one of its kind on Earth. More importantly, he was Greg’s closest friend. The two had spent nearly every moment together since they first met six months ago on the distant world of Myrth, a land of monsters and magic where Greg had once gone to slay a dragon.

Okay, technically Greg didn’t go to Myrth to slay a dragon. He went because he was too slow to react when the magicians there opened a rift between worlds and snatched him out of the woods behind his house. But they had done so with the intention of having him slay a dragon, so Greg felt that should count for something. If nothing else, it made for a better story—or at least it would have, if he could have ever risked telling anyone. He’d tiptoed around the subject with Kristin once, but quit when she felt his forehead and asked him to lie down until she could bring the school nurse. Still, it was the only time she’d ever touched him, and Greg wanted more than anything to touch her back. Telling her more about Rake just didn’t seem the best way to go about it.

“Come on, Rake,” Greg said with a sigh, “get in the pack. We don’t want to be late for our beating.”

The shadowcat stared at him quizzically, leaned forward, and smashed a furry cheek into Greg’s hand.

“Not now. We’re going to miss our bus.”

As if understanding, Rake crawled obediently into the pack. Greg quickly cinched up the straps. If anyone were to ever see Rake . . . well, Greg didn’t know what he’d do. Then again, if he didn’t figure out a way to slip past Manny Malice and onto his bus, what difference did it make? Just because he was going to die didn’t mean the secret of the shadowcat had to die with him.

After a few whispered reassurances to his backpack, Greg headed for the side exit, slipped outside, and scurried along the wall toward the front of the building, all the while thinking about that one miraculous day last fall, when he had actually fought Manny Malice and won. Using his skill in chikan, an ancient martial art he’d learned on Myrth, Greg had used a stick to trip up Manny and send him cartwheeling into the bushes. For months Greg had viewed that as the happiest moment of his life. Today it seemed the stupidest. Manny would be ready this time, and Greg didn’t have a stick.

At the edge of the building he paused to peer around the corner. The first of the buses, lined up across the lawn about a hundred yards away, were already beginning to pull out from the curb. No problem. The coast was clear, and while he never thought so at the time, Greg was lucky enough to have spent much of his life as the smallest boy in school, which meant he was far more experienced at running than most boys twice his size, a necessity, since that was normally who he was running from.

With the same determination he’d once shown when chased by a fifteen-foot-tall ogre, he abandoned the safety of the wall and darted across the lawn. Not a bad effort, really. He made it nearly halfway to the curb before Manny stepped out from behind a large bole to block his way.

So, this time the ogre was ahead of me.

Greg managed to grind to a halt an instant before his face collided with Manny’s stomach, but his pack was slower in stopping. Despite a lot of frantic flailing and grabbing, Greg felt the bag fall from his shoulder, tossing a bewildered Rake onto the lawn.

“Going somewhere, Hart?”

Greg didn’t hear. His only thought was to dive on top of Rake, who let out a panicked screech not of this Earth.

“What a baby,” Manny jeered. “You scream like a girl. Get up and fight like a man.”

With Rake barely pinned beneath one shoulder, Greg didn’t dare get up. He reached blindly backward for his backpack, managed to snag one strap . . .

Manny casually stepped on the fabric before Greg could reel it in. “What’s the matter? Too weak to wift your wittle backpack?”

With a maniacal laugh, Manny slid his foot away, taunting Greg to try again. Greg took a deep breath, gripped Rake’s fur, and squirmed to his knees, yanking on the pack as he went. This time Manny was less subtle about stomping on it.

Aw, man. Greg stared at the enormous legs before him, fantasizing over how they might look dangling from a dragon’s jaws. He followed them up to Manny’s even larger torso, but before he could look much higher, a bright pinpoint of light suddenly split the air with a sizzling zap and caught Greg’s eye.

Manny’s smile faded. He turned hesitantly to see what Greg was staring at. Greg didn’t need to look. He had seen this phenomenon twice before. He had an idea Manny shouldn’t be seeing it now. Panicked, he jumped up and lunged for Manny’s shoulders.

He probably should have let go of his bag first.

In a disturbing reenactment of David and Goliath, Greg whirled the backpack in a wide arc that struck Manny squarely in the ear. Manny let out a yowl befitting his size and dropped to his knees, but Greg took little notice. He barely got out one hysterical screech himself before the space ahead burst wide open, roaring louder than a dozen angry Manny Malices, and sucked him off his feet.