by Bill Allen
Lucky laughed. “Relax. I said a fight with them, not against them.”
“Oh.” Greg liked this idea only slightly better. “Who are we supposed to fight?”
“The spirelings.”
“What?” He would have preferred an army of Mrs. Beasleys. The spirelings were fierce warriors with razor-sharp teeth who could run much faster than a man . . . or more to the point, much faster than Greg. On Greg’s last visit, the entire spireling race, hundreds of thousands in all, had grouped for battle outside the dragon’s lair. Fortunately Greg had needed to fight only two of them. Even so, it was only a matter of chance that he hadn’t been killed. “Why would anyone want to fight the spirelings?” he asked with a gulp.
Lucky offered a warm smile, which, next to his bright red hair, was his most distinguishing feature. “You tell me. As I understand it, you fight ‘with the skill of ten men.’ And somehow you’re going to make the difference that leads the king’s men to victory.”
“Don’t tell me Simon screwed up and named me in another of his prophecies?”
“Well, he didn’t exactly name you outright. He just said the army would be joined by ‘the Hero who slayed Ruuan.’”
“But nobody slay—”
Lucky’s hand flew up and clamped over Greg’s mouth.
“—dwoon,” Greg finished.
Lucky glanced over his shoulder. For the first time, Greg noticed several mysterious figures in black robes lurking in the shadows, peering his way. Seeing few other options, he peered back. He couldn’t distinguish any features beneath the hoods, but he recognized these men. King Peter’s magicians. Last time he’d been dragged to Myrth, the men had clapped and cheered, amazed that Lucky had managed to kidnap his intended target. Now, having witnessed that miracle once before, they remained motionless in the gloom, saying nothing.
Lucky shot Greg a scolding look. “What do you say we go see how the preparations are coming?”
While the question was worded much like a suggestion, Lucky’s tone left no room for argument, and Greg would have found it hard to argue anyway, what with Lucky’s hand still clamped over his mouth. He barely had time to scoop up Rake before Lucky whisked him toward a heavy oak door set in one wall of the small room.
Greg cringed as Lucky grasped the handle and swung the door open. After all, the last time he’d stepped through this door, the thousand people waiting outside had cheered so loudly Greg had thought he’d be crushed by the sound.
But today the Great Hall stood empty. Not a single person had come to greet him. Not even King Peter or Queen Pauline. Sure, Greg felt relieved, but still . . . he’d always known he’d eventually be forgotten, even if he had fulfilled the last prophecy, but he’d thought his fame might at least last longer than six months. Wait, the magicians probably moved me through time.
“How long has it been since I left?” he asked hopefully.
“Well, let’s see,” said Lucky. “Bart went to Simon’s shortly after we returned from the Infinite Spire, and he returned directly to the castle after he learned of the next prophecy. Since then we’ve been struggling to figure out what he was trying to say, so . . . about two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” Greg couldn’t believe everyone had already forgotten him. He eased Rake onto his shoulders and tried not to sulk as Lucky dragged him out of the Great Hall and along passage after passage. Eventually they reached a set of huge double doors dividing a wide stone wall.
“This way,” Lucky said. He pushed open the doors and stepped outside.
Greg followed, eyes cast to the ground, but took only two steps before a thunderous clap erupted. Claws dug deep into his shoulder, and Rake rocketed into the shadows as only a shadowcat can, while Greg screamed and took in the scene, mouth agape.
“Greghart! Greghart! Greghart!”
No wonder no one was waiting inside. The Great Hall could hold only a thousand people or so, making it completely inadequate for today’s crowd. At least ten times as many people were here—possibly everyone on Myrth. They clapped and hollered and cheered Greg’s name again, and the deafening noise left Greg even more speechless than when his mouth had been clamped shut by Lucky’s hand.
“Surprise,” said Lucky.
Greg continued staring dumbly for several seconds until the cheers died away and his heart slowed to twice its normal rate.
“Say something,” Lucky whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
“Oh . . . right. Uh . . . hi, then.”
As one, the crowd whooped and hollered even louder. When the noise finally died away again, a beautiful girl in an elegant gown strode forward and regarded Greg with what might have been considered a smile from a greater distance. Greg observed the flowing red hair and recognized her immediately as the king’s eldest daughter, Penelope.
“Welcome back,” she told him rather flatly. Not exactly a warm welcome, but far friendlier than she’d ever offered before. Perhaps he’d stepped up a notch in her eyes when he’d rescued her sister, Priscilla, from the dragon last fall. Or, considering how the magicians had changed the time, just two weeks ago.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Greg answered meekly.
Penelope scowled. “Father asked me to inform you that he and Mother will come as soon as they are able. Oh, and Priscilla should be around here someplace, too.”
“Er . . . thank you,” Greg mumbled again.
“You are quite welcome,” she replied stiffly.
With that, the princess turned and strode off through the crowd. Dozens of others rushed to take her place. Soon Greg found himself shaking hands with hundreds of men and accepting hugs from the women. He even kissed a baby or two before he learned to keep an eye out for them.
He had just paused to wipe a sticky handprint from his cheek when the noise fell to a hush. The crowd parted. Men dropped to one knee and women bowed as King Peter and Queen Pauline, both dressed in elegant magenta robes and sparkling, gem-encrusted crowns, glided up through the gap. The only one left standing was Greg. For the first time in his life, he felt uncomfortably tall. He stooped awkwardly, struggling with his head bowed to watch the king and queen approach, until King Peter, an enormous man who made even Manny Malice look small, reached him and used one hand to lift Greg’s shoulders.
“Greghart, my boy, why are you bowing? It’s just us, remember?”
“Sorry, Your Majesty,” said Greg.
“Peter,” the king reminded him.
“Greghart, my dear,” said Queen Pauline in a soft, lilting voice. “How splendid to see you again. A shame it must always be under such dire circumstances.” She smiled at him with warm blue eyes, and Greg had to admit she was pretty, even with the wisps of gray peeking through her otherwise red hair. “Did Penelope fill you in on all that is transpiring?”
“Not really. She said you’d be here soon. That was about it.”
The queen frowned. “That girl, I swear . . .”
“Simon’s made another prophecy,” King Peter said.
“About the spirelings,” interrupted Greg. “Lucky told me.” Just off to his left, Lucky beamed proudly.
“Then I suppose he also told you about the three generals.”
Greg shook his head.
“I didn’t have time, Your Majesty,” Lucky blurted, his cheeks reddening.
“Call me Peter, Lucky. No one around here is going to get it right until you, of all people, do.”
Queen Pauline curled an arm around Lucky’s shoulders and assured him he’d done nothing wrong, while the king turned back to Greg.
“I’m talking about Generals Hawkins, Talbout, and Bashar,” King Peter said. “They’re mentioned in the prophecy as well. All three are supposed to be fighting at your side during the upcoming battle, but that’s about as much as we know. I’ve had my best men working on it for
days, but . . . well, they just can’t make a bit of sense out of Brandon’s handwriting. Understanding the rest of the prophecy seems a lost cause at best.”
Brandon, Greg knew, was the name of King Peter’s scribe. Greg also knew Brandon had a drinking problem, so it wasn’t surprising his handwriting might be hard to decipher, but there was one thing Greg didn’t understand. “Why can’t Brandon just tell you what it says?”
“He’s not here,” King Peter said, frowning.
Queen Pauline rolled her eyes at her husband’s expression. “He’s gone on holiday,” she elaborated. “And he certainly deserves it. The man works so hard.”
“Yes, well, we all work hard,” said the king, “but he certainly picked a fine time to disappear, didn’t he?”
“Brandon did not just disappear. He’s been planning this trip for months. And we know where he is. He went to see his dear old mother in Pillsbury.”
Those kneeling in the crowd had waited awkwardly to this point, but now apparently decided it would be all right to stand. Some even dared to press close—so close, Greg found them impossible to ignore. Even King Peter was forced to pause long enough to smile and shake a young woman’s hand, although he did cleverly look away just as she was about to hand him her baby.
“So we know where Brandon is,” he said to his wife. “That doesn’t help us, does it? Pillsbury is over six hundred miles distant. By the time my runner gets to him and brings him home, at least five weeks will have passed. Holiday or not, I’m not sure we have that kind of time.”
“But Lucky said Bart just got back with the prophecy a few days ago,” Greg said, struggling to see past the huge baby one woman was thrusting out at him. Only on Myrth could a child be expected to grow into a head like that. “Brandon can’t have been gone long. Won’t your runner be able to overtake him sooner?”
“Ha. I’m all for taking a holiday,” said King Peter, “but not for months at a time. No, Brandon didn’t hike to Pillsbury. Mordred popped him there.”
“The magician Mordred?”
“You know another Mordred who could pop a man across a kingdom?”
Greg breathed a nervous sigh. He didn’t know many of the king’s magicians, but he had an idea even if he did, Mordred would be his least favorite. The man considered Greg an impostor who should never have been brought to Myrth to slay the dragon Ruuan. Of course he was right, but it’s not like Greg had asked for the job. And even if Mordred didn’t have it out for him, if Greg were to choose an enemy, he’d want to make sure none of King Peter’s magicians were among his choices.
“Why didn’t you just have Mordred pop your runner to Pillsbury?” Greg asked.
“I’m afraid we couldn’t do that,” King Peter said. “It seems Mordred has disappeared too.”
“Disappeared?” said Greg.
“Oh, not in the sense you’re thinking. We just don’t know where he is.”
“Then why not have one of the other magicians do it?”
King Peter’s face reddened. He lowered his voice, though with everyone crowded so close, they might have heard his thoughts before he spoke. “I’m afraid they don’t know how.”
Greg remembered his trip to the Infinite Spire last time he was here, when one of King Peter’s magicians had moved the entire Army of the Crown halfway across the kingdom. “Agni knows.”
“Agni isn’t here either. And the others claim he and Mordred are the only two who can do it.”
Only two magicians knew how to transport someone to another place? And both thought Greg was an impostor. And both were missing now, when Greg needed their help.
It had to be more than coincidence.
Greg had another thought. “Why not just have your magicians pop Brandon back here?”
Again, King Peter reddened. “I’m afraid they don’t know how to do that, either.”
“But they just brought me here,” Greg argued.
“Yes, of course, but they already knew how to set up that spell. They did it once before, remember?”
As was often the case on Myrth, Greg felt the entire task of pointing out the obvious fell on his shoulders alone. “So how is this different?”
King Peter offered him a sympathetic look. “According to Mordred, the two spells aren’t the same. The one they used for you is meant to move people here from distant worlds. To retrieve Brandon, we need something that will work on Myrth.”
“Wait a minute. Are you saying Mordred was the one who set up the first spell?”
“Of course,” said the king. “Why do you ask?”
“Because he hates me. Why would he help you bring me here?”
With a frown, King Peter placed a hand on both boys’ shoulders and announced to the crowd that they should continue to enjoy themselves while he spoke to Greghart in private. “Don’t worry,” he said in answer to the countless groans that echoed through the courtyard, “I’ll bring him back soon.”
King Peter led the two boys back inside the castle and into a secluded, torchlit room. Queen Pauline stayed behind to entertain the crowd. The last Greg saw of her, she was smiling widely and reaching out to kiss her first baby.
“Mordred doesn’t hate you,” King Peter said once they were alone. “Why would you say that?”
“Because he hates me,” said Greg.
“He does not.”
“Yeah, he does,” Lucky told the king. “He doesn’t think Greg is the right Greghart from the prophecy.”
“Nonsense. Mordred holds you in the highest regard, I can assure you. He’s been a great help to me in all matters where prophesies are concerned.”
“Yeah, well, then why isn’t he here?” Greg asked. “And you never answered my question. Why would a portal that could open up anywhere and anytime in existence not be able to open on Myrth? Doesn’t that sound suspicious?”
“Not at all,” insisted the king. “It’s hard for you and me to understand the intricacies involved in casting spells, but Mordred’s one of the most skilled magicians this kingdom has ever known. I hold the utmost trust in his advice. Now, let’s not waste time arguing. We have far bigger concerns, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, like why Mordred has conveniently disappeared right when Greg needs him the most,” mumbled Lucky.
King Peter frowned.
“And why, just before he left, he sent Brandon away so no one could ask him about the prophecy,” Greg added.
“As my wife told you before, Brandon planned his trip for months. And I’m sure Mordred had a legitimate reason for leaving when he did. I think we have more important issues to work out.”
Now it was Greg who frowned. The fact Mordred might be out to kill him seemed more important than most things he could think of.
“First off, there’s the matter of the three generals,” King Peter continued. “We know about Talbout. His troops left a couple of weeks ago to check out a disturbance near the border to the north. This morning I sent one of my runners to find him and turn him back, but the general has a good head start, and he commands nearly a thousand men. It could be months before he can bring them all back home.
“Then there’s General Hawkins. He took his men south soon after you left—”
“Hawkins?” Greg interrupted, remembering the army captain who’d escorted him halfway across the kingdom to slay the dragon Ruuan. “Any relation to Ryder?”
“Oh, right, you don’t know, do you? I promoted Captain Hawkins after his success in the recent prophecy.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, why?”
“Oh . . . no reason.” Because Ryder didn’t do anything, Greg couldn’t help thinking. True, the captain and his men had gone with Greg to the Infinite Spire to battle the spirelings, but Greg and Lucky had ended up sneaking into the spire on their own. Ryder and his me
n never fought off anything more threatening than a sunburn.
The king smiled, and in the same tone he used whenever he boasted to others about what a great hero Greg was, he added, “I can’t think of anyone who deserved it more.”
With a jerk, the door opened, and Princess Penelope stuck her head into the room. “Oh, there you are,” she said, exasperated.
King Peter scowled. “What have I told you about knocking?”
“Sorry. Mom says everybody’s wondering why you took Greghart away—I know, I can’t see why she cares, either—but wait till you hear this. She wants you to bring him back.”
“Tell her we’ll be along in a moment,” King Peter said. “Right now we have important matters to discuss.”
Penelope crossed her arms over her chest. “What am I, a messenger?”
“Penelope.”
“Yes, Father, I’m going.”
“Anyway,” King Peter said after the door closed, “Ryder and his men headed south to rout out a band of trolls reported to have been terrorizing the locals near the bridge over to the Styx.”
“Isn’t this whole area the sticks?” Greg asked.
“Heavens no,” said Princess Penelope, who had just stuck her head back into the room. “The Styx is a lovely area south of the kingdom where old people go to die.”
“What are you still doing here?” her father asked.
“You haven’t seen Prissy have you? Mom’s looking for her, too.”
“No. Now go. Please.”
“All right. You don’t have to yell.” She slipped the door closed again, and this time the king waited to make sure she was truly gone.
“Okay, back to the matter at hand. The runner I sent for Brandon is to pick up Ryder and his men, too, but they’ve been gone about two weeks. He won’t catch up before they reach the southern border and split off to the west. That means he’ll have to wait until after he finds Brandon to hunt for the army. Honestly, I don’t expect any of them back for close to two months.”
“Two months?” Greg liked the idea that Ryder would be on his way back to help, but two months seemed a long time to wait, even if the months on Myrth did last only three weeks. Greg was reluctant to ask the one question pressing heaviest on his mind, but it was a big question, and the pressure proved unbearable in the end. “When am I supposed to . . . meet the spireling army?”