by Bill Allen
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 le
g 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.