by Bill Allen
“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 o
n 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.