by Bill Allen
“Why did you do that?” Grunt demanded.
“Yes, why?” said Growl. “You could have got us both killed.”
“Here it comes again,” said Gnaw. The identifying strand of ivy he’d wrapped about his neck flapped in the wind as he pointed to a tiny patch of sky.
Greg couldn’t see a thing in the direction Gnaw pointed, but the remaining spirelings unanimously agreed that the wyvern was indeed approaching. And then Greg saw it too, headed straight for them. He was just regretting his earlier decision to interfere, when suddenly the wyvern’s eyes grew, as if it were the one that was terrified. Greg watched in amazement as the creature veered about and retreated in the direction it had come.
“It’s leaving,” said Kristin.
Greg breathed a sigh of relief. “I wonder why.” He was still watching the wyvern fade in the distance when from behind he heard another screech, ten times as terrifying as what the wyvern had offered.
Greg dove to the ground. He couldn’t help himself. Kristin landed beside him. To his surprise, the four spirelings landed beside her. All six of them craned their necks to search the sky.
To Greg’s horror, a huge black shape moved across the sun. The silhouette quickly grew as it moved closer, until suddenly it was passing directly overhead, and Greg could see clearly what it was. The dragon Ruuan let out another ear-splitting cry and soared after the retreating wyvern, releasing a searing jet of flames that would have annihilated all of them if it had been directed at the ground. Within seconds Ruuan had reached the spot where Greg had last seen the wyvern. The dragon released another jet of flames, but Greg could make out little else from this distance.
Kristin’s face had lost all color. “I’m guessing that was a dragon.”
Greg nodded. “Lucky he didn’t see us. I may have been wrong before about him not eating me.”
Grunt stepped forward. “Oh, he saw us. The dragon could not possibly have missed our movements. Fortunately the witch did not.”
“You saw Hazel up there too?” Greg asked.
Growl stepped up to Grunt’s side. “Steering the beast, yes. She must be practicing controlling his movements in battle. Grunt is right. We were lucky to pass unnoticed. If Witch Hazel had spotted us, she would have ordered her attack on us, and I’m not sure the dragon could have resisted. It seems the witch is quickly gaining mastery over the use of Tehrer’s amulet.”
“We need to get to the castle and warn them,” Greg said.
The spirelings agreed. They quickly regained their litter, and soon Greg and Kristin were once again soaring through the trees toward the heart of the Smoky Mountains.
Kristin stared wide-eyed as the scenery whizzed past. “That dragon was terrifying. How could you have possibly made friends with a creature like that? I can’t believe you’ve been coming here, doing all these incredible things, and you’ve never told me any of it.”
“But I tried—”
“You need to tell me now. It’s the least you can do.”
Greg started to speak, but decided against trying to yell over the rushing wind. He removed his backpack, flipped open the flap and pulled out his old journal. He could no longer carry it in his pocket, as he had long since filled the last of the pages, and now the book was crammed full of loose slips of paper and bulged twice as wide as in the beginning of the year.
“Everything I’ve done on Myrth is in there,” he said.
Kristin stared at the book with the same reverence the spirelings had shown when they returned it to him on his last visit. The moment she cracked the cover, several loose slips of paper soared off in the rush of wind.
She snapped it shut again. “I better save this for later.”
Soon before dusk they reached Death’s Pass, a narrow tunnel of stairs cut through solid rock, connecting the highest peak of the Smoky Mountains with a point about halfway to the base. Under normal conditions the pass provided a quick descent, but at the speed the spirelings negotiated it, Greg had to wonder if they’d dropped their load and were still standing somewhere near the top, watching the litter free fall to the bottom. Fortunately, when the base drew near and the level ground rushed up to meet the litter, the spirelings were there too. They screeched to an uneventful halt.
“We will camp here,” Gnash announced. “It is not safe to travel after dark.”
“Did they think we were traveling safe before?” Kristin whispered to Greg.
“Safely,” all four spirelings corrected at once.
“Oh, I forgot,” said Greg. “Whispering doesn’t work around spirelings. They’ve got really good hearing.”
Kristin looked at Gnash. “Greg says you can see in the dark without any trouble. Why is traveling at night so dangerous?”
“We are not the only creatures who can see well in the dark. Some of the others you might find . . . well, let us just say you do not want to find them.”
Kristin scanned the surrounding shadows. “What if they find us?”
“Do not worry. We will be prepared for them if they do.”
Neither Greg nor Kristin felt completely reassured by that answer, especially since Greg remembered his friend Nathan once telling him that dragons hunted at night. Even though he knew there was little the spirelings could do if Hazel and Ruuan returned, he was glad to have Gnash guard over them while Grunt and Growl set out for firewood.
The pair emerged from the trees seconds later, both with full armloads of wood, just in time to prepare a dinner Gnaw had captured. Whatever it was continued to protest rather loudly while he dragged it toward the fire.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Kristin.
“You get used to it,” said Greg, though in truth he was only hypothesizing, since he’d never gotten used to it himself.
The four spirelings offered a wide berth while Greg fed Rake, as they were deathly afraid of shadowcats. After dinner Greg showed Kristin some of the chikan moves the magician Nathaniel Caine had taught him on his first visit.
“That’s terrific,” cried Kristin, clapping and whistling over Greg’s antics.
“Yes, very good,” said Gnaw, “but I think it is time you and the human girl got some sleep.”
“My name is Kristin.”
Greg couldn’t help but notice how much she sounded like Princess Priscilla.
“Yes, well, Kristin then,” said Gnaw. “You humans need your rest. We want to be on the trail again at first light.”
“What about you?” said Kristin. “Don’t you need your rest too?”
“We spirelings do not sleep,” he told her. “But thank you for your concern.”
“Is that really possible?” Kristin whispered to Greg.
“I don’t sleep much on Myrth either,” he admitted.
At least they wouldn’t be spending more than one night on the trail. On his own, Greg would have taken over a week to get this far, but the spirelings had done it in less than a day. At this rate, Greg estimated they would reach Pendegrass Castle before nightfall tomorrow, provided Ruuan didn’t eat them along the way.
But as happy as he was with their progress, Greg was apprehensive as well. Arriving at the castle sooner just put him closer to his expected confrontation with Hazel and, as Brandon had put it, his “rather unfortunate demise.”
When he was sure the spirelings weren’t watching, Greg unstrapped his knapsack and allowed Rake to wander freely. The shadowcat stretched its legs for a few seconds and then returned, intending to curl up in its usual spot atop Greg’s chest, but Greg was still standing, staring into his pack.
“What’s wrong, Greg?” Kristin asked. “What are you looking at?”
“My math and history books. When I was here before, Lucky’s backpack had everything we needed. We don’t even have bedrolls.”
“You will not need a bedroll tonight,” said Gnaw—no wait, purple flower—Gnash. “You will find the chain mail Queen Gnarla gave you quite comfortable.”
“It’s just a vest,” said Greg.
/> “Try it,” Gnash told him. “Then argue.”
Greg wouldn’t have argued with the spireling no matter what happened next, but when he lay down in the snow, wearing nothing but his light windbreaker over his new chain mail, he found he was just as comfortable as if he’d crawled into a snuggly warm featherbed. Rake found it quite comfy as well. He was happy to curl up on Greg’s chest, where Greg’s warm breath rhythmically ruffled his fur.
Within seconds both children were sound asleep, as it was impossible to remain awake long once Rake began his monotonous purring. Fortunately, neither was conscious when Rake’s purr drifted across the campsite to knock out all four of their spireling guards.
Greg woke shortly after dawn, but still before Kristin. Surprising neither had awakened earlier, seeing as the spirelings had apparently loaded the two of them on the litter while they slept and were already racing between the trees when Greg first opened his eyes.
Kristin snapped alert. “Oh, my. When they said first light, they weren’t kidding.”
Panicked, Greg checked his backpack. To his relief, Rake’s bright eyes peeked out at him.
The spirelings reached the base of the Smoky Mountains and passed into and out of the Weird Weald in record time, stopping only once for lunch. They were happy not to see the witch again, and by dinnertime emerged from the forest onto Pendegrass Highway, a trampled-down section of weeds that bordered the farming fields east of the castle.
Within seconds they completed the last two miles to arrive at their destination. There they were met at the castle’s huge wooden gate by a mysterious man in a black robe, his face completely hidden beneath the hood he wore pulled up over his head.
“I thought you might come,” said the dark figure.
Greg shivered in spite of the warmth of his magical chain mail. “Mordred?”
The magician lowered his hood, confirming Greg’s suspicion. Greg had to stop himself from shrinking back. Mordred held little respect for him, tolerating him only because the Mighty Greghart, as Greg was better known, was named in prophecies Mordred deemed important. He studied Greg with indifference before glancing Kristin’s way.
“And who is this?”
“Kristin Wenslow,” Kristin answered.
Mordred’s brow furrowed. “I don’t remember any Kristin Wenslow in Simon’s prophecy.”
“Well, just because he didn’t mention me doesn’t mean I won’t be around.”
Greg cringed. He probably should have pointed out to Kristin that she shouldn’t aggravate someone who could conjure a bolt of lightning with a wave of his hand. To his surprise, Mordred turned back to Greg and smiled, an expression Greg had never seen him use before.
“I like her,” Mordred said. “She reminds me of Hazel.”
“Hazel?” said Kristin. “The witch? Well, I never.”
Mordred actually laughed, but then his face turned grim. “You two had better come inside. King Peter will want to see you.”
“What about them?” Greg asked, indicating the spirelings.
“I’m not sure the king would approve of the entire spireling race listening in on his private conversations.”
“They’ll probably just hear everything anyway,” said Greg.
“Believe me, they won’t.”
Greg nodded. He had an idea if Mordred really didn’t want to be heard, the entire kingdom might suddenly turn up deaf. The spirelings stayed behind while Greg and Kristin followed the magician inside. According to Mordred, King Peter was in his study, but before they’d walked even halfway there, they were intercepted by Princess Priscilla and Lucky Day.
“Greg,” Lucky called.
One of Greg’s best friends on Myrth and without a doubt the luckiest person Greg had ever met, Lucky wore his usual bright orange tunic and wide smile. Priscilla was dressed in her usual attire, too: torn pants and a button-down shirt. She rushed forward to give Greg a big hug.
But then she pushed away and shot him a stern look. “I told you not to come here.”
“Ahem,” said Kristin.
Priscilla noticed Kristin for the first time. “Greg, who is this?”
“This? Oh, this is . . . um . . .”
“Kristin,” said Kristin, looking more than a little irritated. “Don’t tell me you’re the princess?”
Priscilla brushed back a loose strand of flowing red hair. “Princess Priscilla, yes. And how do you know Greg?”
Kristin looked Priscilla squarely in the eye. Neither girl blinked. “We’re dating.”
“We are?” said Greg.
“He walked me home from school just yesterday,” Kristin said, ignoring him.
Priscilla’s voice sounded a bit higher than usual when she asked, “Greg, is this true?”
“Well, yeah, I guess so.”
“I see.”
Kristin smiled smugly and slipped her arm around Greg’s. Greg gasped and shook himself free. Knowing he was prophesied to die here made him uncomfortable enough. This was too much.
“Father will want to see you,” said Priscilla, stepping forward and taking Greg’s arm in her own. Kristin took a more secure hold of his other.
Helpless, Greg glanced pleadingly at Lucky, who shrugged and gave him a look to indicate he sympathized. Even so, Greg was pretty sure he saw the boy crack a smile when the two girls tightened their grips and dragged Greg away.
Shaping Destiny
King Peter’s study was nothing like Greg imagined. He’d expected an enormous room with splendid decor and thousands of ancient-looking tomes. Perhaps a few maps of the kingdom or intricate, richly woven tapestries. But this was just a small room, with a single comfortable-looking chair resting before a small wooden table. The air smelled faintly of smoke, as the room was lit by a dozen or more torches flickering in sconces lining the walls. On the table sat a single candlestick, which King Peter used to cast additional light on the pages of the book he was reading.
“Greghart,” he said, when he first spotted Greg. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Father,” said Priscilla, “there’s no use playing innocent. I heard about the note you sent.”
“But I distinctly told him not to come,” the king insisted.
“As if you thought he’d stay away. Really, Daddy, this is embarrassing.”
“Actually, I came because of your letter,” Greg told Priscilla.
The princess blushed. “Mine? But I told you not to come under any circumstances.”
“Yeah, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you being in trouble. I wanted to help.”
Behind the redness, Priscilla’s face broke into a smile. The expression faded when Kristin stepped forward and took Greg’s arm. “My Greggy is so brave, isn’t he?”
King Peter’s eyes widened. Oh my, he mouthed. “And who is this?”
“Kristin Wenslow, Your Highness,” Kristin said, grasping an invisible dress and pulling it to the side as she curtsied. “Greg’s girlfriend.”
“My what?” said Greg.
King Peter pushed back his initial unease and smiled. “Please, call me Peter.”
“But you’re a king,” said Kristin.
“So? I still have a name, you know. I’ll make a deal. You call me Peter instead of Your Highness, and I’ll call you Kristin instead of That Girl Who Came With Greg.”
“Deal,” Kristin said, smiling.
Priscilla crossed her arms and glared at the two of them. Kristin smiled even wider. She moved closer to the king and put a hand on his arm.
“What are you reading?” she asked in a lilting voice.
King Peter glanced at his daughter, then at Greg. Suddenly he looked as uncomfortable as Greg felt. He cleared his throat and spoke in a strained tone. “It’s, er, something Brandon wrote. A prophecy, about Greg, and all of us.”
“You call that writing?” Kristin said after one glance at the book lying open upon the desk.
“Yes, well, that’s what Brandon calls it anyway.”
“Brandon Alex
ander?” she asked.
King Peter regarded her with surprise. “You know him?”
“Just what my Greg has told me.”
“Do you mind, Your Majesty?” Greg asked quickly, gesturing toward the book.
“Peter, Greghart. No, by all means.”
Greg studied the book for only a moment. If he had to guess what happened here, he’d have bet a swarm of beetles had landed in an inkwell and then struggled to escape across the page. “This writing is awful. How are you going to figure out what it says?”
“Oh, I already know—Brandon told me two days ago—I was just taking a second look, hoping maybe there was something we overlooked.”
“And is there?” asked Kristin.
“Beats me. These lines look like little more than random smudges to me.”
“Does it really say Greg’s going to die?” asked Lucky.
King Peter stiffened. “According to Brandon, I’m afraid so.”
No one said a word for several uncomfortable seconds. Finally Lucky broke the silence. “Sorry, Greg. If there were any way to change all of this . . . If it makes you feel better, you’re going to save us all before you go.”
Greg tried to smile. “Yeah, that helps.”
“What does Brandon say Greg’s supposed to do?” Kristin asked.
“Yes, Father,” Priscilla said, stepping between the two of them. “What did he say?”
“Witch Hazel has managed to reconstruct the Amulet of Tehrer,” Mordred told them both. “And she’s been wasting no time. Already she’s using it to control Ruuan.”
“We know,” said Kristin.
Greg quickly explained about their encounter with the witch along the trail.
“Oh my,” King Peter said. “It’s good Hazel has not yet figured out how to use the amulet to its full capacity. Once she does . . . well, I’m afraid Ruuan will do anything she asks.”
“This is terrible,” said Greg. “Where’s Nathan? He’ll know what to do.”
Mordred grunted, but said nothing.
King Peter frowned. “We don’t know. He left here soon after you did, right after he helped fulfill the last prophecy.”
“Probably out researching the Dark Arts,” said Mordred with disgust. “It does not surprise me he’s not here during our time of need.”