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By Root 1087 0

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.

Photographs by Nancy Allen

Table of Contents

Title page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

The Mighty Greg Hart

Hart-Felt Greetings

Hart-Wrenching Farewell

The Enchanted Forest

Hart to Heart

The Molten Moor

Witch Hazel

Hart Attack

Damaged Hart

Hart of the Matter

The Prophet

Fey Field

Celebration of the Hart

Aid from the Hart

Hart of a Leader

Doubting Hart

The Infinite Spire

The Passageway of Shifted Dimensions

Captive Hart

The Dragon Ruuan

Promise from the Hart

Reunion of the Hart

Home Is Where the Hart Is

The Adventure Continues!