How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [12]
“Relax, Greghart,” said Lucky. “I’m sure it was just a monkeydog.”
“A what?”
“Surely you’ve run across them before. Monkeydogs are everywhere. They love to lurk in the brush just to the side of the trail and make impossibly large rustling noises.”
Another noise sounded, and Greg tried to peer right through a tree trunk to discover its source. A few fronds swayed briefly back into place, but Greg spotted little else. “Um—are these monkeydogs dangerous?”
Lucky shrugged. “Can’t say. No one’s ever seen one.”
“Then how do you know they exist?”
“You just heard one, didn’t you?”
The two boys went back to walking in silence after that. Well, relative silence. The rustling in the bushes kept on, strong as always. Stronger, if you asked Greg.
As the morning progressed, Greg grew more tired than he’d been all summer. Hotter, too, except possibly for those few seconds yesterday, when Manny Malice had him cornered in the tree house. Greg’s tunic was drenched with sweat by the time Lucky finally set down his pack and motioned for Greg to sit.
The loaf of bread Lucky dug out looked to Greg to be longer than the pack that held it. With it Lucky provided a slab of very dark meat, though Greg was afraid to ask what sort of meat it was. Later, after Lucky pulled out a huge watermelon, twice the size of anything Greg had ever seen on Earth, Greg looked at both Lucky and the pack with new respect.
“Something wrong?” he asked Lucky, who had laid the melon on the ground and was staring down blankly.
“I forgot a knife. Oh, wait.” Lucky stooped and opened the pack again. With all the prestidigitation of a stage magician, he somehow withdrew a four-foot-long sword from the small bag. “You want to do the honors, Greghart? You should probably get the feel of this.”
Greg felt too horrified to be amazed long. “You’re not expecting me to use that against Ruuan, are you?”
“Well, I guess you could go up against him empty-handed if you want.”
“You’re crazy. All of you here are crazy.”
Lucky shrugged, then hefted the sword and swung it down at his feet, slicing the melon cleanly in half. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about fighting Ruuan,” he said, lining up the melon for a second blow. “Really, I don’t see what the big deal is. We know from the prophecy everything’s going to turn out okay.”
“Are you listening to yourself? If I’m not the right Greg Hart, it doesn’t matter what the prophecy says, does it?”
The sword fell, separating one of the watermelon halves into quarters. Lucky chuckled as he handed a section to Greg. “Look, I already told you I picked you myself. Are you questioning my talent?”
Greg took the proffered watermelon gratefully and bit off a huge mouthful. He chomped away for a few seconds, trying his best to ignore that it tasted like pineapple, and spit out the seeds. “Look, maybe you are as lucky as you say, and maybe you’re not, but I can tell you one thing. I’m not. There’s no way I can win a fight against a dragon. Unless . . . hey, you don’t think maybe lightning could strike it dead while I’m cowering at its feet, do you?”
Lucky smiled. “If you stick close to me, maybe.”
If he could have found it within himself, Greg would have laughed. “No thanks. I’m not going within a mile of that lair.”
“Sure you are, Greghart.”
Greg frowned.
“Okay, sure you are, Greg. The princess is counting on you.”
Greg felt a twinge of guilt. He’d forgotten about Princess Priscilla. What would he do if Kristin Wenslow had been taken by a dragon?
In a way, he supposed, she had. Manny Malice may not breathe fire, but he was as close to a dragon as they had at Greg’s school, and there Greg found his answer. He had run from Manny Malice. He would run from Ruuan as well. Better a live coward than a dead hero, he’d always believed. Sure people would still sing about dead heroes from time to time, but aside from that they got little attention. Unless they managed to get a holiday named after them. Even then, it’s not like they got to enjoy the day off.
By the time both boys finished eating, their stomachs ached. Greg used a squirming branch