How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [29]
“What about your amulets?” Nathan asked.
Greg patted his chest, somewhat relieved to feel the outline of the two amulets beneath his tunic. Then a thought struck him. “Who told you about these?” He could almost swear Nathan stiffened.
“It’s all in the prophecy, Greg. You’re going to use Ruuan’s own amulet to defeat him.”
“But you said amulets, as in more than one. How’d you know I had two?”
“Did I?” said Nathan. “Must have been a slip of the tongue.”
Greg studied the man’s face. How much did he really know about this stranger? He’d never met anyone in a lava swamp before. No telling what sort hung out there. But Nathan’s smile was so genuine, Greg couldn’t feel anything but trust. He truly believed the man wanted to help, even if Nathan wasn’t being completely up front about all he knew or why he was here.
As if to confirm Greg’s thoughts, Nathan offered a serious look. “Remember all I have told you. Your fate will lie in the decisions you make.”
Greg peered cautiously at the narrow stream below. At least it could have had the decency to make gentle rippling noises, the way streams were supposed to do. Instead the water lay still and stagnant, and Greg had spent enough time conjuring stories to imagine what terrors lurked beneath its surface. He stared at the bridge, then at Nathan, Lucky, and back to the bridge again. The shadowcat screeched and dove under his tunic.
“Don’t forget to use the stick,” advised Nathan.
Greg studied the staff in his hands. With a heavy sigh he eased a foot onto the bridge. The wood creaked and groaned but supported his weight. He took another step, then another. Still the bridge held.
Greg breathed deeply and turned back to offer the others a thumbs up. Considering how his week had been going, he was barely surprised when a resounding crack rent the unnatural silence of the woods, and the bridge crumpled like a house of cards.
Panicked, Greg thrust down with Nathan’s staff, as if he could push away the water, and felt the tip dig into something solid. The sudden stop sent jolts of pain up through his arms and across his back and shoulders, but Greg clung to the staff, certain his life depended on it.
For a moment he froze, perfectly balanced, his knees drawn up as high as possible above the horrid water. He could see Nathan and Lucky staring at him as the staff began to teeter, first one way, then the other, and finally toppled backward, carrying him to his doom.
The thought of plunging into the treacherous water caused Greg to scream loudly enough to return an echo from the Shrieking Scrub. He was still screaming when his back struck solid ground on the far bank of the murky creek.
“You okay, Greg?” he heard Lucky say.
“W-what? Oh, er, yeah, I guess so.”
“Hurry along then,” said Nathan. “We’ll be waiting here for your return.”
Greg nodded slowly. He jerked the staff from the stream with a pffutt and tried his best to ignore the icky black goo steaming from its tip. Cautiously he crawled to his feet and headed away from the safety of the others, deeper into the witch’s domain.
Instead of getting lighter as the sun climbed, the area grew darker and more ominous. This certainly wasn’t the first time some aspect of this world had behaved other than it should, but Greg decided it was the worst, mostly because it was still going on. He didn’t care much for the unnatural quiet either, or the way the branches of the scrub hung motionless in the still air. But what unnerved him most was the crow.
It was a huge, black bird, much like any other, that did nothing more than flap down to a branch beside the trail, cock its head at Greg, and then alight again. What unnerved him was that it came and went without so much as a whisper. The crow leapt from the unwavering branch, beat its huge wings to slow its descent, caught the air, and dragged itself upward, all in total silence, and when it was gone, Greg could only wonder