How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [3]
He thought a long while.
About halfway down he heard Manny ask Kristin why she was screaming. Kristin came up with a rather cute story about putting her hand on a beetle, and an eternity later Greg’s feet struck a small puddle near the base of the tree. Jolts of pain shot through his shins and ankles, his knees buckled, and in spite of his best efforts to be quiet, Greg let out a groan that would have sent even the monsters lurking in the underbrush scurrying, if the splash hadn’t already scared them off.
From above there came a shout. Shoes like boulders landed with a thud next to Greg’s face. Large boulders, with no toes to wedge a shoulder between. Greg jumped to his feet. He risked one glance up at Kristin’s confused face—could she be any cuter?—and ran for his house, his soaked sneakers squishing with every stride.
Throughout the pages of his journal Greg had been chased by monsters of every kind known to man, and more than a few of his own invention. None posed a bigger threat than the creature behind him now. His legs ached from the jump, and he could hear Manny panting just steps behind, but he didn’t dare look back. Instead he shot down the path as though his life depended on it. Anyone who knew Manny would have agreed it was worth the effort.
Yet Greg was strangely hopeful. True, he was running for his life, but the fact he was able to do so proved he was good at it, and Manny was too heavy to handle the tight bending trails. Greg knew he couldn’t be caught.
Unless, of course, he tripped.
A nearly hysterical scream split the air. It lingered there for a second, or as Greg measured it, five heartbeats, and then Greg found himself struggling atop a thorny bush, unable to get up, as the sound of Manny’s footfalls grew nearer.
Twenty more heartbeats passed, during which Greg swore he heard a tree fall and at least two boulders dislodge. What happened next he wasn’t exactly sure, only that it began with a blinding white light and a very long tunnel. He decided at that moment he must have been right. He had been running for his life, but apparently this one time his feet had not been up to the task.
Hart-Felt Greetings
“Is he alive?”
“Of course he’s alive. Give him room. He may be a hero, but he still needs to breathe.”
When Greg opened his eyes his first reaction was to close them again instantly. This turned out to be his second reaction as well. He might have given it a third go had one of the hooded figures hovering over him not poked him with a sharp stick before he could get to it. Instead Greg yelped, and his eyes popped open.
He was no longer in the woods. He lay on a hard flagstone surface lit by a dim, flickering light. What little air managed to squeeze its way to him reeked of something familiar, though Greg couldn’t quite put a finger on it, and wasn’t sure he would if he could.
Greg shrank back as the surrounding figures drifted closer. Everywhere he looked, nothing but black robes and sticks. Inside the many hoods, only darkness. Finally one figure leaned over and peered down at him, and Greg felt a glimmer of relief at seeing the shadowed face of a man, even if that face was scowling.
“Doesn’t look like much of a warrior to me,” the man said in an icy voice that would have made Death himself envious. “Are you sure you got the right one?”
“Of course, Mordred,” said another. “Look at his eyes.”
“Those are warrior eyes, all right,” said a third. “My Uncle Cedric had eyes just like ’em—only his were blue now that I think about it, and more bloodsho—”
“Yes, yes, Dimitrius,” Icy-Voiced Man nearly spat. “We all remember Cedric. Why do you suppose his feet are wet?”
“Uncle Cedric didn’t have wet feet.”
“Quiet, everyone,” said the man who had poked Greg. “Stand back, you’re smothering him.”