How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [36]
Greg tried unsuccessfully to ignore the steaming black goo. “I guess.”
“Listen to him, Lucky. Can you believe that modesty?”
“I told you the prophecy was true, Greg,” Lucky said. “Now maybe you’ll believe me.”
But Greg knew his escape from Hazel’s proved nothing. And no one could convince him that in the end it wouldn’t be Marvin Greatheart inside Ruuan’s lair. Mostly because any other possibility was too horrible to accept.
For the first time since Greg’s return, Nathan’s grin faded. “I’m afraid we have disturbing news.” He held up a length of charred wood. One end bubbled as if soaked in acid.
“Is that your staff?” Greg asked. “Sorry.”
“No, a piece of the foot bridge. See how it’s been cut most of the way through with an axe? I think someone may be trying to kill you.”
Greg wasn’t surprised. “I told you that witch was crazy.”
Lucky chuckled. “Why would a witch need to sabotage a bridge to kill you? I mean, think about it.”
Greg knew at once Lucky was right. If Hazel had wanted him dead, he’d be scattered about her many jars already. “Then who?” he asked.
“No way to know,” said Nathan. He threw down the rotted wood in disgust and paused to count his fingers.
“Sure there is,” said Greg. “Lucky can guess.”
“Sorry,” said Lucky. “I’m afraid I don’t have a clue. Think, Greghart. You have any enemies here you know of?”
“Greg,” Greg insisted.
“How can you be your own enemy?”
“No, stop calling me Greghart.”
“Sorry,” Lucky said. “Well?”
“You mean other than Ruuan?” said Greg. “Or the hundreds of thousands of spirelings waiting outside his lair?”
“Ruuan doesn’t need to tamper with a bridge to kill you either,” said Nathan, “and I doubt the spirelings even know you exist. Can you think of anyone else?”
“How about that one magician back at Pendegrass Castle?” said Greg. “He didn’t seem to like me much.”
“Mordred?” Lucky said doubtfully. “Believe me, Greg, if Mordred wanted you dead he would have just dissolved your bones with a spell or something.”
“Maybe he wants it to look like an accident.”
“No. If I were to guess, I would never guess you needed to worry about Mordred.”
“Then it’s settled,” said Nathan. “It wasn’t Mordred. Can you think of anyone else who might have been in the Shrieking Scrub recently, Greg?”
Greg didn’t think they should be dismissing the magician so lightly. But then he did remember someone else. “Hazel mentioned a girl adventurer . . . .”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Lucky. “Girls can’t be adventurers.”
“You think Hazel was lying?” said Greg.
“Not about that,” said Nathan pensively. “Well, we don’t have time to worry about it now. We’ll just have to keep an eye out for this girl adventurer as we go.”
Greg felt as if he might collapse at the thought. “But it’s almost dark.”
“What are you talking about?” said Lucky. “The sun’s just coming up. It’s not even fully light yet.”
“What are you talking about? I left here after sunrise, and that was hours ago.”
“But Greg, you’ve been gone for two days.”
“Two days!”
“Sorry,” said Nathan, “I forget how disorienting the Shrieking Scrub can be. It was just the luck of the draw, really. Your encounter with Hazel could have taken a moment, or a month, or you might have actually returned before you left . . . but yes, you’ve been gone two days.”
“Wow,” Greg said again. “I can’t believe it.”
“Lucky it wasn’t two months,” said Nathan, “or this prophecy would have already failed.”
Greg studied Nathan’s face. “Does it say anywhere in this prophecy that I would be gone so long to see Hazel?”
“I couldn’t say,” Nathan told him. “I know bits and pieces, nothing more. I’ve never seen what Brandon wrote down.”
“Brandon?”
“Brandon Alexander,” Lucky told him. “He’s King Peter’s scribe—beats me why. A chicken could scratch out a clearer document with its beak.” Lucky lowered his voice, as if revealing a secret. “The man’s got a bit of a drinking problem.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” said Greg. “Why