How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [4]
“Careful, Agni,” someone shouted. “I think you hurt him.”
“Are you kidding? Do you know who this is?”
“I say we find out,” said Icy-Voiced Man. He raised one hand, causing Greg to flinch, but he was just drawing back his hood. His dark eyes stared without compassion past his stringy black hair as he locked gazes with Greg. “Who are you, boy? Tell us your name.”
“W-what?” said Greg, his voice two octaves higher than normal. He surprised himself by wishing it were Manny Malice staring down at him. Only, where was Manny? Or Kristin? For that matter, where were the woods behind his house?
“See. I told you the boy was no hero.”
“Wait,” came a voice from behind. “Give him a chance, Mordred. He’s probably just disoriented from the trip. Go ahead, sir, tell him who you are.”
One by one the remaining figures lowered their hoods. Greg was relieved to see that beneath each was a face, some gleeful, others excited or anxious, a few that might have even been wary, but none as disapproving as the one from the man named Mordred.
“I-I’m Greg,” he told them. “Greg Hart.” Throughout the room men gasped.
“Wait,” Mordred commanded, holding up a hand for silence. He leaned closer and stared, as if daring Greg to lie to him. “Tell us, boy, are you from Earth?”
Greg swallowed hard before replying. “Do I look like an alien?”
Mordred’s expression gave no hint of what he might be thinking.
“Where else would I be from?” Greg clarified.
One man slapped his knee and laughed. “I knew it!” A few others clapped, though they stopped rather abruptly when Mordred directed his stare their way.
A voice called out, “You did it, Lucky. You did it.”
A boy about Greg’s age stepped forward and hovered over Greg, his mouth drawn into a wide smile, his green eyes gleaming. Unlike the others, he wore a bright orange tunic and tights that clashed badly with his even brighter red hair. “Of course,” he boasted. “Did you have any doubts?”
“Plenty,” someone shouted.
“I know I did,” said another.
“Me too,” came a voice from behind. The boy’s smile temporarily faded as a general rumble of agreement erupted throughout the room.
“Never a one,” came a booming voice so commanding Greg couldn’t help but roll toward the sound. High above towered an enormous man whose shoulders rose above everyone else in the room. For an instant Greg thought he’d found Manny Malice, but then he noticed the luxurious robe of magenta velvet, and the speckled gray hair peeking out from beneath a golden crown. The man put a hand on the redheaded boy’s shoulder. “If we could count on anyone to find him, I knew it would be you.” He winked and added, “Good job, by the way. Always an amazement.”
The boy flushed as red as his hair and bowed. “It was nothing, Your Majesty. I’m only happy to serve you.”
“Please. It’s just me, Peter, remember?”
“Sorry, Your Majesty—I mean—Peter.”
“Hah! You keep trying. You’ll get it someday.” The man turned his attention to Greg then. “So, Greghart, you all right? You look a bit peaked. Can you stand?”
Greg debated. If he did he’d surely just drop this way again. Even so, the boy in orange helped him up as the robed figures replaced their hoods and eased into the shadows.
“Forgive me,” said the boy. “I should introduce you. This is King Peter Pendegrass the Third.” Out of the side of his mouth he whispered. “He’s in charge here.”
With a great deal of effort, considering the distance he had to go, the king bowed low, as if he were the one in the presence of royalty. “I am quite honored to make your acquaintance, Greghart . . . and please, if you could just call me Peter.”
“Oh, and I’m Lucky,” the boy in orange added quickly.
Greg stared at him dumbly. “Good for you.”
“No, I mean my name is Lucky. Short for Luke.”
“Actually it’s longer,” Greg said. “Hey, where am I?”
“Inside Pendegrass Castle, my dear,” replied a woman who stepped up from behind King Peter’s elbow, “in the Kingdom of Myrth.” Like the boy, she had red hair, but with wisps of