How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [5]
“Myrth?” Greg repeated.
“I think you’ll find it a lovely place,” the woman told him, “that is, if you don’t get too caught up in your noble purposes to enjoy it.” She smiled reassuringly. “Just promise if you get the chance you’ll pause every now and then to savor the peace, agreed?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Greg said, though he had no idea what she was talking about.
“Oh, where are my manners?” Lucky cried. “Greghart, this is Her Majesty, Queen Pauline Pendegrass.”
“Queen Pauline?” Greg muttered.
The queen’s smile widened. “I’m sorry, dear. I suppose this all must seem a bit overwhelming. Is there anything we can get for you?”
Greg felt his mouth open and close. A new mind might be good. Apparently he’d lost his old one.
Queen Pauline laughed, a soft, lilting sound. “Well, if you think of anything let me know. I promise we’ll get through this as quickly as we can. I hate to subject you to it at all, really, but I’m afraid we have no choice. So many people have come to be a part of this historic event, and they’d be so terribly disappointed if they didn’t get a chance to at least shake your hand.”
“Historic event?” Sure, Greg would describe this as one, but why would anyone else?
“Of course,” said King Peter. “I know we may look fancy in all this festive grandeur,” he said, indicating his robe with a sweep of his hand, followed by a roll of his eyes that only Greg could see, “but we’re a humble people, really. It’s not every day we get to see a prophecy fulfilled.”
“Prophecy?” Greg said.
With a light press on the shoulder, King Peter guided him toward a huge oak door set in the middle of one wall. “Oh, didn’t we tell you about the prophecy?”
“You didn’t tell me about anything.”
“Then I guess that would include the prophecy, wouldn’t it?”
Greg stared at the man. “What prophecy?”
“Oh my. Well, I’m afraid we have no time for explanations. Everyone is waiting.” King Peter paused at the door. “Tell you what. If anyone presses you for details, just excuse yourself and say you need your rest. I’m sure they’ll understand. After all, they can’t expect you to go off hunting dragons without a good night’s sleep, can they?”
Dragons? What was he talking about? Before Greg could object, King Peter pushed open the door and bright light spilled into the room. Greg protected his eyes with a hand, but he didn’t need to see to know what waited outside. Just like in his daydream a short time ago, as soon as the thousands of spectators spotted him, they raised their voices as one and began to cheer and shout Greg’s name.
“Greghart! Greghart! Greghart!”
Greg’s mouth dropped open. To each side of the door stood a row of men with trumpets raised, cheeks puffing in and out with effort, but any music they might have made was lost beneath the deafening chant. Jugglers, court jesters and mimes worked the room, their antics unnoticed, as all eyes were glued on Greg, and Greg couldn’t have been more uncomfortable had those eyes actually been pasted to him.
In one big rush the crowd pressed forward. Greg tried to turn and run but bounced off the king’s stomach and dropped hard to the floor. A multitude of hands reached out and lifted him back to his feet, though Greg found it difficult to stand, as his knees had gone all wobbly.
“I touched him!” someone shouted. “I touched Greghart.”
“Ooh, I want to touch him too. Get out of my way!”
Limbs thrust out from every angle and knocked into Greg again. Surely he’d have fallen back to the stone floor, had he more room to work with.
“Order, people! Order!” In spite of King Peter’s informal manner, the crowd backed up at once and bowed.
Greg used the extra elbowroom to drop back to the floor.
“Careful, Greghart.” Lucky rushed forward to help Greg up again and used a bright orange cap that matched