How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [54]
Who would have thought the Army of the Crown would allow themselves to be led by one so young?
“I’ve got it.”
The others regarded him curiously.
“What is it, Greg?” said Nathan.
“There was this guy, Bart, back at Pendegrass Castle. He told me something just before we entered the Enchanted Forest.”
“Yeah, the Ballad of Greghart,” said Lucky. “Decapitation . . . incineration. I love that song.”
Greg forced a chuckle. “No, before that. He said I was going to lead the Army of the Crown.”
“That should be fun,” said Lucky.
“No, don’t you see?” said Greg.
“See what?”
“Exactly.” Greg made a show of glancing about the trail. “Where’s the army?”
“Oh, right. Back at Pendegrass Castle.”
“Hold on,” said Nathan. “What’s this about, Lucky? Who’s Bart?”
“A bard. He travels about the kingdom singing songs of heroes and great tales of adventure.”
“Yes, I know what a bard is.”
“Sorry. Anyway, he’s got loads of songs about Greg. He sang my favorite to us just before we left. The chorus is great. ‘Oh, Greghart was his name, dragon slaying his game, and he didn’t fear a thing on this Myrth. He’d face any sensation, laugh at decapitation—’”
“That’s okay, he doesn’t want to hear it,” Greg said, gazing pleadingly at Nathan. “Bart did say I would lead the Army of the Crown, though.”
Nathan shrugged. “So? It’s just a song, not the prophecy.”
“Maybe not,” said Lucky, “but Bart’s songs are always based in fact. He told me he only writes them before events actually take place because of something he calls ‘market timing.’ Greg’s really big news right now, but Bart says once the prophecy is fulfilled the demand is sure to fade away.”
Nathan stroked his chin. “Perhaps we should return to the castle. After all, Greg ought to be the one making decisions about his own destiny.”
“Finally,” said Greg. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along.”
“Well, now you’re in charge,” Nathan said. “Go ahead. Lead the way.”
“But . . . I don’t know how to get back to the castle.”
Nathan grew pensive. “Hmm, maybe we shouldn’t be going there . . . .”
“Oh, for goodness sake, I’ll help him,” said Priscilla. “Who knows? That may be his destiny too.”
The day was turning warm, so Greg removed the heavy cloak Lucky gave him and stowed it in Lucky’s pack. He was glad when Priscilla did the same. As often as he’d seen her in her fur coat, she still resembled a bollywomp.
They were looking for a good spot to break. Ahead stood a distinctive old oak with a twisted trunk that looked to have been struck by lightning years before. When Priscilla saw it she let out a squeal, rushed forward, and hugged the tree around its trunk. “Fey Field! I love this spot. It’s so beautiful.”
The others moved up to join her, with Rake weaving in and out between Greg’s ankles as he tried to walk. Lucky took a long drink from a water sack he pulled from his pack.
“What’s so beautiful about it?” he said. “All I see is some ol’ dead tree.”
“Not the tree, silly, the field.”
“What field?”
“Lucky Day, are you telling me you’ve never seen Fey Field?”
Lucky stared blankly back at her.
“You’ve got to be kidding?” said Priscilla. “Come on!”
She rushed past Lucky and up a steep incline, stopped at the top, panting, and motioned for the others to follow. Rake bounded after her, his long tail flitting this way and that. Greg looked at Lucky, who in turn looked to Nathan, and each shrugged and traipsed up the bank as well.
The view from the top caused Greg’s mouth to drop. Framed by a line of jagged purple mountains lay a sea of rolling hills blanketed in reddish grain that stretched for miles into the distance. Here and there small gusts of wind caught the grain and exposed the underside of the tips, sending swipes of peacock blue streaking across the vast field. If the scene had ended there it would have been simply heart-stopping, but add in the infinitely tall spire rising from its center and it not only threatened to stop Greg’s heart, but to tear it from his chest and gulp it down in a single bite.
“Whoa!” said Lucky.
Greg was unable to say anything at all. The dragon