How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [55]
“I can’t believe I never knew this was here,” said Lucky. “I must have passed that tree a thousand times.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Priscilla. “You know, you really ought to stop now and then and enjoy the world around you.”
“You sound just like your mom.”
“Thank you. Mother is a very wise woman.”
Greg barely heard them. He followed the outline of the spire up and up until it disappeared into the clouds, taking his breath along with it. Part of him, the part that always drove him to explore his woods back home and write about his adventures, wanted more than anything to get a closer look, to have a chance to climb that spire and explore every nook and cranny of its surface. Another part of him—a much bigger, far more nagging part—wanted to run away screaming.
“You okay, Greg?” It was Lucky’s voice. Greg had no idea how long the boy had been talking.
“Oh . . . sure, I guess.”
He smiled with little success and tried to ignore the spire, which was a little like trying to ignore a huge glob of whipped cream stuck to the tip of his nose. No matter which way he turned, it managed to dominate his entire view. The effect was as nauseating as it was terrifying. Greg reached out a hand for balance and felt the tips of the grain beneath his fingers. “Whoa, soft,” he said, “like feathers.”
“I know,” Priscilla squealed. “You’ve got to try running through it.” And with that she tore off through the field. The grain should have been trampled in her path, but instead it yielded out of her way and back again as if she’d never passed. “Whoopee!” she screamed and curved around in a wide arc.
Pretty immature, Greg thought, but then he and Lucky exchanged eager grins and tore off after her, followed by a bounding Rake. Greg managed to forget all about the spire as the grain drifted like silk across his skin. He sensed only the slightest of tingles, and might have run for hours if Nathan hadn’t called them back.
“But we’re almost to the spot where I once saw a falchion,” complained Priscilla, a few feet ahead.
“A falchion?” said Lucky. He stepped from the field behind Priscilla, and the grain shifted soundlessly back into place. “Aren’t they dangerous?”
“Only if you startle them.”
“What’s a falchion?” Greg asked.
Lucky regarded Priscilla with uncharacteristic intensity. “Well, wouldn’t you think they might be startled if you ran into one?”
“What’s a falchion?” Greg repeated.
“A bird,” said Priscilla.
“Oh, you mean a falcon.”
“No,” said Priscilla. “These are bigger, and I don’t think they can fly.”
“Bigger is an understatement,” said Lucky. “Falchions are huge. And as fast as they run they don’t need to fly. They have razor-sharp beaks, too. In fact, that’s how they got their name. Believe me, you don’t want to frighten one if you can help it.”
“You coming?” Greg heard Nathan shout.
“Coming,” Lucky called back.
But something else called back as well, and the sound rivaled anything Mrs. Sezxqrthm might have produced as the loudest, highest-pitched squawk Greg had ever heard. To make matters worse, the call was answered by at least a dozen others, each closer than the last.
Greg’s walking stick flashed upward, barely missing Rake, who had come racing out of the grain and leapt at his chest. The shadowcat disappeared beneath Greg’s tunic as Greg instinctively adopted the sensen stance Nathan managed to ingrain in him over the past week. For the briefest of moments Greg thought he smelled ozone drifting upon the wind.
“What on Myrth was that?” said Priscilla.
Greg scanned the field in the direction of the distant mountains. More squawks sounded, even louder than those before, and now he could hear a low rumbling as well. He craned his neck to peer over the grain, and though he was too short to see much, what little he did see made him wish he were shorter