How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [6]
“I hate to get caught up in formalities,” King Peter called to the crowd, “but I feel we must observe some sense of order here, if only to avoid crushing our young hero.” He winked conspiratorially and added, “We don’t want to hurt him before the dragon gets a shot at him, do we?”
Everyone chuckled. Everyone but Greg, that is. Is the room closing in on me? No, just the people in it. Not until the room quieted did he manage to find his voice. “What’s this about me slaying a dragon?”
The king didn’t seem to hear. “Let’s see, where should we start? Ah, yes. Greghart, you must meet my eldest daughter, Penelope.”
“But you didn’t answer my ques—”
Once again Greg’s mouth lost the ability to form words. An older girl, about seventeen or eighteen, stepped from the crowd and approached with the same grace Queen Pauline had displayed. Her elegant gown wafted out as she walked, adding fluidity to her movements, as did her fiery red hair, and Greg quickly decided he’d been fooling himself when he thought Kristin Wenslow could possibly be the prettiest girl in the world.
Then again, this didn’t seem to be the world he was used to.
Princess Penelope stepped within arm’s reach, where she towered over Greg by a full head, and looked down at him in more ways than one. “You’re hardly what I expected.”
“Ha! Isn’t she lovely?” blurted King Peter. He slapped a palm over his daughter’s mouth and helped her, with no small amount of effort, to raise a hand toward Greg’s lips.
Greg craned his neck backward to the limit, but, after considerable pressure from King Peter, the princess’s hand followed. Seeing no other option, Greg kissed the creamy white knuckles awkwardly, only to have the princess yank her hand back the same way Greg had once done when he was gathering firewood and accidentally grabbed the tail of a snake.
“Just lovely,” King Peter muttered. He guided his daughter to her mother’s side much the way a lion guides an antelope to the ground, and no sooner had his palm left Penelope’s mouth than Queen Pauline’s flew in to take its place. Greg watched the veins in Penelope’s neck bulge nearly as big as Manny Malice’s biceps as her mother led her away amidst a chorus of muffled protests.
“Let’s see, who should be next?” King Peter said. His smile faded, and a look of sadness came to his eyes. “I wish you could meet my youngest, Priscilla, but . . . I’m afraid she couldn’t be with us tonight.”
“What was it you were saying about dragons?” Greg tried again.
King Peter pulled himself together enough to offer a disapproving look.
“Introduce me!” a woman called out from the crowd.
Greg ignored the outburst. “You did say dragon. I’m almost sure of it.”
King Peter strengthened his glare. He called Lucky forward and whispered something into the boy’s ear.
“Yes, sire. As you wish.”
“Peter, Lucky.”
Greg felt Lucky’s hand lock over his wrist. He might have pulled away had he not so appreciated the support.
“I’m sure you will all understand,” King Peter announced to the crowd, “if the Mighty Greghart needs his rest.” The resulting groan shook the floor, though the effect was lost on Greg, who felt the floor had been shaking plenty already. Clearly all these people thought he was some sort of hero, and while Greg had to admit it brought out feelings he’d never felt before, and quite good feelings at that, he would have far preferred to wake up in the woods behind his house with mud on his face and a large lump on the back of his head.
The crowd stared in silence. Greg stared back. He felt compelled to say something, but just as he opened his mouth, a grip stronger than any monster from his journal yanked him from the room.
Outside, Lucky pulled him along what seemed like hundreds of passageways. With each turn Greg became more and more lost, a waste given how lost he’d been before the trip even began. The entire way Lucky refused to answer Greg’s questions.