How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [65]
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, I’m not about to do your dirty work for you. After Ruuan blasts you with his flame, then I’ll step in and handle things, not a moment before.”
“Shut up, Melvin,” Lucky said again, but the damage had already been done. The brief mention of the dragon’s fire squashed any hope Greg had of surviving the prophecy. He’d witnessed Ruuan’s flames at the celebration and knew nothing could survive that blast. Maybe little Melvin would step up and handle things in the end, but surely not before Greg met his doom.
To Greg’s surprise Melvin made no move against him that night either, but then why should he, when he could just bide his time and let Ruuan do the job for him? Eventually morning came, this one the coldest yet, and Greg pulled his cloak tight and rubbed his hands together as Lucky poured what smelled like hot cocoa from an open pitcher he’d pulled from his pack. Greg turned his down.
“You can drink that as we go,” he told the others. Before they could reply he was up and walking. “How much farther?” he asked Nathan a short way later.
Nathan looked unwilling to say. “Quite a bit, I’m afraid.”
“But Ruuan’s got Priscilla now.”
“Sorry, Greg,” said Nathan. “I don’t know any shortcuts.”
“My brother would ride a wyvern there if he had to,” said Melvin.
Greg shot the boy a glare. “Your brother isn’t here. If he was, I might not be in this mess.”
“It’s not Marvin’s fault you’re trying to horn in on his territory,” said Melvin. “If you’re going to pretend to be a dragonslayer, you have to face the consequences.”
“Look,” Greg said, coming to a halt and spinning to face the younger boy, “I’m not trying to—Watch out!”
When Greg witnessed the small band of trolls moving through Giant Forest earlier in the week, it had been from behind thick bushes, not to mention Nathan’s thick fingers, which had been clamped over his face. Still he recognized this one instantly just the same. Perhaps it was the low, bulging brow that clued him in. Or the rippling musculature of the upper body. But most likely it was the gnarled wooden club poised high above Melvin’s skull.
Without thinking, Greg whirled his walking stick up and around. He spun with the movement, redirecting the momentum straight between the troll’s eyes . . . and felt his stick snap.
At least it made the troll stagger backward. Melvin’s crystal-blue eyes stretched wide. For an instant, Greg thought the boy had frozen with fright, but then the troll bellowed its rage, and Melvin found the strength to crabwalk out of harm’s way. Greg weighed the broken stick in his hand. It didn’t weigh much. He began to dance about the circle, barely maintaining his rhythm with the short weapon.
The troll hesitated, though from the Manny-Malice-like expression on its face, Greg doubted it was smart enough to remember the pain of that last blow. Greg contemplated his chances of surviving a preemptive strike. They didn’t seem good.
Suddenly Nathan came somersaulting through the air, his weathered staff leading the way. The wood struck the troll in the eye before Nathan’s feet even hit the ground.
Greg cringed and looked away.
But the troll had survived worse. It might have even shaken off the blow if, when it tried to clasp a hand over its injured eye, it hadn’t struck itself in the forehead with its own club. Instead the beast shook the forest with its howl.
Nathan rolled past and struck another crushing blow to the back of its knees.
Greg didn’t stick around to watch. He ran to Lucky and flipped open the boy’s pack, and after pulling out two huge watermelons and a steaming roast turkey, he found what he was after. He grabbed the magic sword by the hilt and spun.
Nathan had the beast distracted with its back turned.
Greg rushed up and aimed. Afraid to get too close, he threw the sword with all his might. A blinding light flashed as the sword found its mark. The troll jerked, then suddenly, it lay face down on the ground.
“Whoa, you got him,” muttered Melvin, still sitting crab-like on the ground
Nathan yanked