How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [69]
“Maybe not,” Melvin huffed, “but I’ve watched Marvin lots, and I know plenty of good dragon-slaying techniques, even if I’ve never had a chance to try them out myself.”
“And you’d help me?” said Greg dubiously.
“Of course.”
“What of course? A few days ago you were trying to kill me.”
“Scare you, Greg. I was trying to scare you.”
“Yeah, by killing me.”
Melvin flushed a little around the collar of his bright yellow tunic, producing an interesting orange effect. “I said I was sorry.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Well, I’m saying it now. Oh, and . . . thanks for saving my life the other day, too. I can’t believe I let a troll sneak up on me like that.”
“I get it,” said Greg. “You’re only helping me because I saved your life.”
“No,” Melvin corrected. “I’m helping you because if you get killed no one will ever believe in prophecies again. Everyone will know Simon is a loon, and my brother will be out of a job. I told you, there’s no way he’ll keep fighting dragons without Simon’s predictions.”
Greg rubbed his eyelids. Well, at least he had Melvin on his side now. Maybe the boy knew something about slaying dragons and maybe he didn’t, but having him as an advisor was certainly better than returning him to the bushes to plot a dozen different ways to kill Greg.
Doubting Hart
“Bart!” Greg shouted after the bard began his eighth song about the horrors Greg faced. “Do you have to keep playing that thing? I’m not in the mood for music.”
“Not in the mood?” Bart echoed from the campfire, looking as if Greg had said he wasn’t in the mood to breathe. He set down his lute and sat fidgeting for a while, clearly uncertain what to do with his hands.
Greg rolled over and covered his head. He thought he’d had trouble sleeping before. Now he had the constant noise of celebrating soldiers to contend with. Not that Ryder’s troops didn’t sleep—they did—but with five hundred of them sharing one campsite, there was never a moment when at least a dozen or two weren’t laughing and cursing and swapping stories of battles long past while the others rested in blissful slumber.
“A bit loud, aren’t they?” Lucky said.
“I’ll say,” said Greg.
“You should be flattered. They’re only celebrating because they’re excited about being part of your adventure. People will sing of this trip for decades to come.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Greg muttered hoarsely. He stared at the stars in silence. The air had turned so cold he could see his breath in the light cast by the campfires littering the camp.
“Something the matter?” Lucky asked.
Greg sighed to himself and leaned up on one elbow. “I asked Ryder earlier if his men were going to help me fight Ruuan. They’re not.”
Lucky nodded. Whether that meant the boy understood or already knew, Greg wasn’t sure.
“So I asked Bart if the prophecy said anything about it.”
“And?”
“If it did he wouldn’t tell me. I think Nathan asked him not to.”
“Tough luck,” said Lucky.
Greg released a heavy breath and rocked back onto his shoulders. “He did mention it would be a simple matter to fit five hundred men into a dragon’s lair.”
“I’ll bet.”
“But then he went on to say it would be another matter entirely to fit them in there at the same time as a dragon.”
“I see,” said Lucky from the darkness.
“He also said I would have a lot of trouble getting them in there even if they did fit.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And that unless I had enough fireproofing potion to go around, he very seriously doubted I could count on them even getting close to the spire. What am I going to do, Lucky?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll think of something.”
Greg rolled away to face the moon. “That’s just it. I don’t think I will.”
Greg would have expected a lot of difficulty rousing five hundred men and getting them to eat breakfast, pack their gear and fall into formation to begin another day-long march through the forest. But when the trumpet sounded in what Greg considered to be the middle of night, the men jumped to their feet as if responding to a starter’s pistol and hustled to get ready.