How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [7]
Under different circumstances the stately furnishings inside might have stolen Greg’s breath away, but Greg had no breath left to steal. He’d squirreled away just the one little bit, which he spent now to ask the question pressing heaviest on his mind.
“What was King Peter trying to say back there about a dragon?”
Lucky smiled, the expression so genuine, for just a moment Greg nearly forgot he was literally in a world of trouble.
“His name is Ruuan, Greghart. You’re going to slay him. But all that can wait. You need to get to bed. Like King Peter said, you don’t want to go off chasing dragons without a good night’s rest.”
Greg’s jaw dropped. He didn’t want to go off chasing dragons, period.
“Well, good night,” Lucky said.
“Huh?” Greg cleverly replied as Lucky stepped from the room and drew the door closed. Greg rushed forward and grabbed the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. To his horror he heard the sound of a lock being latched.
“Sorry, Greghart,” came Lucky’s voice from outside. “King Peter’s orders. Don’t worry. It’s for your own protection. I’ll see you in the morning, okay? Sleep tight.”
“No, wait,” Greg cried, but he could already hear Lucky’s footsteps echoing down the hall. Only then did he realize he was trapped.
What’s worse, if he didn’t somehow find a way out of here, it looked as if he would be off hunting dragons in the morning.
Hart-Wrenching Farewell
It was no great mystery of the world—not even this new world—that Greg found it impossible to sleep that night. He paced the room until he’d worn a noticeable path in the stone floor, then crawled up on the bed and pulled out his journal and pen. For the first time ever he found no need to alter the events of his day. Somehow being transported by magicians to another world for the purposes of slaying a dragon seemed exciting enough.
Once he’d recorded the entire odd sequence of events, Greg set down his journal, lay back on the bed, and sleeplessly awaited the sunrise. Do they even have a sun here? The thought left him twice as restless as before.
Hours passed. Greg tossed and turned and thought about how much more he liked adventures when they were floating about in the back of his mind, or on the pages of his journal. Yesterday he might have said otherwise, but today he would freely admit he’d rather fight Manny Malice than a dragon.
Finally, a knock sounded on the door. “Morning, Greghart.”
With a click the lock turned, the door swung open and in stepped Lucky, wearing the same bright orange tunic and carefree smile from the night before. He carried a bright red pack slung over one shoulder, and an even brighter pile of red fabric draped across one arm. “Oh, good. You’re up.”
“Lucky, you’re back.” Greg scrambled off the bed and rushed to the door. “There’s been a terrible mistake. I don’t belong here. This isn’t even my world.”
Lucky’s face beamed. “Of course not. The prophecy said you would come to us from a great distance.”
“No, you don’t understand. It’s not me you’re after.”
“Nonsense, Greghart. That’s just pre-dragon-hunting jitters talking. I’m sure you’ll be fine once we hit the trail.”
“What? No, I’m not going anywhere.” He grabbed Lucky by the shoulders and shook him, but from the look on Lucky’s face this was not acceptable behavior on Myrth. With the calmest voice he could muster, he tried again. “You’re not listening. This prophecy of yours isn’t about me.”
Lucky slid his pack back up to his shoulder and eyed Greg cautiously. “No, you’re not listening. Of course the prophecy is about you. I picked you myself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Last night, remember? When the magicians cast their spell. I was the one who told them when to open the portal. Of course, I knew I could do it all along. When it comes to matters of chance I can’t lose. King Peter calls it my talent. He says I’m the luckiest boy on Myrth, maybe even the luckiest kid who’s ever lived.”
“Wait. You’re saying the only reason you think this prophecy is