How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [80]
“Here,” Lucky said with a grunt. The magic sword he had been carrying in his pack this whole trip rattled across the stone and slid to a stop at Greg’s feet. “You can’t fight Ruuan without a sword.”
Greg bent to pick up the weapon, but he was too tired to lift it. He could never swing it in battle. “Where’s my walking stick?” he called back.
A moment later the stick shot past his ankle hard enough to pierce the bone had it struck him.
“Watch out,” Lucky called.
Greg slid the sword back under the sleigh, making sure to give Lucky more of a warning than Lucky gave him. “You keep that,” he said. “Who knows? You might consider yourself lucky you had it.”
After one final good-bye, Greg started up the passageway. He paused to pick up Nathan’s walking stick after the first thirty feet, and then followed the winding passage upward, wondering if enough cool air would spill into the tunnel to protect Lucky once Hazel’s fireproofing spell gave out. He also wondered why Lucky, with his unnatural ability to beat the odds, was the one stuck outside the passage, but it was best not to think about such things.
So much time passed, Greg began to wonder how much of a shortcut this Passageway of Shifted Dimensions really offered. Hazel had told him the lair was halfway up the Infinite Spire. Now, maybe the magic of the passageway cut that distance in half again, or quarters, maybe even eighths, but still . . . he had just willed himself to pick up the pace when a voice rang out in the passage ahead. As if drenched in a fresh layer of dragon spit, Greg’s boots glued themselves to the spot.
It took only a moment to realize he stood in a normally dark tunnel holding a bright light for anyone to see. He threw down the torch, dousing the area in blackness so close it pressed against his eyes.
But didn’t Hazel also say something about the spirelings being able to see in the dark?
Greg snatched up the torch again and stuffed it down the collar of his tunic, where he could grab it when needed for sudden bursts of light. The quick flash of the torch sparking to life and dousing out again left behind big orange spots that moved in front of his eyes no matter which way he looked. Even so, he pressed on, shuffling his feet and holding his walking stick before him so he wouldn’t run into the walls. Suddenly it felt very small and awkward in his hand.
Ahead the voice sounded again, this time joined by a second.
Greg eased forward, debating with himself whether he dare reach for his torch. To his relief he caught a faint glimmer ahead. He hoped that meant the spirelings had a limit to how well they could see in the dark. He moved closer to the light, and the voices grew louder. So far he’d heard only two, both deep in pitch, far more booming than he would have thought possible from the short creatures he’d seen outside.
Greg flattened himself against the wall. The guards were garbed exactly as their brethren, in tattered pants and light chain mail draped across their bare chests. One sat comfortably on the hard stone with his heavy, double-bladed axe draped across his lap, the other with his axe resting by its handle on his shoulder. Greg felt a horrible churning around his middle and wondered at his chances of sneaking past Lucky, the spireling army, and all of Ryder’s men.
Then he saw it. On the wall behind the guards, ornate carvings showcased a small alcove dug into the wall. From the alcove came the glow he had seen from far down the passageway. Greg knew immediately he’d found the spirelings’ amulet. He just needed a distraction.
Or maybe he didn’t.
As if the guards knew he’d been there all along, they leapt to their feet and spun to face him, their bulbous eyes locked on the spot where Greg stood. Greg’s hand leapt to the torch, and the passageway exploded with blinding light. The last image he saw was of the two spirelings screaming and covering their eyes, and then he was off, retreating down the passageway as fast as his legs would carry him.
Terror welled up inside him, yet a part