How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [81]
No, not a dead end, he scolded himself, just an end.
Er . . . how about just a wagon . . . okay, a sleigh. Get a grip. Just don’t fall. Lucky will have the escape route clear by now.
The slapping of spireling feet gained so quickly Greg might as well have been standing still. Fear rose up inside him even faster. His heart beat so strongly he thought it might burst from his chest. He’d never been so scared in his life. Not when the ogre chased him through the Enchanted Forest. Not when the bollywomp’s claws raked across his flesh in Wiccan Wood. Not even when he narrowly escaped the stampeding falchions in Fey Field. But he couldn’t possibly outrun these creatures, and where would he go if he could?
Greg knew he must act now, this very moment, or die. He pushed back his fear, planted his feet firmly in front of him, and spun to face his pursuers.
The closest spireling rocketed toward him in a blur.
Greg dropped the eternal light, freeing both hands to wield Nathan’s staff. Blackness engulfed his vision, but the sight of the spireling diving toward him stayed etched in his mind.
His eyes actually pained him, he strained so hard to see, but the darkness was thick as the surrounded stone. Then he closed his eyes and allowed his many evenings practicing on the trail to serve him. He ducked and thrust his stick the way Nathan had taught him, and felt the impact up his arms, clear through to his shoulders.
There was a grunt and a thud and the clank of metal on rock as the guard’s axe skidded across the floor. Greg felt something, too: an electrical charge in his hands where the smooth wood of Nathan’s staff met his skin, and another where the Amulet of Ruuan pressed hard against his chest.
He felt more than heard the whoosh of the second spireling soaring though the darkness. Again he spun toward the sound, whipped his stick up and around to protect himself, and connected. The force drove him backward, knocked him off his feet, but then he heard the thuds of the spireling hitting first the wall and then the floor, followed by a feeble groan, and the clink of a metal axe easing onto stone.
Greg groped frantically for his torch. Once again white light flooded the passageway, blinded him, forced him to blink away the pain. The first of the spirelings lay unconscious or dead several feet away. The other sat propped against the wall, its axe just out of reach, a grimace etched across its face. It cringed from the light but was too hurt to raise an arm to shield its eyes.
“I-I’m sorry,” said Greg. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I-I just . . .” His voice trailed away. Nothing he could say would make this better.
The spireling did not acknowledge Greg’s words. It closed its eyes and exhaled shakily. Greg wondered if it would die.
Or is it catching its breath?
Fighting back hysteria, Greg ran over and kicked the spireling’s axe out of reach, then scurried over to retrieve the weapon as best as he could on his newly throbbing foot. The axe was even heavier than it looked. Greg didn’t have the strength to lift it. Instead he dragged it back up the passage toward the shrine.
As he’d thought, the shining light originated from an amulet identical to the two he had given Hazel, mounted in a depression in the stone. Greg reached in and removed it from its setting, dousing the light. He backed away, holding the amulet, still warm with power, at arm’s length.
To his right he heard a groan and spun toward the sound. One of the spirelings had tried to follow, but it now lay unconscious on its stomach, evidently too weak to catch him.
Greg pushed back his guilt. He vowed that if it were at all possible he would see the amulet returned to the spirelings one day. He hated taking it to Hazel, but knew he must.